Chapter Text
Rufioh knows when he's being hit on.
It happens all the time. People like his 'boyish charms' and 'fucking amazing hair', which is understandable because, yeah, his hair is cool as hell! But it makes stuff like parties, and friendships, and conversations kind of awkward when everyone wants a piece of him. It's whatever. He tries not to be ungrateful about it. Some people get zero action, like that greaser guy who keeps bumping into people, drink in hand, with the hopes someone will have to take their shirt off. Rufioh's life could be so much worse.
Look, anyway, it's not even about that dude. It's about Rufioh knowing when someone wants him. It's about him seeing that hot goth guy wink at him, motion his head towards the bathroom, and disappear inside it without a backwards glance.
The party was bombing anyway. This chick keeps talking at him, which is super cool of her, but he just came out of a relationship and he's not looking for anything serious right now, so he follows the mysterious 6-foot-something shadow into one of the dopest bathrooms ever. Fancy marble counters, shell-shaped door handles, framed photos of Meenah’s best selfies. There's a reason they always hang at the Peixes’s pad, and it's not just because she can afford the good booze.
Fuck, stay on track—the bathroom doesn't matter! What matters is the smoking hot emo in front of him. Goth? He can't tell them apart. He kind of… zones out when people explain the difference. The guy is wearing black and has some wicked ass hair, along with a bunch of freaky piercings. Rufioh might’ve even spied some fishnets. Maybe that’s punk? He adjusts his letterman jacket and accepts that he has no fucking clue.
Ugh, his brain tonight. Rambly as shiz. It's because he's nervous—who wouldn't be with Mr Half-Lidded, Fuck Me Eyes staring down at them. Speaking of eyes, he’s never seen a guy with such pretty ones. They're deep brown and rimmed with a dark frame of lashes, maybe some makeup because it's kind of smokey at the edges, and they're looking at him with some kind of warm amusement like Rufioh has done something stupid but endearing.
"Uh, hey." Fucking smooth.
"Hey." His voice is as deep and smokey as his eyes are. Does he always sound like that? Is that how he reads his grocery lists, rumbling through each item like he's trying to seduce it? "I've seen you around."
"Oh shit, really?"
Rufioh swears he would've noticed him—he's not exactly inconspicuous with the all-black clothing and general looming demeanour.
"Yeah."
He doesn't elaborate, even after an awkward five seconds of silence, as Rufioh waits for him to continue. It's unnerving and not exactly normal, but the guy doesn't seem to care. If anything, he looks like he enjoys making Rufioh uneasy. That's… fine. It's not the first weirdo he's had to deal with for the sake of getting laid.
"So, what's your name?" If he's going to fuck him, he might as well have something to call him besides 'tall creepy dude'.
"Kurloz."
"Carlos?"
A mild look of annoyance tinges his expression. He leans in, crowding Rufioh against the door, and presses his mouth to his ear. His voice is as clear as day and intimidatingly serious when he speaks. "Kurloz."
"Ha—shit," Rufioh shudders out a breath, heart palpitating from the sudden closeness. From the artful power in his stance. From the way his—Kurloz's—voice rolls through him like thunder. "Sorry, man. Bet you get that a lot, huh?"
Kurloz just hums in agreement, his bad mood already dissolved, and loops an arm around Rufioh's waist to flick the door lock shut.
Rufioh isn't short, but he's got nothing on Kurloz, who has to lean down to avoid hitting the gaudy light fixtures. Tall and wraith-like, someone who melts into the shadows like a second skin. Rufioh is built wider, better for catching balls and knocking into people, but it means there’s plenty of surface area for Kurloz's coiling, wiry frame to surround. His wild hair blocks out the harsh bathroom light as he leans down to kiss him.
"Oh," Rufioh says stupidly, like he didn't know this was going to happen. The word gets caught between their lips, muffled and lost in the gentle meeting of their mouths.
Kurloz smells of sage. He thinks it's sage, at least. Something warm and herb-like. Maybe he's one of those new-age witches with the crystals and sound bowls and the talks of manifesting positive energy. Whatever he is, Rufioh is down for it. Especially if he keeps kissing him like this.
When Kurloz breathes out, the warmth hits Rufioh's cheek. The intimacy makes him shiver. He darts his tongue out, testing the waters, only to meet with Kurloz's pierced one. His throat lets out a moan before he can stop it; he's a sucker for piercings. He plays with it, bumping the tip of his tongue against it until Kurloz gives in and shifts the party to Rufioh's mouth, deep-diving his mouth cavern. Ew. Mituna said it to him once, and he's never forgotten.
Kurloz's hand slips from the door to Rufioh's hip, to the slowest journey to his crotch Rufioh has ever felt. He takes his time trailing down his leg, teasing the inner thigh, basking in the way Rufioh arches impatiently, until he finally slots his hand against the growing bulge surging against his jeans. His grip is lax and motionless, offering him little more than something warm to rub against. Clearly, he gets off on being an asshole.
"Oh, fuh—c'mon." Rufioh tries to return the favour—it's only fair—by cupping Kurloz's junk, but he’s stopped before he can.
He’s about to ask what this dude thinks he’s doing before Kurloz drops to his knees. No warning, nothing. It almost feels blasphemous for him to be the one kneeling. With his serene, regal aura, his quiet authority, it's like a prince bowing to a pauper. He looks up at him, head tilted in question, fingers toying with his zip. There’s a hungry glint in his eyes and a dirty smirk playing at his lips. Well, Rufioh’s never been one to turn down a blowie, especially from someone so pretty.
“Sure, dog.” He settles against the door, trying not to feel smug about this sweet find of a hookup. "Not much of a talker, are you? Michael Myers kind of shit."
That evokes a grin, revealing a neat line of pearly whites. Rufioh figured he’d appreciate the horror reference.
Kurloz undoes his pants and lets Rufioh’s dick flop out in an embarrassing half-hard free-fall. The air hits his crotch, and he flinches reflectively, but Kurloz’s hand is there in a second to shield him from the cold. His palm is warm and soft as if he moisturises. It's a different world from the toughened grip of his teammates with their calluses and bruises. His touch has their same sureness, but with the silky skin of the cheerleaders. Probably an English major.
It’s obvious from that sureness that Kurloz has done this before. He clasps him firmly, giving him slow strokes from base to tip, foreskin drawing back and forth over the head. It’s the slow, steady pace someone gets from knowing they’re good at what they do—someone who loves doing it, savours it. He can’t seem to look away from Rufioh’s cock, eyes drawn to the rhythmic motion of his fist and how the slit leaks building moisture.
There’s something so intense about him. Rufioh felt it when he first saw him; the fierce vehemence underneath his cool exterior. It hides in his eyes, burning silently. It burst free when he repeated his name, shockingly fervent in his anger. Maybe it’s why he keeps so quiet—he can’t risk revealing that passion.
When he meets Rufioh’s gaze, it’s a carnal shock through his system. He opens his mouth, sensually slow like he’s unfurling a secret, and sticks out his tongue. Spit strands cling to his lips like threads, the wet heat of his mouth a goading temptation. When he rubs against the tip of Rufioh’s dick, a full-body shudder rocks through him. The hard ball of his piercing traces a path along his skin, so solid compared to the tenderness of his tongue.
Balancing seems impossible with the way Kurloz licks at the head of his cock, and he’s forced to grasp ahold of his hair before the world tilts sideways. He realises his mistake almost instantly—hair pulling without permission? Real bad sex etiquette—but Kurloz only groans, low, animal-like, his eyes fluttering up to look at Rufioh with greedy encouragement. He closes his lips around the head, keeping eye contact as he slides down his shaft, not stilling until he reaches the base. Unfaltering, practised. And Rufioh’s size is nothing to scoff at. A small cough sounds when it hits his throat, nose buried in Rufioh’s pubes, but his urging expression doesn’t wane. He wants this.
Rufioh tugs him in even closer, if that were even possible, using his hair to guide him where he wants him. It's with temporary obedience that Kurloz glides back and forth, a marionette with fleeting strings, and Rufioh can feel the limited power he holds over him like a chain in his hands. Kurloz's throat opens to accept each inch as his fingers slither between Rufioh’s thighs to grope his balls. Fuck yes! People always forget about the balls. Rufioh goes to offer a leg for him to hump—he’s just trying to be considerate, and it seems like the kind of demeaning this guy would be into—but Kurloz already has a hand down his pants.
Panting moans spill from his throat before he can stop them. No one will hear him over the music. Probably. If they do, he’ll deal with it later, confidently and combatively as always, by pretending he knows nothing and running away. Really, how is he expected to stay quiet when Kurloz’s lips fit so perfectly around him? The familiar warmth in his gut feels like cascading honey, dragging him closer and closer to the finish line.
He brushes Kurloz’s hair back with unwarranted affection, but he wants to see those dark eyes water as his cock disappears between kiss-sore lips. It’s a sight to behold. It implores him to pet the shadowed hollows of his cheeks, feeling the way Kurloz sucks at him as he drives his hips forward.
“Do you like it… um, rough?”
Kurloz raises an eyebrow at him as if to say ‘obviously’.
“Aight, I can dig that! I’ve never really done much… serious shit, but you must be real hardcore, right?”
He just gets a shrug in response, not even taking the dick out of his mouth to do it. Kurloz seems intent on one thing right now, and it’s definitely not talking.
Rufioh nods to himself. Rough. He can do rough.
He starts by pulling Kurloz down again—familiar ground—but instead of yanking him up; he holds him still as he thrusts his hips into the waiting mouth. It causes a sharp gag, one that spills saliva past Kurloz’s lips and down his neck. Rufioh wants to hear that sound again and again, forever, until he comes. He doesn’t slow his movements, even when Kurloz’s hands shift to brace his hips. No, they clutch at him, but not to stop him. They urge him on, compelling him to move harsher, meaner. To disregard the choking and the tears ruining Kurloz’s pretty makeup. Rufioh’s dick twitches from the hotness of it all, and he knows he’s close. Too soon. He doesn’t want this to end, but it’s going to, whether or not he wants it to.
“Can I come in your mouth?” Rufioh asks before it’s too late. He made that mistake with Damara once; his Japanese isn’t perfect, but he’s pretty sure she cursed his bloodline.
He takes the pat on his butt as a yes.
Ruthlessly, he bucks shallow thrusts into Kurloz's mouth, barely withdrawing to let him gasp for air. Wet gurgles sound from the back of his throat as spit bubbles up, thick and coating. When Rufioh comes it's like fire rushing through his body. It sets alight to each nerve and forces him to throw his head back, hitting the door with a loud thump, while he grunts out a selection of swear words Kankri would faint at.
Kurloz waits, content to stay until Rufioh tugs him off his oversensitized dick. There's drool all over him, his hair is even more of a mess, and he's panting, breathless, but he still stares at him with that cool loftiness as if none of this has fazed him.
"Thanks, dude. That was real tight of you." Rufioh goes to pat his head but aborts it immediately—he's not a fucking dog. Why not go a step further and call him a good boy before you take him out behind the woodshed. "I can, you know, return the favour, if you want."
Kurloz rises, wiping his face with a hand towel nearby, and Rufioh is again struck by the quiet nobility he holds. The sureness in how he moves, the smugness in his gaze that says he knows much more than he lets on. He's an unsolvable riddle, an enticing secret to uncover for those he allows close enough to try.
Someone on the other side rattles the door and they both still, waiting for them to give up. They ignore the desperate pleas for a urinary device in a smothered silence, pressed close together as if hiding from a crime. After a grief-stricken wail, the person wanders off in search of another bathroom, never to be heard of again.
"That was fucking close," Rufioh laughs breathlessly, sharing a relieved grin with Kurloz. "I almost got caught going at it in a haunted house once. Don't ask me why we were there—my ex was freaky as shit."
The adrenaline rush gives him the confidence to shimmy his hand into Kurloz's already undone pants. He quickly discovers that the dude is hung. Maybe not Horuss levels, but big enough to fill his palm with heavy fucking man meat. Another Mituna proverb.
"I'd suck you off, but I got a game coming and I don't wanna fuck up my knees. You know how it is, man!"
Kurloz probably doesn't know. He looks like he's never played a sport in his life. Besides, he wouldn't have to worry about aching joints brooding over melancholy poems and pretentious old books. Or whatever he does in his free time.
"Nothing wrong with a baller handie though, am I right? And I gotta be honest, I'm pretty dope at them!"
Kurloz looks… less than impressed. But whatever. Ball is life! With the talent scouts coming, he can't risk blowing this season. Or anyone for that matter, ha.
To soothe Kurloz's pissy face, he leans in for another kiss. Most things are fixed with kisses. It takes a moment but Kurloz relents to his mouth, yielding like he's accepting an apology—hesitantly and full of mistrust. He warms up when Rufioh starts moving his hand, freeing his cock enough to start a steady rhythm. Pumping it, he reaches his other hand round to grope his ass. Rufioh had a good view of it when Kurloz walked away and he's not leaving this bathroom without copping a feel of that plush rump.
He seems to like it too because he hums, low and pleased, and loses some of that tension in his shoulders. Rufioh wasn't blowing smoke—he's genuinely good at hand jobs. It's the hand-eye coordination for sure. He only pauses to spit in his palm before jumping back into it, hand moving slick and fast along Kurloz's shaft. Kurloz breaks the kiss to moan, bracing himself against the door. His eyes are unfocused, looking at Rufioh but not seeing. He brushes their noses together in a sweet kunik.
"You're really hot, you know that?" Rufioh says, still slightly awe-struck that he gets to be so close to someone so attractive.
Kurloz hums again. He probably already knows.
Rufioh kisses him again because he can't keep his mouth off of him, jerking his dick even though his wrist is aching, half-hoping Kurloz never comes because it's nice to just be close to someone. He brushes his lips over Kurloz's jaw and neck, feeling Kurloz's nose bury into his hair. The only conversation shared between them is the sound of their heavy breathing and somehow, just that intimacy is overwhelming.
But it can't last forever.
Kurloz has to come. And when he does, it's with a cute little smothered whine, something so soft and juxtaposing from his freaky goth persona that it doesn't even seem like it came from him. Rufioh can't stop his pleased smile at the sound. Even when come gets all over his blessed varsity jacket sleeve—nooo! It's dry clean only!—he still can't dislodge the grin. Kurloz grinds his hips forward a final time, cock pulsing out the last few drops of jizz, before shuffling out of Rufioh's grip.
"My boy, that was sick—my arm is fucking drenched!" He waves it in his face as if it weren't incredibly noticeable. "You got a whole lotta come, bro. So dope. Your creampies must be, like, wow. Now I just gotta… clean this shit off somehow."
He swerves around Kurloz to get to the sink—sinks. Why Meenah needs three sinks in one bathroom, Rufioh doesn't even want to know. The sperm washes off, uh, alright-ish. There are obvious patches left on the darker fabric, but it'll do for tonight. He needs to start taking this thing off before he gives hand jobs. Thankfully, his hair is only mildly ruffled—another danger of oral—so he can walk out of the bathroom with most of his dignity and all of his street cred.
Kurloz has started washing his face by the time Rufioh is done, having spent precious minutes dumping toilet paper on the floor, mopping up the worst of the spit. There's a wet patch on his t-shirt that will probably dry within the hour. Still, between the two of them, it's pretty clear what they just did.
"This was so good, man. If you ever wanna hook up again, just lemme know. You're a chill guy and I really dig that about you… most people act weird around me since I got made captain. Super into me and shit. Like maybe too into me. It's nice of them and all, but… I kind of wish people would treat me normal sometimes, too."
Rufioh checks the mirror to adjust his threads a final time and finds Kurloz watching him through the reflection. It's impossible to tell what he's thinking, nothing new there, but it's the first time Rufioh has felt worried by it.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to dump that heavy shit on you." Rufioh hands him a towel, despite the one within Kurloz's reach. It's a measly apology gift, but Kurloz takes it anyway. "You're just… easy to talk to, I guess."
Kurloz, wiping off his face, finishes with the towel and puts it down. Everything he does is with thoughtful slowness. When turns to Rufioh, it's as if he has all the time in the world. As if they aren't locked in a bathroom, hiding from a party, but are wandering around an all-night carnival. Admiring the sights, trialling the rides, savouring each moment with unhurried steps. He offers a kind, understanding look, and something in Rufioh breaks.
The tears start to come—which is so embarrassing because Kurloz came for some action, not to see Rufioh blubber like a baby, but he can't stop the sobs bursting from his throat no matter how much he tries to shove them down and pretend that nothing bothers him. That he doesn't mind everyone hitting on him, and that he loves being team captain, it's not an immense pressure on him at all to lead these people—his friends—who are relying on him, the nobody who got in on a sports scholarship—
And then Kurloz is drifting closer and his spindly arms are pulling him into a hug, a warm hand on his neck drawing him to hide against his neck, sheltered by Kurloz's heavy clothes and mane of hair. He's all bones and not really made for hugging, but it's nice all the same. More than nice. Rufioh can't remember the last time someone hugged him. A pat on the back after a good game or a flirtatious hand on his thigh, sure, but this, this closeness, he hasn't felt for a long, long time.
"It's just a lot, you know?" He clings to Kurloz's jacket, crying with the force of months, maybe even years, of repressed emotions. He decides to just give in. He's already gone this far and it's not like he can make the situation any worse. "And it’s not like I'm not grateful; I mean, I'm the first in my family to go to college! That's so dope! But… it's like everyone expects me to be perfect, and brave, and ace at everything and I'm just… not. And I have no fucking clue how I'm gonna lead the team this season—I've never led anything, man! I'm gonna fuck it up so badly and everyone’s gonna be disappointed and I'll get kicked out and, and—"
And somehow he's not just crying anymore but hyperventilating, body-wracking sobs choking his windpipe as he tries to gulp any air he can through the panic. As much as he tries, he can't breathe around the ever-tightening chains of doubt and fear and expectations. He's going to die, he's going to die in Kurloz's arms, in Meenah's sick bathroom, without even the chance to fuck up, because as much as it scares him, he wants to try; he wants to succeed—
Around him, Kurloz's arms loosen. Rufioh's panic, impossibly, flares even more, but Kurloz isn't moving away, only easing his grip. He strokes a hand up and down Rufioh's back, the other still braced around the back of his neck, grounding him. He feels his touch like a hot iron through his clothes. His mind latches onto the distraction with all the hope of a child lost in the woods. He follows the repetitive pattern, his body still trembling with the rush of adrenaline, shamefully smothering his shaking gasps against Kurloz's neck.
"I'm here," Kurloz murmurs. His voice is slow and soothing, and even though it's quiet, Rufioh can still hear it over the rushing in his ears. "You're safe. This won't last long."
He sounds so sure that Rufioh can't help but believe him. Something about his subtle confidence, the knowing conviction of his voice, makes Rufioh think he'd believe just about anything he said.
"I'm sorry—"
"Shh," Kurloz hushes him. "Nothing to be sorry for, brother."
They stand there for minutes, hours, days. Caught in the fog of panic, Rufioh can't grasp time. Still, it’s long enough for any statute of limitations to pass—if there's a moral obligation for Kurloz to stick around, it’s over. And yet, Kurloz stays with him. He hums gentle platitudes, little nonsense words of comfort, his hand still smoothing over his back, until Rufioh's breath is—mostly—normal and he can stand without his legs threatening to collapse.
He's still shaking and nausea is setting in, but the world seems less terrifying than it did a few minutes ago. Even so, he wants to stay in the safety of Kurloz's arms, hidden in their momentary corner of the world. But he can't stay holed up in the bathroom all night. There are things to do, anime to watch. With willpower he didn’t know he had, he relinquishes the haven of Kurloz's body. A chill seeps in the moment they part.
“I… think I needed that.” He puffs out a self-deprecating laugh. “Thanks for dealing with me, dude. You’re a real one.”
Kurloz smiles his calm smile, one corner quirking more than the other, turning it into an almost-smirk. He wipes Rufioh’s cheeks with the sleeves of his jacket, the smell of clean but well-loved clothing wafting into the air. It’s the kind of attentiveness that makes Rufioh think he’s done this before.
“Look, I know you said there's nothing to be sorry for but—"
“Shut the fuck up,” Kurloz says, but not unkindly. Maybe the smile is a bit more shit-eating now.
Rufioh laughs, a real one this time. “Okay, okay, I get it. Seriously though, thank you. People always wanna talk to me, but no one really… listens. So, yeah, thanks a lot.”
Kurloz shrugs, all modest and dismissive, like he does this every day. “Ain’t nothing.”
“Yeah, well, if you need anything, you just let me know, all right? Here are my digits.” He hands Rufioh his phone to input his number, which is a level of trust he didn’t expect from a guy with such a mysterious aura. Rufioh sets his contact name as Bangarang! };D and hopes Kurloz understands the reference.
“So… I’ll see you around?” They’re at Rufioh’s least favourite part of hookups: the leaving. He really does hope they'll meet again, though. There's something about this guy that Rufioh can't resist—call it curiosity or madness. Maybe just the merciless hands of fate. “Text me your Trollian if you got one, I’ll add you!”
Kurloz nods and gifts him one last smile before Rufioh, tired but feeling a hundred pounds lighter, leaves the room.
The party is still going, even though it feels like hours since he first followed Kurloz. He merges back into the crowd with ease, fitting his way back into his friend group as if nothing had happened. A few minutes later he watches Kurloz appear too, looking for all the world like an innocent party-goer. Mituna ambles up to him not long after, with a flushed and giggly Latula clinging to his arm. Seems like he’s not the only one who got lucky tonight.
It’s not until he’s home, seconds from passing out, that he hears his phone chime.