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Takumi Sumino is not a planner. He's barely even a thinker, really.
Karua had always teased him about it. Shortsightedness and losing track of time, putting things off until the very last second. Math homework and birthdays and dirty dishes. That's just how boys are, Karua had told him knowingly. They're only eight, sitting in the grass on a perfectly-the-same-as-always August day, and his mom is making them lunch inside. There's a ladybug crawling around on her knee. So it's a good thing you've always got me around, Takkun.
He's kinda stupid, and he knows it, and Karua is, in fact, not always around.
The handle of Aotsuki's scythe connects hard with his stomach and he stumbles backwards, digging the tip of his sword into the ground to steady himself. Blue flames lick hungrily at the gym floor, almost begging to spark and burn, but never quite catching. Takumi barely dodges the next swing of the flat of the blade, aimed at his head.
"Are you even trying? This was your idea."
Yeah. He's really, really stupid.
Keeping Aotsuki cooped up in a cage for weeks was an admittedly poor solution to what was, in retrospect, a more complex problem than he thought. Not killing him was the right answer, Takumi's mostly sure of that. But Aotsuki can be– and he will always choose to be, especially when it's Takumi's turn to play warden– remarkably annoying.
He complains, and he pouts, and he throws things through the bars. He paces the small perimeter of his cage, almost toying with Takumi, who has to watch him finish his lunch to make sure both chopsticks that went into the cage come back out. Daring him to look away, for even just a second, as Aotsuki shuffles across the same 30 square feet of cement.
Enjoying the zoo today, Takumi-kun? He smiles with grossly perfect teeth. Takumi wants to knock a few loose.
Maybe he's just restless, Kirifuji had offered. She'd very deliberately not looked back at Eva, who was shifting from one foot to another aimlessly in the corner of the cafeteria. The cages in the courtyard are awfully small.
Takumi had considered her idea while picking the chunks of rice ball that had been lobbed at him out of his hair. While brushing his teeth, washing his face, cautiously sniffing a shirt that was draped over his desk chair. While sneaking two infusers out of the War Room under his jacket, walking down the steps, into the courtyard, until he had stopped short just in front of Aotsuki's cage, and by then it was far too late to be considering anything.
It's not been an even match so far– Takumi knows that he is blowing it, maybe the worst he ever has. He'd only managed to get one solid hit on Aotsuki, a parry and well-timed kick to the chest that had sent him reeling for a few moments. Moments that Takumi had promptly wasted by not just knocking away his weapon and calling the whole thing off there. Since then, Takumi's been mainly on the defense, ducking under swings and sidestepping bursts of ruddy electricity.
And of course Aotsuki will not just shut up.
"Oh, Takumi-kun," he calls, a teasing voice that echoes around the gym. "You're not putting up much of a fight. It's awfully disappointing, you know."
Takumi grunts, putting his weight behind another slash of his sword, clanging uselessly off of Aotsuki's scythe. He's coldly aware of the failsafe in the pouch around his waist: a tranquilizer he'd taken from Omokage's stash. He hadn't checked the dosage, or even really if it had been intended for humans or commanders, but it's there, a little syringe that feels far too heavy in his bag.
"You offer me a taste of your hatred, something to help me 'blow off some steam,' and you can't even be bothered to do it right!" Aotsuki clucks his tongue, sends a shockwave through his shoulder with a twirl of his scythe, and Takumi falls, back hitting the ground hard. A heel swiftly connects with Takumi's sword hand, and his weapon goes skittering across the floor.
Aotsuki crouches over him, leering. "Ugly, Takumi. Ugly, stupid, vile. You're really hurting my feelings."
Takumi struggles to lift himself up onto his elbows, a gloved hand keeping him mostly in place. Aotsuki's scythe seems discarded, set neatly to the side, but not close enough for Takumi to grab for it. He doubts it'd even work for him, anyways, suited for someone taller, but it's a compliment of a precaution. Even prone, he's enough of a threat to keep him away from a blade.
"Hurting your feelings," Takumi spits, trying to hook an ankle under Aotsuki's legs and pull him off balance. Aotsuki responds with heavier force, his entire forearm pressed flat against his neck, almost choking him. His knees come to rest either side of Takumi's hips. "You just called me ugly."
"Well, you are!" Aotsuki doubles his efforts, pushing harder against Takumi's windpipe. "Ugly and cruel and a liar. You offered me a fight, Takumi-kun."
"This," Takumi wheezes, hand scrabbling for his bag before Aotsuki grabs his wrist, pulling it up and away from the floor. "Isn't fighting?"
"No," Aotsuki says. "This is me winning. While a foregone conclusion," He smiles, with his stupid teeth, straight as soldiers, almost gleaming in the dim light of the gym, and almost red in Takumi's blurring vision, like his mouth is full of blood. "I didn't want it so soon. Didn't you want to try, Takumi-kun? Weren't you going to beat me into submission?"
"Wh- what?" Takumi tries to kick, tries to do anything, but Aotsuki is there, a mass holding him down, pushing and pulling. "What are you–"
"That was your goal, wasn't it? To best me? Twice in a row, and I'll never cross you again. Like a good little prisoner, falling into line." Aotsuki leans in close, and Takumi blows a puff of what little breath he has left into his face, just to see him grimace and his nose wrinkle at the smell.
Aotsuki growls. A light flickers in Takumi's peripheral; the flames that pulse in Aotsuki's chest writhing and snapping against the gnarled edges of the cavity. He finds his attention torn between Aotsuki, his voice shrill and venomous in his ears, and his heart, eyes drifting down to where it erratically beats.
"This was never about me, or what I needed, or what you thought I needed. This was about you," Aotsuki spits, and the flames spit with him, what look like sparks flying against where he's crushing Takumi's wrist, little stars bouncing off his fingertips. "Putting your little project in his place. Look, everybody! I was right to keep him alive all along."
Maybe that's why you didn't want to use the syringe, his brain provides, deliriously self conscious. Maybe that's why you didn't just stop.
"I didn't–" You didn't think.
"You didn't think?" Aotsuki sneers. The grip he has on Takumi is nearly bruising, white hot fire is bursting to get free of the hole in Aotsuki's chest. "You never do."
That's just how boys are, he finishes in his head, and he wants to laugh. His eyes flicker around wildly, darkness seeping in at the edges. There's a ladybug engraved at the end of Aotsuki's scythe, on the handle.
He doesn't plan, and he doesn't think, and that's the only justification he has for thrusting his arm forward, as hard as he can, until his fingers sink into Aotsuki's heart.
Takumi's not entirely sure what the little balls of fire in their chests actually are. Maruko and Shizuhara are both superstitious about them; souls or ghosts or something. Omokage's pleaded a thousand times for volunteers to experiment on one of them, that a fully lucid vivisection might be the only way to uncover their secrets. Magadori thinks they're representations of a warrior's fighting spirit. Amemiya thinks they're an easy-to-see target to aim for when the game finally starts.
Two new observations he'll be sure to take with him to his grave: they are warm, and they are sensitive.
Pure heat explodes around his hand, almost painful, put he presses onwards, fingers meeting an almost gelatinous resistance as fire curls around his palm. Aotsuki goes almost deadly still above him, like he's been electrocuted, muscles tense to the point of shaking. A choked whine forces his way out of his throat, and with a final, pathetic shudder, he collapses forward, impaling himself further onto Takumi's fingers.
And now is when you stop, Takumi thinks. Right now. His chest heaves to take in air without Aotsuki pressing against his neck, struggling against the writhing weight pinning him down. He wiggles his fingers in an attempt to slip them out, and Aotsuki gurgles next to his ear, legs spasming. There's something pressing into his hip.
He crooks his finger again, pressing hard against something squishy. Aotsuki moans brokenly, fingers scrabbling against Takumi's shoulders.
"What are you– stop it. Stop!" His hips flex downwards in automatic motion, confirming what Takumi was pretty sure he already knew. Aotsuki groans, suddenly grinding like he can't stop, like he doesn't even realize he's doing it. "Get– get them– ngh– get them out!"
"Do you want me to?" Takumi says, before he even realizes he's talking. "Do you need me to?"
Aotsuki thrashes, choking wetly as Takumi prods around inside of him. Takumi wraps an arm around his back, holding him in place. His fingers are making obscene noises, squelching, while the flames in Aotsuki's chest curl possessively around his wrist.
"You– foul reprobate. You disgusting– mmh! Pervert! Ugly, ugly, ugly pervert!"
"Aotsuki," Takumi says. "Do you need me to stop?"
Aotsuki trembles in his grasp. Almost funny, how a man a head taller and twice as broad is shuddering and whining against him, unable to free himself. Almost cute.
Takumi slowly retracts his hand, not without a struggle, feeling the heat roar and the stickiness try and pull him back in. His gloves are stained red, thick strands of something stretching between where he spreads out his fingers.
He shoves them back in, until he feels what he presumes is the back of Aotsuki's ribcage, and Aotsuki wails, amplified throughout the empty gym. His erection brushes Takumi's– How long have I been hard?– and Takumi's head drops back, banging against the floor.
He's not sure what he's doing; there's nothing exactly to look for in here, just viscera and pulsing walls and fire, wisps of white smoke making Takumi's eyes water as he drives his hips up to meet Aotsuki's. But he hasn't been sure what he's doing since he got here, probably longer before that, and Aotsuki– who's grabbing onto his wrist again to press him in deeper, until his knuckles are bent, dragging along his ribs– seems to have gotten over it.
The front of Aotsuki's pants are wet, Takumi can feel it when he ruts against him, and when did he finish? Did he finish more than once? And he's still going, half-hard, like a man possessed, like he can't let go of the feeling. His moans are nasally, higher pitched than Takumi knew his voice could go. There's a few tears when Takumi finally looks at his face again, dribbling down his cheeks and the arch of his nose. Takumi feels a gross impulse to surge up and lick them away.
"Are you close?" His own voice is broken, raspy, has he been making noise? Has he been screaming? "Aotsuki, are you close? Do you– Aotsuki–"
Aotsuki flings himself forward, their foreheads colliding and teeth clacking together as he kisses him. Probably poorly, if Takumi had any frame of reference. He makes a noise he doesn't even recognize came from him, high and whiny, and he feels the tension in his stomach snap. Aotsuki clamps his teeth hard around his bottom lip, drawing blood, and violently shudders against him. His jaw goes slack, and his muscles give way, and he turns into deadweight against Takumi.
Takumi drags his hand out of Aotsuki's chest, glove and sleeve soaked in crimson, a coppery smell filling his nose. He's disgusting. The wet patch in his boxers turning cool and sticky and sweat drying on his neck. Aotsuki's breath is in heavy little puffs against his ear.
He's disgusting.