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It comes over him like the start of a fever, less than two minutes after they're on the road. A shivery ache in his joints, a lightness in his head that makes focusing on Kyouji's endless stream of nonsense even more difficult than usual. At first he assumes it's a slightly delayed reaction to the adrenaline rush of getting shaken and smacked around — or to what he just watched Kyouji do, which is already reducing itself to the disjointed sensory impressions of a nightmare rather than a memory of something that actually happened. Feeling sick about any of that would make sense. More sense than the thrill that creeps up his spine at the memory of Kyouji's fingers trailing along his forearm, gently nudging him to safety.
Kyouji…is still talking. Something about drugs, something about the pinky in the glove box. That familiar, stupid laughter in response to things no sane person would think are funny. Satomi's brain is struggling to keep up, preoccupied more with the sound of the words than the meaning, and so it takes him a moment to realize Kyouji is calling his name now.
"—tomi-kun. You okay?"
Satomi jumps. "Yeah, I—" He takes an audible, shuddering inhale through his open mouth, and finds he can't quite catch his breath again. Sweat prickles across his skin. "'M just. Hot."
Kyouji is silent for a beat before he turns the air conditioner higher. Satomi can hear it, feel the breeze on his damp face, but it might as well be off entirely for all the good it's doing. The Century's center console is digging into his ribs; he flinches, belatedly realizing that he's been sagging in his seat, wilting toward Kyouji without meaning to. Embarrassing, like being a little kid unable to resist falling asleep on the way home. He scowls and starts to push himself upright again — and fails. His muscles won't cooperate.
Satomi blinks. Blinks again, trying to clear the dark spots creeping in at the edge of his field of view. His breath rasps in his throat as he braces his hands against the edge of the console and shoves himself upright. It's like the air around Kyouji has more oxygen in it than the rest of the car.
"Hey. Satomi-kuuun." The teasing lilt in Kyouji's voice sounds more forced than usual. "Did that guy give you anything?"
"I…I don't…" No, he was going to say, but his stomach sinks as he realizes that's not true. For one second in their aborted scuffle the man had smacked a hand across Satomi's stammering mouth, the repulsive taste of his palm exploding across Satomi's tongue. Sharp and astringent — and then gone, fading down to a metallic tang between his teeth. It had happened so fast it hadn't even registered as something to be more concerned about than all the other creepy, gross details of the creepy, gross situation.
Cicadas screaming. His sweaty shirt clinging to his skin. Kyouji's stupid beaming face, far too close as always, and the lights switching off in his dark eyes the second he'd taken his gaze off Satomi. The sharp crack of metal on bone.
The briefcase is in the trunk, but Satomi feels like he can still smell the blood on it.
"Okay," Kyouji says, apparently taking Satomi's lack of answer for confirmation anyway. He flicks on the turn signal and smoothly changes lanes, guiding them down a street that Satomi registers as unfamiliar even through his distraction. And then he reaches over and brushes his knuckles along Satomi's jawline.
The effect is immediate and catastrophic. Sparks pop in front of Satomi's eyes as the anticipation that's been coiling slowly beneath his skin erupts into a full-body shudder of pleasure. His dick jumps, so hard it hurts in the span of less than a second, and his voice escapes in a strangled squeak. "Kyouji-san—!"
"Hm." Kyouji doesn't look away from the road as he slides his hand around to cup the back of Satomi's neck, broad fingertips soothing gently against the space behind Satomi's ear. Stop it! Satomi thinks, but the words feel like they're coming from someone else, shouted from a long, long distance away and muffled by the roar of his own heartbeat in his ears. His body can't decide if it wants to recoil or to arch into Kyouji's palm, and so he ends up just twisting helplessly in place, heaving for oxygen and twitching in his underwear, as Kyouji's hand moves down the side of his neck and slips one scalding centimeter beneath the collar of Satomi's shirt.
And just like that, Kyouji's touch is gone. A thin, distraught noise warbles out of Satomi, continuing even after he clamps both hands over his mouth. He's left panting against his own fingers, eyes stuck to Kyouji's hand as it returns to the steering wheel. He can still feel every tiny whorl of Kyouji's fingerprints.
"Damn," Kyouji says, and the utter lack of humor in his voice is what makes Satomi finally register that all of this is actually happening.
Satomi's thoughts are a kaleidoscope of panic and desire and Kyouji. What comes out of his mouth is, "Am I gonna die?"
Kyouji's laugh cuts off too fast. "No. You're gonna be just fine, Satomi-kun, we'll just — ahh, don't make that face. Hey. C'mon."
He might be crying, he's not sure. The car spins slowly around him. Is this really what drugs are like? How could anyone possibly think this is fun? He's fully slumped over now, oozing into Kyouji's space, held back only by his seatbelt and the fact his squirming legs can't gather enough strength to push himself over the center console. His forehead lands on Kyouji's upper arm and he shivers, horrified to find himself drooling a little.
"It's just after three PM," Kyouji says, as if this makes sense as a response to anything that's been going on. He strokes a hand down Satomi's spine, petting him like he's a cat, and Satomi's eyes roll back. "We're gonna swing by the office for a second and sort this out, all right? Easy peasy."
"The—office?" Satomi's voice is an ugly, wet thing.
"Won't take long," Kyouji continues. The car slows, makes a wide, smooth turn. Stops. "You'll be home by four."
The idea of any of the men from that terrifying practice session seeing him like this—no. No. "I don't wanna see your office right now," he manages. The fabric of Kyouji's shirt whispers against his lips as he speaks. He only wants—no.
"It's all right. We don't have to go in," Kyouji says, voice deep and gentle. It has the same effect on Satomi's frayed nerves as a knife across a harp string. Kyouji kills the ignition and for a long second the two of them just sit there, Satomi's fingers clenching and unclenching in the fabric of Kyouji's sleeve, his thighs squirming against each other. Kyouji reaches down and every muscle in Satomi's body goes rigid, but he only clicks the button to release Satomi's seatbelt and retreats again before Satomi can do more than gasp.
"Back seat," Kyouji says, as casually as if he's ordering dessert at Karaoke Heaven: this is what he wants, so this is what he'll get. He fixes Satomi with a smile and a look of polite encouragement, hooks a long finger beneath the knot of his tie and pulls it loose. Satomi's stomach drops into freefall even as he sways backward, scrambling behind himself for the handle of the door.
This is really, really happening.
The buzzsaw whine of cicada song fills the empty parking lot, making Satomi flinch as soon as he gets the door open. I should probably run, he thinks, again in that distant, perfunctory way that feels like it's coming from someone else. His legs give out the second he tries to stand, his grip on the door handle the only thing that prevents him from collapsing to the ground entirely. "Hey!" Kyouji says, the concern in his voice driving a serrated spike of arousal through Satomi. He's circled around the front of the car before Satomi can struggle back to his feet, and Satomi finds himself panting up at him, glasses hopelessly skewed, sprawled halfway on the asphalt. The concern in Kyouji's face wavers briefly into something else and Satomi's whole body shakes as he realizes that Kyouji could just — step forward with his feet on either side of Satomi's hips, take him by the hair, and use him like that. Shove him down and push right into his open, gasping mouth, and Satomi wouldn't be able to do a single thing about it but drool and whine and choke.
But Kyouji just extends a hand to steady him and then, when Satomi still proves too humiliatingly uncoordinated to get himself upright, hooks his other arm around Satomi's torso so he can drag him to his feet. "Easy, easy," Kyouji soothes as Satomi sags into him, head swooping with vertigo, the thought he could do anything to me still glowing white-hot in his mind.
Satomi topples over again as Kyouji helps him climb into the Century's back seat, and finds himself blinking up at the roof, his vision swimming. It's his first time back here but not — he swallows — not his first time thinking about it. About this. The omamori burns in his pocket; he can't look at Kyouji. He starts to draw his knees up in a futile attempt to hide how hard he is, but Kyouji catches him around the ankles and starts to work Satomi's sneakers off, letting them thump unceremoniously to the floorboard.
It's surreal that this is where Kyouji draws the line: no shoes on the car upholstery. Satomi bites down hard on his lower lip to stifle the urge to laugh. Or scream.
"Satomi-kun."
Almost against his will, Satomi looks. Kyouji takes up the entire doorway, summer sun filtering around his edges like the rays of an eclipse. His dark eyes are unreadable, almost expressionless. Satomi is struck by the powerful impression of being watched by a hungry wolf. Kyouji says, "Turn over."
The words hit Satomi like a physical blow, making him gasp. He obeys, shaking, mind going blank with terror and hunger at the sound of Kyouji's belt buckle behind him. His sweaty fingers scrabble for grip on the seat beneath him. The car rocks as Kyouji climbs in, one big hand planted next to Satomi's head, knees on either side of his thighs. They're barely touching but he's still so, so warm, body heat rolling off him in waves so intense that Satomi thinks he could get sunburn from it.
"I haven't, I've never—" Satomi is saying, barely able to complete the thought, let alone the words. "Nobody's ever—"
"I know." Kyouji sounds sympathetic. Satomi whimpers. "It's okay." His hand is huge and hot on Satomi's hip. "Lift up a bit for me, 'kay?"
Satomi takes three too-fast, whining breaths, presses his cheek against the seat beneath him hard enough to nearly send his glasses wobbling off his face, and obeys. Kyouji's knees are caging him in so he can't shift his legs apart the way he desperately wants but it feels good, too, to curl his spine like this, arching beneath Kyouji like he —
Like —
Like he wants Kyouji to do exactly what he's going to do. Like he's been waiting for it from the very first time they spoke.
Satomi moans.
The leather band of Kyouji's belt goes around his thighs and cinches them tight together, just above his knees, and then Kyouji's touch slides up and he's undoing the buckle of Satomi's own belt. The sound and feeling of it sliding through the loops of his school trousers makes him buck like he's being skinned alive. "Kyouji-san," he gasps, throwing his head back against Kyouji's shoulder. "Kyouji—"
"It's okay," Kyouji says again, leaning over Satomi further and taking his wrists in one hand. It is so very fucking not okay. The seats squeak beneath them as Satomi writhes helplessly, hips jerking up into the overwhelming heat of Kyouji's body. And oh. Yes. Kyouji is hard. Feeling it punches the breath out of Satomi in a noise so loud and embarrassing that he almost misses Kyouji's quiet huff of interest. Kyouji lets go of Satomi's arms to push him flat, pinning him in place with both hands on Satomi's pelvis; his left thumb skims along the strip of exposed skin where Satomi's shirt has ridden up, a trail of sparks kindling in its path. "Be still. Lemme take care of you."
The words and the touch make something in Satomi melt. His fists unclench, the tension leaves his legs, and he sags bonelessly against the seat beneath him with a long, shaky sigh. Kyouji takes advantage of his limp acquiescence to lean forward again and cinch Satomi's own belt carefully around his upper arms, forcing him to keep them stretched out on the seat in front of him. It's all so much filthier than anything Satomi has ever fantasized about. Ever even thought of. He's leaking everywhere, sweat and tears and precome, and — he's gonna be leaking Kyouji's come, too. Soon. Just the fleeting mental image is enough to drag another broken moan out of him. He's so big, he thinks through the fog of fear and desire, watching hazily as Kyouji binds his wrists with the sleek fabric of Kyouji's necktie. He's gonna tear me apart. He wants it so much he feels almost sick.
"There we go," Kyouji says, once he's got Satomi restrained to his satisfaction.
"I-I—Can we—" Satomi tips his head against Kyouji's shoulder again, turns his face so their cheeks smush together for one brief moment before Kyouji pulls away. The start of a protest dies in his throat as Kyouji's palm lights on the nape of his neck, pushing him gently but inexorably down. Satomi closes his eyes and goes loose and pliant again. Lets it happen.
"You're gonna be real mad at me right now," Kyouji says, dropping one chaste kiss on the back of Satomi's head. The rustle of his breath in Satomi's hair feels as hot as a blowtorch. "But it's better than bein' madder at me later."
"W-what?" The dizzying pressure of Kyouji's body suddenly lifts and Satomi jolts, bereft. Fingers in his hair, ruffling it affectionately, and then Kyouji's touch is gone altogether, the car shifting on its axles as Kyouji retreats through the door he'd never bothered to close in the first place.
"What…the hell?" Satomi can't make himself understand what's happening. He shivers, needles of ice prickling across his skin now that Kyouji's warmth isn't bearing down on him. The door behind him slams shut, and then the front passenger door too, and then Kyouji is climbing back into the driver's seat. The click of his seatbelt echoes like a gunshot. "What the fuck?"
"I know," Kyouji says mournfully. "I'm sorry. Pretty messed up, right? But the good news is there's no way a punk that strung out could afford any of the long-lasting stuff floating around. The worst of it'll probably wear off in the next — fifteen minutes. Ish." Satomi is still reeling from that when Kyouji continues, "Too bad you're probably not up for giving feedback right now. I could go through Kurenai twice in that time, haha."
"Are you for real?" Satomi's ears are ringing. The car purrs to life and Kyouji turns the radio on, some shitty old pop song Satomi's never heard before but instantly, viscerally despises. He can't be serious. This can't be real. "Kyouji-san — please—"
His traitorous voice breaks right in the middle of the word, and something in Satomi snaps. Rage cuts through the confused tangle of disappointment-relief-need-humiliation cluttering up his thoughts, as bright and clarifying as a beam of sun through clouds. Satomi snatches at it with both hands, lets it scorch away everything else.
He's not going to beg. He won't give Kyouji the satisfaction.
"3:17," Kyouji says, softer. "Like I said. Home by four." He hasn't even turned to look at Satomi. Coward, Satomi thinks, relieved to find himself shaking with fury more than arousal now. Useless bastard idiot coward. Kyouji had been hard. Satomi had felt it. Is he still hard, listening to Satomi pant and squirm back here? Do his palms ache where he touched Satomi, the same way every single centimeter of Satomi's body that Kyouji has ever touched is thrumming with nerves right now?
As if on cue, Kyouji sighs. Satomi can't hear him, won't listen to him. Is absolutely not thinking of feeling that damp exhale on the back of his neck as a fresh wave of heat rolls through him, pushing his hips down into the seat without his permission. You could have done anything to me pops back into his head, just as searing and intrusive as the first time, and to distract himself from the sudden sting in his eyes he leans forward and sinks his teeth into the belt wrapped around his upper arms. Bites down until he feels the material give and the hinge of his jaw creak.
The volume of the radio creeps upward. Coward. Coward. Satomi curls his fingers around the edge of the seat in front of him until his knuckles go white, breathes through the anger and hurt churning inside him, and burns.