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By the time he makes it back to his own room, the heat inside of his chest has spread out into his limbs, up his neck, and dropped straight into his gut, making his knees weak.
Akihito touches his face, knowing fully well that his cheeks are flushed—thinking of Ogami leaning into him, gaze dark and heavy, the taste of chocolate almost overbearingly sweet in his mouth as the memory floods his senses, replays itself over and over. The tanned skin of his chest revealed by his haphazardly tied yukata. No sense of propriety, Akihito thinks, so unlike his Ogami, the Ogami from the real world who wouldn’t dream of asking Akihito to go anywhere with him unless he wants to chew him out, but that is better because it is real, unlike whatever this was.
In the parallel world, Akihito ponders, nothing is real. None of this matters. There might be a version of him who is used to this, who thinks of Ogami as more than just a colleague, someone who smiles at him without any of the weight tied to his teeth, who calls him Seiji-san and doesn’t feel like he’s done something illicit just thinking about it.
Groaning, he knocks his head back against the wall. The chocolate has melted on his tongue by now, rich and heavy in taste, because Ogami prefers this, Akihito has noticed already. Perhaps because he has spent his time observing this world’s Kano from his desk, or maybe because the other Kano has told him about his preferences, which are close enough to Akihito’s own, who wonders, dimly, if this Kano also needs sugar to make it through the day. If his hands ever begin to shake so badly that he cannot feel them anymore, so numb that he doesn’t know what to do about it, or if it has subsided with the acceptance and the proximity of Ogami. Who cares. Who cares so much that he’s invited Akihito over to his room, post work, to drink and eat more snacks, and to push Akihito against the wall, bend his body in half to look him into the eyes. A finger pressed to his bottom lip, some residue chocolate Akihito can still taste now, coating the back of his teeth like Ogami pushed his finger into his mouth.
He exhales. The room is warmer than before, or maybe that is just the layers of fabric sticking to his skin, damp after he all but ran to his own room. His heart is racing, but that could just be the anxiety. Is it the anxiety? But he isn’t cold. He doesn’t feel cool at all, quite the opposite actually, if he closes his eyes and remembers Ogami, the heat emitting off his body, how good he smelled—sandalwood, mostly, and something fresh, like mint, from the gum he always chews.
Akihito swallows. Slides his hand in between the folds of his yukata, down the warm, flushed skin of his chest, his stomach. Exhales on a soft shiver. Slides his hand lower, down his narrow hips, to his thighs. Pauses.
He opens his eyes, but the room is so dark, only the moonlight illuminating the space, spread across the floor, drenching his feet in cool blue. The bed would probably be better, nicer, but that would make it too real and the point is that this isn’t real at all, that the real Ogami will never know about any of this.
The real Ogami—Akihito wonders if he’d be less teasing, sterner. The thought sends another rush of heat through him, a wave that cascades down his spine and blooms in the center of his chest, and lower. It’s hard to ignore the feeling when even just a shift of his body drags fabric across the sensitive tip of his cock, makes him moan, a sound that he does his best to stifle. Paranoid that Ogami might be able to hear him through the walls, two doors down, or maybe he’s aware. Maybe this is what he’s wanted all along, to drive Akihito crazy by making him think of him when he’s touching himself, barely touching himself so far, really, just the idea of it.
Because touching himself, wrapping a dry hand around his hard cock would actually make it real, and this. Isn’t real.
But the real Ogami would have probably kept Akihito against the wall. Maybe he would have untied Akihito’s robe, would have parted the layers until he could’ve touched Akihito’s pale chest, one large palm spread across his skin, a thumb brushing his nipple—Akihito allows his own fingers to follow his thoughts but it’s not the same, not at all, when he can cover only half of what Ogami could. He’s seen his hands, has felt them on his shoulder. Wrapped around his back and the crook of his legs when this Ogami carried him.
“Fuck,” he breathes, so uncharacteristically undone in a way he usually only allows himself to be in the safety of his own home, where nobody could judge and none of the walls have eyes or ears.
He feels like even now Ogami is still looking at him. He’d probably like that, would want Kano to spread his legs for him, let him in between. Akihito wonders if he’d do the same, if Ogami would come to him just as eager, if the real Ogami would press him into the sheets of his hotel room futon with his weight, drag his hand down Akihito’s body. Wrap his fingers around his thigh, digging into the flesh, holding him open.
Seeing.
Akihito moans, and gathers enough saliva in his mouth to spit into his palm, make the glide smoother, kicking off the layers to give himself some room. The cool air is a shock to his system, his cock sensitive and aching and leaking, and his hot palm, his thumb pressed to the underside, along the vein, makes him shift his hips up into the touch, into nothing enough, just the idea of Ogami, who’d pin his hips down, holding him in place, pace him—the real Ogami would, but maybe this Ogami would watch him from the foot of the bed, sly eyes, like a fox or a wolf, his hand curled around Akihito’s ankle to keep his legs apart, and maybe he’d crawl up once he’s had enough of the show, just for a taste. The wet warmth of his mouth, the mere thought of it, has Akihito fight a whimper.
His girlfriend didn’t really like going down on him and that was fine, he hadn’t expected much at all, didn’t need to have sex as often as the average man if the talk of his peers was anything to go by, but this is different. Ogami is different. Ogami looks as him as if he wants to devour, swallow him whole, savor him on his tongue. Like chocolate.
The glide is wetter now, much smoother, and Akihito closes his eyes, sinks into the fantasy, allows himself to do it. Instead of chocolate, Ogami’s fingers inside his mouth, two, three, the weight on his tongue, making space inside of him. It stifles any of the noises he’d make, that he is making, and his own fingers are not enough but they are spit slick, and he trails a wet path down his throat to his chest. Circles his nipples until they pebble, one after the other, so sensitive that every touch makes him sigh, has him think of Ogami’s rough palms on his chest. He’d be able to reach to the dip of his throat easily, Akihito thinks.
Wonders, briefly, how it would feel to have those fingers inside of him. It’s been so long, too long—he’s never in the mood after work and the preparations are tedious, but it would be worth it. To feel Ogami inside of him, watch his face as he sinks into him, fucks him through the burn and into the mattress. Akihito has never had anyone do that to him but he suddenly wants it with such a stark clarity, he cannot bite back the moan, the syllables of Ogami’s name tumbling past his teeth, out into the open. The error makes him gasp but doesn’t stop the hurried movement of his hand, a tight circle to fuck into, a twist on every upstroke, just how he likes it. He’s sure Ogami is such a quick study, he’d figure it out immediately. What makes Akihito squeeze his eyes shut and beg for more, drip wet all over his hands.
It would feel so good, he thinks. Ogami would make him feel good. Especially this Ogami, who brings him pastries and studies him and invites him out for drinks and to nice restaurants. He’d be so focused on Akihito’s pleasure, just like he is now.
The real Ogami would fuck him until he cries, maybe. Until he is overstimulated and flushed from his neck to his knees, when it hurts so good that it is almost enough to make him cum again.
He thinks of Ogami’s eyes and his hands, the scent of his skin and the taste of chocolate, increases the pace of his strokes and spills all over his hand in almost no time, some of it coating his stomach, most of it dripping off his fingers, chest heaving. Eyes hazy and unfocused. Body suddenly hot and heavy in a way that he hasn’t felt in forever.
Akihito blinks until the world regains focus, and then it sets in what he’s just done, with an almost paralyzing, humiliating force.
No. No, no, no, nonononono.
How is he supposed to drive home with Ogami tomorrow? How is he supposed to look him in the eyes? Of course this is not any less real than whatever would happen in their real world. After all, this is still all him.
Akihito groans. God, he’s an idiot.