[Yay, more Hikago. Sorry, I'm a little off my game tonight. By which I mean frothing with rage and disgust over something. So, uh, porn? Ish?]
"Fine," Hikaru said and shoved Touya onto the bed. "Fine, but do you really think it'll change anything?" Touya bounced a little when he hit, breathing unsteady, and glared up at Hikaru in defiant response.
Hikaru unbuttoned Touya's ugly puce shirt (and God, what had Hikaru said about not letting Touya's mother do his clothes shopping? No one ever listened) with trembling fingers. Halfway down, Touya gave up, batted Hikaru's hands away, and tried pulling off the shirt himself, tangling his head and arms and revealing his stomach. Hikaru stepped in again once the flailing had calmed, and cleared where Touya had caught his hair on the buttons of one sleeve. Hikaru tossed the shirt to the side, ignored the way Touya's eyes expressed a will to murder as Hikaru climbed on the bed.
Hikaru stroked the smooth skin of Touya's stomach, his chest, raised his hand to Touya's neck and pulled him in to a kiss more teeth than tongue and lips.
Touya fumbled for the second light switch by the bed, flicked it off with one hand even as the other pressed under Hikaru's t-shirt. "Off," he mumbled into Hikaru's mouth.
Hikaru helped pull off his shirt, his belt, push down his pants and boxers. "Fuck, Touya. You—"
Touya flipped them, and what little Hikaru could see of him in the dim light from the open window was definitely moving down the bed, to—oh.
"Touya, wait, don't—"—and there were the lips and tongue, the go-callused fingers gripping Hikaru's thighs to spread them determinedly apart. Hikaru clutched the rough thread of his sheets and tried to think of formations, progressions, old kifu. What if he'd attacked on the right instead of the left, or placed in the opening five spaces ov—
It was over quickly.
Touya withdrew entirely, footsteps thudding against the wood floor, and it took Hikaru too long to pull up his pants and follow. Touya was already smudging the bathroom mirror with the oil of his hair and forehead, clinging to the sink as he'd clung to the sheets the week before, desperate and just as unable to change things.
"I'm sorry," Hikaru said, hands spread uncertain on Touya's too tense shoulders. "You don't have to, to . . . it's oka—"
"It's not okay." Touya kept his eyes down. He turned on the faucet. They waited a few minutes. Touya turned it off. "It's not okay."
Hikaru kept his hands on Touya's back, pressed his own turned head against Touya's.
--
The next morning, they play two games of go without a single word. After the third, Akira leaves with what little shreds of dignity that remain, tamping down hard on the regret and self-disgust. The next four years, they play only in go parlors and at official tournaments. One fifth of May, Hikaru finally tells him about Sai, and Akira wishes fervently, once more, that he wasn't straight.
Re: Second Guy/Kakashi
"Fine," Hikaru said and shoved Touya onto the bed. "Fine, but do you really think it'll change anything?" Touya bounced a little when he hit, breathing unsteady, and glared up at Hikaru in defiant response.
Hikaru unbuttoned Touya's ugly puce shirt (and God, what had Hikaru said about not letting Touya's mother do his clothes shopping? No one ever listened) with trembling fingers. Halfway down, Touya gave up, batted Hikaru's hands away, and tried pulling off the shirt himself, tangling his head and arms and revealing his stomach. Hikaru stepped in again once the flailing had calmed, and cleared where Touya had caught his hair on the buttons of one sleeve. Hikaru tossed the shirt to the side, ignored the way Touya's eyes expressed a will to murder as Hikaru climbed on the bed.
Hikaru stroked the smooth skin of Touya's stomach, his chest, raised his hand to Touya's neck and pulled him in to a kiss more teeth than tongue and lips.
Touya fumbled for the second light switch by the bed, flicked it off with one hand even as the other pressed under Hikaru's t-shirt. "Off," he mumbled into Hikaru's mouth.
Hikaru helped pull off his shirt, his belt, push down his pants and boxers. "Fuck, Touya. You—"
Touya flipped them, and what little Hikaru could see of him in the dim light from the open window was definitely moving down the bed, to—oh.
"Touya, wait, don't—"—and there were the lips and tongue, the go-callused fingers gripping Hikaru's thighs to spread them determinedly apart. Hikaru clutched the rough thread of his sheets and tried to think of formations, progressions, old kifu. What if he'd attacked on the right instead of the left, or placed in the opening five spaces ov—
It was over quickly.
Touya withdrew entirely, footsteps thudding against the wood floor, and it took Hikaru too long to pull up his pants and follow. Touya was already smudging the bathroom mirror with the oil of his hair and forehead, clinging to the sink as he'd clung to the sheets the week before, desperate and just as unable to change things.
"I'm sorry," Hikaru said, hands spread uncertain on Touya's too tense shoulders. "You don't have to, to . . . it's oka—"
"It's not okay." Touya kept his eyes down. He turned on the faucet. They waited a few minutes. Touya turned it off. "It's not okay."
Hikaru kept his hands on Touya's back, pressed his own turned head against Touya's.
--
The next morning, they play two games of go without a single word. After the third, Akira leaves with what little shreds of dignity that remain, tamping down hard on the regret and self-disgust. The next four years, they play only in go parlors and at official tournaments. One fifth of May, Hikaru finally tells him about Sai, and Akira wishes fervently, once more, that he wasn't straight.