Disclaimer: I donÕt own Jet Set Radio Future or any of their characters. Not even Yo-yo and Beat!
A/N: Takes place after Yo-yo is rescued from the Noise Tanks in Jet Set Radio Future.
The damn kid squirms again next to me.
It's like he thinks I don't notice it's the hundredth time in the last ten minutes. Like I'm really that interested in the buzz on the tube. I'm not that off. The 11 o' clock news boasts how the Rokkaku Police have finally caught up with the party on Chuo Street. That's where everyone went; the Love Shockers promised the party of the century, and you know how Tab hates to be shown up. We all knew the party would be crashed by the men in blue, so I'm sure they're at least two step ahead of them. They're hauling it over to the Skyscraper District this moment I guess. Everyone knows those highbrows won't allow helicopters crowding up their air-gardens.
He's sitting just in front of the couch, eyes pretending to be glued to the screen. He's not fooling anyone when he tries sneaking a glance at me. There must be bruises blooming over his back, from when I'd put my feet up just a little while ago. He had complained in his annoying voice and threatened me and carried on with the shit that fools the others. Then there was this look on his face, there's no mistaking he remembered that we're alone in the Garage. And he realized that the game was starting again. But by that time, I'd put my feet down. I didn't feel like starting just then.
I grin and suck in a tight stream of my joint. My body smiles at the familiar warmth that flows down the back of my throat. It reminds me of way back when, being a brat like him, and standing in the cloud of subway steam. Being enveloped by the purple haze and fighting the scratching protest from my throat, until the sensation passes and it's just heat. I once stood there so long, my head got dizzy and I passed out. It was almost a disappointment when I woke up later. Almost.
Okay. Maybe I am a bit off. I should do something before I fall asleep.
I sit forward and Yo-yo stifles his surprise by examining his wrist. He cradles it in his lap, trying to tighten the sloppy job with his teeth. A loose bandage flutters like a cat's tail by my foot. It's so free, I grab it. He jerks his hand away before I can-- But the protest of mending bones in his wrist make him hiss. I jump up fast enough to reveal something to him. He might catch on, so I let go of the bandage. They broke it or something, those bastards. When they took him away. He still hasn't said whether it was an attack, or he did it himself. I dunno. Maybe he wanted to show off to me, so he might have done something stupid. I wouldn't put it past him.
"Watch it, idiot."
I didn't want it to come out harsh, but he flinches at my voice. My throat's sore as though it's the first time I've spoken all day. Maybe it is. I don't think I was ever really here today. He's sitting with bad posture, knees tucked in and enveloped in the blue teal of his sleeves. The oversized pullover he always wears is cute, but gets in the way too much. He must feel my eyes on him, because he ducks down, managing to hide most of his blush in his collar. Sometimes, it's more like he's afraid of me, than in love with me. It's hard to figure out, because he said those words, but it was a jumble like everything that time, and it was smothered against my arm, so who knows.
There's no time like the present to make sure. Besides, the rolled paper in my fingers is starting to singe my skin. Shaking hands and the feel of slick skin under my lips take over my mind again. I can't remember if they were moans of pleasure or pain, I love to dwell on the latter. There's so much potential in that that my mind wanders to another place with great gusto and detail at how I can make him squirm. It's enough to coax me to move. His gasp sets my nerves on fire when I touch his sides.
Afterwards, it takes him a while to get off his back. His face is flushed red and he's struggling for words. "Shhh, shhh... It's okay. I just had to make sure." I zip his pants back up for him. It's discouraging when he shies away for a moment when my fingers accidentally brush against his belly, just above the tuft of course dark hair, wet with saliva. I simultaneously wipe my hands clean on my pants and search for another joint to light up, but I just threw the last one away. The threat of a headache is sneaking up on me, and I'm pissed, because I'm not any surer now than I was before.
He's looking at me intensely -- or at the space two feet to my left -- until he gets his breath and says, "You know...I think that...m-maybe --"
The moment he's up, I squeeze his good wrist and he doesn't recognize me for a moment, but I look hard at him and he complies. Over the past few weeks there's been this kind of change in him that I've been trying to ignore or deny. He speaks less, and wakes up often in the middle of the night. Since being kidnapped by the Noise Tanks, but that's because he was away from me for so long. If I think it, then it must be. It's my guilty pleasure, really -- to be changing him. That darker side of me that's proud smiles, and I want to say more.
Instead, I feel around beneath the couch, and pull out the near-empty bottle of vodka. When I pull him down with me, he's forced onto his knees, which is just where I want him. Less than half of the stuff sloshes around the thick bottom, all that's left after one of my nightly street raids. It burns my lips upon contact, but I bite it back long enough to down the thing in one movement. My eyes swell with tears as I expected, so I hide them in a forced smile and laugh. The natural order of all things is to descend into chaos. This must be what the bottom tastes like. Swinging the sweet poison to him with, "Your turn, kid." I smile at him for real, waiting for him to take the challenge. The alcohol's already settled into my stomach, making it burn with a soothing heat. I smile at him for real, but he's already looking through the bottle's end.
I lean my arm against the sharp corner of the table, never taking my eyes off his silent form, naked on the floor. I'm not all that bad; at least I had the decency to cushion his head with his own shirt. He's breathing shallow, whimpering with knit brows. It's easier to imagine he's really enjoying that drunken funland that comes with each buzz. Why let him all the fun? My hand's numb by now, and I fumble quickly with my good hand, wrestling my pants and boxers off. It's nothing like how I could make him make me feel, but it'll do for now. It's a nice sort or reassurance to ignore the way he's dragging his own broken wrist in a numb spasm over the floor like he's searching me out, and the bandage is coming undone, the bruises beneath getting even worse. If only someone would tie it back on for him. I think I could. I'm close enough, aren't I? -- My thumb runs over my dripping tip -- But why think? Just feel...
His forehead leans heavily against the splintered door, weighted hair spilling over his cheeks, as fingers dance briefly over the knob. It already took us a half hour just crawling over the narrow flight of stairs to his corner of the garage. If I weren't such a nice guy, I might have let him tumble over the railing to smash his pretty little head against the cement. I can almost see the alcohol bubbling around his head, killing brain cells, and causing a whole mess of hell for him. I think it's kind of funny. He stumbles in and I jot down a mental note to figure out the lock later. He's changed it again. I know because I checked yesterday. Inside, I step over the shaking form of Yo-yo (he's hacking, trying to breathe, I figure) and take a look around.
A busted mat crowds one corner, under a window where one side of the frame is sunken in -- must've been from the last time I tried to break in. Messy strips of cloth draped over the window block out the city lights, leaving the whole room in shades of dark brown to black. The darkness is heavy on my shoulders and chest, making me restless no matter how hard I breathe. I yank Yo-yo off the ground and drag him in; the way he struggles, you'd think he'd never stepped foot in here before. I finally notice them when I close the door.
It's like a splatter of fireflies in the dark; the way the bright green paint glows on the splintered floorboards. They're not as random as I thought, when I crouch down for a closer look. I let Yo-yo fumble around on the floor like a blind man, as I trace a crude copy of my bull's-eye tag. It didn't dry correctly when Yo-yo, or someone, glided over them, tugging the spirals out like a comet's tail. There must thirty of the things, splayed on the walls and ceiling. Brilliant, bleeding eyes.
I want to look at anything else, so I watch Yo-yo pick at the corner of a loose floorboard until he lifts it off like a lid. Now this could be interesting. After winning the battle with the hunk of fractured slab, he falls forward, his arms disappearing into a hole. For a second, I think he's passed out, but he falls back again with prize in hand. I have to blink. I haven't seen one of those in a long time. Not really something you can come upon easily when cruising the back alleys or telephone wires. A ripe orange falls into my palm and I think of a kitten Yo-yo once found. It was as small as this -- I squeeze the fruit lightly. He did something to piss me off so bad once I dropped it off the peak at Pharaoh Park just to see if he'd follow.
Something tugs at my chest then, and I think my heart's pounding, but it's only Yo-yo. He wraps his fingers around my shirt, pulling me dow; or at least, trying to. I shrug him off, but not before kissing him and peeling his orange for him. The vodka still muffles his nerves, and the orange bleeds out of his mouth. I peel my own orange delicately, like I'm undressing him, and I want to take all the care in the world for this.
The oranges are gone and he's puking beautifully behind me, as I pick orange rind from under my fingernails. His hacking turns to sobs, which turn to a wretched wailing. It echoes off the high ceiling before I can even drag him to the bed. It's scary to think he could sound like any other boy crying like that. It's sometimes too much for me to think that he would've been just any other boy if we hadn't raced. But his skin was such a welcome distraction; it could've meant so many things back then.
He won't shut up, so I coax him with a kiss from my fist.
I'm not here to admire art in nature. He looks younger than his fifteen years sprawled on the mat, his pullover bunched around his shoulders to show me soft and pale skin. In stark contrast, his face burns red so I rub my cheek against his, feeling the heat rouse me to no end. We're beyond games now and I kiss his lips with fervor and he doesn't turn away just like the first time. He must love me. I rove my hands hungrily over his chest, hurried fingers pinching here and there to elicit small whimpers.
I won't waste our time saying he smells like flowers or rain, or any of that other poetic shit. He stinks of sweat. Raw and simple. And it makes my tongue go stale, when I nuzzle and lap at him, under what are really too many layers of cloth. There's something so enticing about the rip of thick fabric. It catches at his elbows and neck; I'd almost choke him if he weren't conscious enough to pull free in time.
My eyes water, the smell of citrus is so clean.
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