title: Anamnesis
author: superdeath
rating: MA (hard R for masturbation, incest) word count: 446
comments: Pretty old drabble, written because I lack aoyagicest. RitsukaxSeimei/Soubi, sort of.
disclaimers: Apply.


Ritsuka moaned gently, the comforting warmth of his older brother draped over him as his slim fingers slid awkwardly between their pressed hips, catching lightly on his protruding hipbone.

He'd remember this. He could never forget this.

His dreams, his fantasies of himself and Seimei – these fleeting moments of surrealism that seemed so vivid, Ritsuka wondered if it wasn't at one point a reality.

Two years ago, before that. Was this feeling, this heavy warmth and the soft pressure of Seimei's knee between his legs - was it a part of the real Ritsuka's reality?

Did the real Ritsuka appreciate it, did he dream feverishly at night like he did about it?

The boy arched up on the sheets slowly, legs spreading, sliding across his bed and eyes barely wide enough to stare blankly at his computer screen. Seimei was there, inside his computer, inside his camera, inside his memories.

Seimei could watch him from the monitor, frozen and smiling and cold inside the digital pictures dissolving on the desktop. Seimei could watch him as his fingers slip cold and trembling into his pajama shorts. Ritsuka could pretend that the fingers brushing him are Seimei's, that his older brother can hear him as he whimpers dirty words (words that he has heard on television, late at night, words of scrambled cable images).

It used to be completely fantasy, made-up, playtime before exhausted sleep – before Ritsuka actually knew what someone else's tongue tasted like in his mouth.

It is Soubi's tongue he imagines trailing down his stomach, taut, slim, soft, and flush with passion. But it is Seimei's face, his smile and eyes and black hair that Ritsuka sees.

He is troubled, sometimes, that when he feels like he is about to explode – his chest burning and heart turned to an acid that travels snake-like in his rib cage – he can feel Seimei as he bites into his neck.

Seimei's nails digging into his skin – the fork wound given to Ritsuka by his mother reopened by Seimei's probing tongue.

It is then, when Ritsuka's violet eyes and small mouth either close tightly or open wide, when he feels that acid pour out in small, embarrassed spurts, tears gathering at his eyelids and glad that Mother forgets to wash his sheets – it is then that Ritsuka comes back to reality.

There is no Seimei on his bed, there is no Soubi. Only himself and his tired hands and exhausted limbs tangled in his bed sheets.


Ritsuka sometimes wakes up with blood on his pillow.

And, although he blushes and flips the pillow over so his mother won't see, he likes the drying red smeared in the cotton weave.