The boy ignored him with well-practiced arrogance.
"You're always like this. Nose high, even after it was you who just started this whole thing, not that I didn't want it, but you came crawling to me, not the other way around and now you're—"
Shinji paused for a second, his arms tightening (releasing) then tightening (releasing) and tightening around Ryoma's cat-lithe waist.
"How can you even say that. You are a pompous insufferable cock and I hate you. I can't believe this, can't believe you sometimes. I watch and wait and watch and also wait and I'm the one who holds out but you're still the one who—"
The naked lines of Ryoma's side showed in the moonlight, dyed alabaster and steel by the dying sheen. Ryoma kept his eyes (soft and brown and soft) hidden beneath a fall of hair and feathered pillows.
Shinji tried to roll him over to meet him eye to eye where words were no longer necessary. Ryoma shrugged him off mutely.
"Why won't you even look at me. What kind of relationship are we supposed to have when I hate you and you're an arrogant son of a bitch and you won't even look at me and how am I supposed to explain this to Akira later. What about your family and my mother—"
Shinji reached a trembling hand to brush the veil of dark hair from the boy's face. Ryoma batted his hand away.
"I don't know why I spent all that time watching you, your personality was clear from the beginning and I hated it then, but I especially hate it now, but why am I still here then. I know exactly why, but that just makes me hatelove you even further and—"
There was blessed (Karupin breathed and kicked in restless kitten slumber) silence in the room for a long time.
The boy groaned, rolling from his side to his stomach, burying his face in his pillow.
"What." No question; just unbridled characteristic aggravation.
"I really do hate you, you know. Just to tell you, so you're aware, and perhaps we can avoid this kind of awkward and unpleasant scene again, since you infuriate me. Because… because you're immature and arrogant and—"
"Ibu," Ryoma drawled the name, his last name, with malice. "Shut up."
"I should go." Shinji forced himself to decide at last, disentangling himself from seductive sheets and the siren scent of the boy who'd brought him here—home. "I'll just get my clothes, but I don't want to be caught by your family, or anyone else for that matter, so I'll just sneak out the window and take the long way home and we'll never have to talk about this again and—"
Ryoma grasped his wrist, gently. The mere touch drew Shinji up tight, tight arcs of lightning jamming their way through his spinal cord. Spiders crawled across his naked thigh, beneath the slow caress of the boy's walking fingers.
Dark, taunting, soft, pretty, gentle, arrogant, slanting brown eyes glimmered up out of the half-light and shadow.
"Shut up, Ibu." He tugged, Shinji obeyed, sliding into the covers beside him.
They resumed their position, their activity of silence and touch, bodies melded seamlessly; his back to Shinji's front.
Quiet, silence, mute.
"I hate you…" Shinji muttered, hand resting on Ryoma's knife-bone hip.
"Hmm," was all the boy said.