Mmm...more Physics.

This part isn't really set up like a story, so much as it is...several short pieces all mashed together into one. It's from Soda's POV...and I guess it's more like random memories that he's having than an actual scene somewhere.

On that note...lots of line breaks. ALSO LOTS OF SEX (hence the rating boost) SO IF YOU DON'T LIKE THAT SORT OF THING I SUGGEST YOU SKIM THOSE PARTS. Or...just don't read this chapter. But that would make me sad.


Friction

A Jet Set Radio Future fanfiction by Bagatelle

"…Kono bodi…yohodo uruwashii…" he murmurs, his lips crushed, cold, against my burning skin. His hair is matted to his head, thick, full, trails of blonde darkened by water that's pouring over us steadily, and I press my cheek into his, feel the strange coolness of his body when he wraps around me, an arm against tile, one hand brushing the plastic sheet—the only thing between us and everything—when he reaches up and massages something invisible over the contours of my chest. I grab his head and pull him into me, shuddering when he breathes my name, barely audible over the sound of the water. I kiss him and run my hands through his hair, my fingers caught in shampoo and sweat.

This body…so beautiful…

It's not. But I still let myself feel flattered.


I don't find our relationship odd. It's supposed to be a secret, but people seem to know: Beat looks at us, confused, when we just stand there, smoking together. Gum will look at me like she's trying to melt my face off of my skull…not that she didn't do that before, but now it looks like she's trying even harder. Sometimes Rhyth will smile at me, or Clutch will look away. Little things like that, but nobody ever says a word. I'm glad for that. It's less real, for them, that way: if they don't vocalize it. For now, it's just a fantasy. Some fucking dream of theirs. I don't want them in on it, anyway. Thinking about us. That's not their fucking business. They wouldn't get it, anyway, and I'm never in the mood to explain. The little glances they exchange let me know that they only think of it one way, and maybe it's easier if they do.

Oh. He's fucking the leader.

Shit. I don't even think of him as my leader, anymore. I barely did to begin with. For Christ's sake, he's not my leader. He's my friend.


It's three in the morning, and we're at the supposed future site of the Rokkaku Expo Stadium, racing in the dark to the sound of Koto Stomp pouring out of our wrist radios. Tuned in to the Professor, as usual. This place smells like gasoline and rubber: "like the old Garage used to," Corn says to me, but I can't remember that much about the old Garage. I was only there for a few weeks before the GG's broke up the first time. I was still Slate, back then, and he was Tab, but I really try not to think about shit that happened before last year, just 'cause it hurts less to do that. I tell him that I don't remember that, and he passes me, and I run into a wall 'cause I can't see shit in the dark. He hears me fall and laughs, and it reminds me of something good, but I'm not really sure what. Maybe…sharing cake on his twenty-first birthday. The one he made himself, 'cause nobody else remembered. Going to Rokkaku-Dai Heights and eating chocolate cake that tasted bad 'cause he forgot to put eggs in it, and him making me sing to him and grinning so stupidly when I gave in and did it.

He comes back and helps me up, and I know right then that we've stopped racing. We roll into the pit, me rubbing my nose where it's bruising, and he points up, gesturing to the surprisingly bright moon that's over us. It's waning tonight, third quarter, and I'm still staring at it when he slips his jacket off and throws it behind himself, reaching down and unbuckling his skates. "…Kind of romantic," he mentions nonchalantly, and I blink out of my zone and look at him, instead, with his bare arms and socks with holes. I pull my jacket off, too—he tells me it gets in the way—and he smiles, his teeth oddly white between his thick lips, even though he smokes more than I do. I nod.

"If you say so," I mutter. He runs a hand up my forearm and makes the hair on several parts of my body stand on end. I hope he knows that he can do that. I grab his arms and push him back into the wall, careful not to tread on his feet, since I'm still wearing my skates. He falls back and is quiet, very quiet as I work my way down his body, kissing and pinching the scars on his chest and stomach, his nipples, his navel. His pants are easy enough to deal with. He groans softly when I first touch him, but he's always silent, the only signs of pleasure or displeasure being his trembling jaw, and his hands grasping fruitlessly at the wall behind him. Eventually he reaches out and feels for my skull, I guess to know that I'm really there, and he digs his fingernails into my ears when he cums, and the pain is enough for me to know that he couldn't help himself.

I spit on the ground and don't complain, 'cause I love how fucking high he looks.


I don't think that the sex is very good. It's not bad, though. And I'll be damned if I'd ever give it up for sex with anyone else. The fact that it's not very good…doesn't matter to me very much, though. We both get off. That's the important thing. And the fact that he trusts me with his body is just something else. It doesn't have to be great. We can both still make each other feel really fucking good. That's all that matters to me in regards to the sex. I don't care if it hurts sometimes, afterward. Instant gratification. And the expressions on his face always stun me, even as memories. I had no idea I could make somebody feel like this. I never thought anybody would love me enough to let me touch them like this, least of all him.

I always thought that he just wanted to be my friend. And I was always afraid, for that same reason.


I get drunk one night. We're in my room, so I guess it's alright, and I lie face-down on my bed, barely paying attention when he straddles me and kisses up my back. He's probably buzzed, too. I snort when I feel his fingers fumbling around with his pants, and then mine, and that familiar hardness on my lower back. He stops for a second before his hand slips again and he digs a finger into me, and it's a weird pain that shouldn't be there, but I clench my jaw and rock back into him, too hammered to say no, maybe even wanting to switch sides, for once. I feel very little through my haze, in a fog on a boat in the middle of the ocean, numb to everything but the feeling of the waves that rock me. I feel very little, but what I do feel is strangely satisfying.

I wake up the next morning with my pants down and my ass still in the air, him slumped over my legs and snoring, and one bitch of a nauseous headache catching up with me, fast. I get out of bed and have just enough time to zip my pants up before I throw up on my skates. I swear and that wakes him up.

I spend a good part of that day cleaning my blades, and he brings me aspirin and ginger ale every few hours, always with a weird, happy smile on his face. It's kinda funny, 'cause if he had thrown up on my skates, too, I think I would've kicked him in the face.


He tells me that he worries a lot about dying. Both him and me. He says he really doesn't know what would happen, if one of us got shot and killed by the Rokkaku, or just…some other idiot with a gun. I think he's more likely to die than I am, and I think that actually scares me more than the thought of my own death does. I mean…I know that…if he's gone…who will I have? Nobody. Nobody else gives a shit about me. Nobody else talks to me or even really looks at me. Nobody's interested in being my friend. If I lost him, I would have no reason to live. Skating doesn't mean that much to me in comparison to him, and the weird way that he loves me, passionate and hesitant and fucked twice over.

I tell him all that. And he looks at me like he knows something that it takes me a second to figure out. I guess I'd kill myself, if he died. I guess I would. He seems to know it, so it must be true. He's a fuckin' genius, after all. For some reason, he looks even sadder. Like it hurts him to know that I'd be in that much pain. For now, though, I'm fine. I feel good. To show him that, I kiss him hard and run my hands over his waist, but he's shaking too much, so we can't do anything really interesting. I think he'd cry if he didn't know how upset it makes me. That's even more depressing.


There's an old car that we're particularly fond of down in the depths of Rokkaku-Dai Heights, abandoned by an even older park, with a rusted slide and animals on giant springs that I guess some kids must've ridden on at some point. It's not that the car is so amazing or anything—hell, I'd go so far as to say it's a shitpile on wheels—but it's got cloth seats in it that smell like weed and Burger King, and it's really nice to lay in on cold winter days when the wind is too violent to stand outside for very long. We've had sex in that car a few times, on days like that: when it was just fuckin' freezing, and we felt crazy for going out there in the first place. Corn is really thin, so he gets cold pretty easy, even though he wears that lined jacket and that goofy hat all the time. And my ears and nose get cold, with the wind blasting on them: it feels like it's cutting the skin clean off.

I remember fucking in that car, and I remember how cold we both were: the way I could feel his bones through his shirt, like icicles under frozen muscle. I remember his lips were tinted blue, and I unzipped my jacket and had him put his arms through the sleeves while I wrapped my arms around him and lay on top of him, struggling to keep him warm through the simple friction of our bodies and that feeble lock to keep the heat we made inside. His teeth chattered when he kissed me, and I remember that, when he fell asleep beneath me, I was afraid he was going to die of hypothermia or some shit like that. I didn't know what to do, so I shook myself out of my jacket and just wrapped him up in it as best I could, and rubbed his hands to keep them warm.

I fell asleep because I got so cold. When I woke up, we were in some closed-off, abandoned house, and I was spread out beside a fire and covered with my jacket. A hole in the roof let smoke get out, and I remember that my head was in his lap, his hands gently rubbing my red, freezing ears to get the blood running through them again. I remember how weird that was, to me, and I remember him running his palms over my forehead and massaging my temples when he noticed that I was awake, and reveling in how good it felt. I think we spent the night in that house, but I couldn't say for sure. It was a really nice night, though.


I don't really know why I feel like this about him. I just love him a whole hell of a lot. I guess 'cause he's not a fake person at all, and he's always honest with me about everything: never afraid to tell me what's on his mind. I admire how brave he is, and, secretly, how much the others respect him. It's not that I really like any of them in particular, but…I don't hate them—except for Gum—and…I guess I think it'd be kind of nice to have some of their respect. I think sometimes that I might have a bit of it, though. Yoyo and Cube seem impressed by how close I am to Corn, sometimes. Like they've wanted to be good friends with him, but never really had the guts to get closer to him on purpose. I don't know, though. Maybe they're just jealous of me. Maybe I'm just fuckin' with my own head.
Growing up, I had a shitty childhood. I don't like to think about it. Ever since I was a kid, though, I've always had dreams of someday being an adult and living in a nice house somewhere, with a lot of money, a huge yard, and somebody to come home to at the end of each day and wake up with every morning. That's my biggest secret, I guess. That, and my middle name is "Gerald".

I feel like a pussy for wanting a stable relationship more than anything else, but I guess it's not so bad. Still, I haven't told Corn about my childhood dream. Part of me feels like I should, but it's embarrassing, to me. I've thought about him being that person, before. I've thought about us getting older together. Being old men and still being as close as we are now. It's a little creepy to think of us as old, wrinkly, senile motherfuckers, but it's kind of sweet at the same time, and I get this weird warm feeling when I think about being seventy years old, sitting on a porch somewhere in the country, holding hands with him and watching the clouds blow by. In that same thought, I look over at him and brush sheets of thin silver hair out of his face, and he looks back at me before I say anything, so he can read my lips when I tell him I love him. He's deaf, I guess 'cause we listened to too much loud music as young men, but he still smiles at my words, and his lips will still be as warm then as they are now.

Fifty years from now. It's kind of strange to want it to last that long, 'cause all my instincts tell me it won't. He looks at me sometimes and smiles, though, and my heart aches 'cause I honestly want it all so, so bad.

Corn. God. I'd cut my legs off to have a future like that with you. I really would. Not a second of hesitation. Not a single goddamn second.


Gum tells me one day that I'm disgusting. That she knows what I've been doing and that I'm sick in the head for it all. "You get him drunk," she tells me. "You get him drunk and you rape him. He wouldn't do it if you didn't get him so wasted that he passes out before you start. He doesn't even know what's going on, does he?! You sick bastard!" I ignore her. I don't give a shit what she has to say. She doesn't know shit about what's going on between the two of us.

She tells him, screams it at him, and I go into his room the minute she's gone. He bursts into laughter at the sight of me, so thrilled at the thought of passing out from drunkenness that he proclaims we're taking Beat's vodka and we're going to the Skyscraper District. We do just that. And we get so wasted that neither of us can explain how or why we wake up in the mouth of the dinosaur at Chuo Street, wearing clothes that aren't familiar to either of us, and both of us wearing one of the other's skates.

We still haven't found out what happened to our other clothes. I don't think we ever will.


Corn smokes weed, sometimes. It doesn't bother me much—I don't particularly like drugs, but, as long as he isn't tripping balls with Clutch on Ecstasy Fridays, it's fine—he just gets really serious when he's high. I thought that drugs were supposed to loosen you up. Weed makes Corn very tense, almost angry, and a lot more frantic during sex. That's all I've really noticed that changes when he's high. He gets quiet and doesn't like talking, and he gets this look on his face like he's thinking hard about something. He almost never smiles when he's up, and I guess that pisses me off, 'cause it's just not very him. He smiles a lot when he's straight. That's one of the things I like about him. He smiles a lot, but not enough for it to be annoying, and it's a really sincere smile, too, like he means it every time. When he's high, he tells me he wishes I'd smile more. But I can't even think about smiling when he looks at me like somebody's just died.
His eyes are blue. Sky-blue. Beautiful. I've never seen more dazzling eyes. When I look into them, I really do feel like I'm floating somewhere, alone with him in that breathtaking sea. I never really noticed his eyes until recently, you know? I'm not like that. All I think about is fucking him. Never had the chance to look hard enough.

I'm kidding, you dumbass. I've had wet dreams about his eyes, and his hair, and his lips.

God, his lips.

My favorite part of him, by far. Fuck it if he has a woman's mouth. A full, luscious, soft mouth. I'd much rather have it be sensual like this than paper-thin man-lips like I've got. His mouth is gorgeous. Perfect.

I can't even say how crazy it makes me when he kisses my nose. He says he feels the same way about my nose as I do about his lips. I don't understand that, but I don't care. I guess it doesn't matter if I'm ugly in my own eyes. Maybe he feels the same way about himself.


His body is cold against mine tonight, and it reminds me of a time we spent in a car, once, a few months ago. We're in my bed, and I like this feeling: being naked save our underwear, spooning him, the sound of his breathing humming through his chest and into mine. I wonder why he's so cold: we're covered with a sheet and a blanket, the same things I always have on my bed. He grunts a little in his sleep when I move my hips against his, and I close my eyes, breathing into his neck to warm him up, if even just a tiny bit. His hand touches mine completely sub-consciously, and for some reason, I murmur those three stupid words into his deaf, sleeping ear. He says nothing in response, hearing nothing, his knuckles barely touching my fingertips.

I lean back down and press my mouth into his shoulder, exhaling warmth into his ever-freezing skin until I fall asleep, too.