Disclaimer: Junjou Romantica and its characters belong to Shungiku Nakamura; I only play around with them. I'm definitely not making any money out of it and no copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Note: This story was written for a fic prompt; Hiroki/Nowaki, porn (as in "one of them finds the other's porn stack").
Going to Pieces
Looking around Hiro-san's flat for a sweater on a chilly day, Nowaki finds a stack of magazines hidden away in a drawer under some neatly folded t-shirts. He stares at them for a second before lifting them out and leafing through the top one. There's a whole lot of bare skin, engorged organs with mouths stretched unnaturally over them, and quite a lot of leather. Boots. Handcuffs. Whips?
Nowaki blinks and returns the magazines to their hiding place before putting on one of Hiro-san's jumpers (brown merino wool that looks gorgeous on its owner but truly ridiculous on Nowaki, but no one will see him anyway).
Is Hiro-san into that sort of thing, and why hasn't he said anything? Even if Nowaki isn't exactly turned on by that stuff, he'd be willing to experiment, for Hiro-san. But there hasn't been a word, nothing to indicate that…
Nowaki throws himself on the sofa and looks up at the ceiling, feeling hurt out of all proportion. He can see that magazines of this kind would provide masturbation material, but why would Hiro-san need it?
He's got me! Why does he need porn when he's got me?
The answer is glaringly obvious and Nowaki closes his eyes, trying to deny it. After all, they've been together for more than two years and of course the novelty will have worn off for Hiro-san, even if it hasn't for Nowaki and never will, ever. He loves Hiro-san so much it hurts, deep inside. Everything about Hiro-san turns Nowaki on – a look in his eyes, a turn of his head, the way his fingers hold the chopsticks - small things like these can make Nowaki's groin hot and his mouth dry. But of course Hiro-san is used to better things, more exciting things; he can't be expected to be content with insignificant everyday stuff like Nowaki is. Their backgrounds are too different.
Suddenly the room feels even colder. Nowaki shudders and rubs his hands over his arms.
When Hiroki unlocks the door and steps into his flat he finds Nowaki asleep on the sofa, one arm across his stomach and the other dangling off the side of the sofa, fingers touching the floor. He's wearing Hiroki's brown merino wool jumper which is much too small for him, the too-short sleeves exposing his bony wrists and making him look like a lanky teenager after a growth spurt.
A surge of tenderness makes Hiroki so warm his fingertips tingle, and he wants to kneel down by Nowaki's head to kiss him awake so he can see those stunningly blue eyes begin to smile.
Damn the kid! Why does he sweep me off my feet like this? Why does he always make me go to pieces?
Embarrassment makes Hiroki grumpy and he bangs around loudly, kicking off his shoes, dropping his bookbag to the floor, noisily opening cupboards until Nowaki sits up and rubs his eyes.
And then Hiroki finds himself pounced on and pulled into the bedroom with such force that he yelps.
Something is off. Nowaki is uncharacteristically rough and there's something like anger in the electric blue eyes apart from the usual heat.
Hiroki can quite happily accept being pushed down on the bed and have his shirt ripped off, doesn't even mind the buttons skipping across the floor, doesn't mind having teeth nip at his skin, either, but when Nowaki wants to tie him up, he protests.
"No, stop. No, really, Nowaki, I mean it. What's the matter with you today?"
"I want you to be all mine," Nowaki says under his breath, and something about him scares Hiroki enough to push him away and get out of bed.
They stare at each other, panting, and something is really wrong because Nowaki never looks like this, his eyes are never this dark, his fists never white-knuckled like this.
"What's wrong with you?" Hiroki almost shouts, and Nowaki gets up without a word, puts his clothes on and slams the door shut behind him.
He left, just like that? I don't believe the kid!
"Hey, give me back my jumper," Hiroki says to the silent door, trembling.
But he only wants it back with Nowaki inside it.
Nowaki doesn't return until two days later, anger still there in his eyes.
It's like a repeat of last time; push, shove, bite. Nowaki doesn't try to tie him up this time, but they've never had sex this rough and Hiroki is not at all sure he likes it. Not when it originates in anger.
"What's wrong?" he asks again afterwards, still panting, aching and burning in unmentionable places.
There's none of the usual cuddling and kissing, none of the silly jokes and sleepy laughs they normally share after sex. Nowaki has his back turned and Hiroki runs a fingertip down the spine, traces the outline of the shoulder blades, like wings folded underneath the skin.
"You fucked me like you hate me," he mutters. "Do you?"
Nowaki gets up without a word. When he comes back he drops three glossy magazines on Hiroki's stomach.
Hiro-san winces as the magazines hit him, sitting up in confusion.
"This," Nowaki says, and his voice is rather strangled. "This is what's wrong."
Hiro-san picks up the topmost magazine and blushes a slow, deep, hot red. "Oh," he says.
The silence in the room is so thick it could be sliced with a knife. When an eternity has passed, Hiro-san asks: "Did you notice the publishing date?"
"Three years ago. These things are three years old. Akihiko gave them to me."
The name hits Nowaki in the pit of the stomach like a fist. Of course he can't compete with the great Usami-sensei. Hiro-san is used to better things.
"Handcuffs scare me," Hiro-san says through the dusk, but Nowaki can't look at him any more. "This is Akihiko's thing, or at least it was back then. I only kept these because they were from him... Nowaki, don't look like that."
Nowaki has no idea how he looks, no clear idea about anything any more, except that he needs Hiro-san like breathing and there's no air in here.
"Nowaki," Hiro-san says, getting out of bed to hug Nowaki around the waist from behind, leaning his forehead against Nowaki's tense back. "I should have thrown them out long ago. Let's do it now. Together. We'll do whatever you want with them."
Nowaki stares into the dark room with dry, stinging eyes before he finds he can actually breathe again.
"So, what do you want to do?" Hiro-san asks with a hint of a smile in his voice. "Use them for papier-maché? Rip them up and throw them like confetti into the river? Make a bonfire in the yard?"
Nowaki turns around to meet his eyes, and amazingly enough he can even smile again.
"Okay, you can come in," Hiro-san hisses and waves Nowaki into the small, overheated room where two printers stand side by side with a xerox machine and a shredder. "Quickly, before anyone spots us. If Professor Miyagi sees this...! The things I do for you, Nowaki."
And then they're both stifling giggles as the glossy magazines are chewed up beyond recognition by the Literature Department's document shredder.