"Does this hurt," Tohma whispers, "here—"

Dinner long forgotten, he has Eiri partway on the kitchen counter, the other boy gazing warily from in-between diffuse strands of yellow hair.

It isn't something they haven't done before, it isn't cheating and it isn't profane, it's something Tohma had done to console Eiri since forever, since they were in their early teens.

Partway on the kitchen counter with Eiri's legs bent gently over the ridge of his shoulders, Tohma slides his fingers slowly into him, wetly, does this hurt, does it hurt or is it okay—

The only person Eiri ever permitted, ever allowed to have at him like that—

And it consoles him, it really does, that's the strangest part, it actually consoles him instead of seriously pissing him off.

"A little," he replies, serious and quiet as tentatively he allows him in, long eyelashes batting with curious introspection.

"Ah," comes the reply, "I should be more gentle—"

And with that, he very slowly leans forth, soft hair brushing against Eiri's face as they kiss.

He is gentle with his fingers, careful, delicate as he slides them intently within, and is this better, how's this, the words come ethereal and warm in the space between them before they kiss again.

"It's okay," he replies, it's okay to go on, so Tohma does, gently, you can cry to me, you can cry, even though Eiri never did.

And also he never asked for it explicitly, he never asked for it aloud, it was a silent, mutual understanding that this is what they were going to do and this is what he needed, and that this was okay.

"Here we are…"

Tohma trails off, voice careful as he slides his member closer against him, insistent and wet but meaning not to conquer, not to demolish and take, but again to console, only console, with intent so selfless that Eiri, himself, had never quite done such a thing, bitter and rotten, isn't that right, isn't that what you are, Tohma had long since accepted with serene composure that of himself Eiri had thought very terrible things.

Like a brother, like a guardian, possessive, careful and warm, Tohma rests his hand on Eiri's on his own member, the both of them guiding him in, like that, is that all right, does it hurt, is that okay, that's okay, that's okay.

And then there's nothing, nothing but the hot whisper of breath, silent scathing of fabric and flesh against flesh, wet and humid and warm with exhaustion of limbs, glistening slick and entangled in limbs, and farther, farther, profane words unspoken, perversions released and deep sorrows so cruel and deliberate, crawling, clawing, scratching and drawing hot lines thick with anguish and blood down along Tohma's back—

And this is okay, this, too, is okay.

He kisses him gently, yes, it's all right, I'm still here, it's okay.

His hand around Eiri's, he closes his fingers all around the other boy's member, ah, and it's wet, it's glistening wet, and what shall be done, what is to be done with such terrible things, unspeakable things,

You want me to taste it?

You want me to lick at it, while you can watch,

"You know I won't do that,"

he whispers, voice echoing hot, and still he is sliding inside him, all the way in, flesh striking flesh and the metal clink of his belt sounding time and again with each subsequent blow,

"I won't do that, although—"

Although, he brings both their hands to his own mouth, sticky and wet, and licks at them slowly,

"Although really, you do taste so good—"

"—pervert—"

"It's been a while," he murmurs, voice soft with introspection as now he brings his hand to Eiri's mouth, slowly tracing the shape of his lips,

"been a while since I've had you, isn't that right."

Eiri's first impulse is to back away, but he slowly relaxes against him, allowing the fingers to slide in his mouth, tongue following tentatively, this too is to console.

Green eyes, gentle eyes, Tohma watches patiently as Eiri licks at his fingers, as both his large hands, slender, elegant hands, suave writer's hands close tight round his wrist and he grasps at him tightly, eyes flickering wicked as his mouth comes tight all around the long digits, hungrily, more, more, as beneath him, inside him, Tohma is only too glad to oblige.

Between rogue strands of hair, Eiri's gaze is malicious, predatory, strands of hair bouncing with regular rhythm, you see what I'm doing, you see, with your hand, you know what to do, you know what I want, but Tohma just laughs, he isn't, he isn't the same as his various fans, he isn't a boyfriend or girlfriend or lover or slave, you do taste very nice, he admits, but it's not, this is not, this is not what we're doing this for.

But out of affection, consideration, he does take the boy's member then in his hand, wet sounds, obscene sounds of sex echoing wet in his grasp as he moves closer in, seizing his mouth, both of them breathless and aching and wet at the verge of exhaustion, go on, Tohma whispers, urging him to climax, to come in his hand, but, hot, out of sorts, out of breath, Eiri whispers back,

"If you do it to me, I'll do it to you."

It's an offer, negotiation.

This isn't what it's for.

But behind all that hair, Eiri's eyes stare intensely, piercing and poignant and vivid and hot, and maybe this once, maybe this once he'll give in, because, maybe, maybe this is what it takes, and maybe this would chill him out, and maybe—

Maybe it really had been far too long and maybe something like this really would be a shame to refuse—

"You first,"

Tohma replies,

And suddenly, suddenly they're fifteen again, and Tohma bites hard at his lip as, with an incredible fit of self-restraint, he slowly pulls out, hard flesh aching wet in his hand as he struggles from succumbing to the touch of his own hand. And, aching with the aftermath of exertion, Eiri's body slowly unfolds as he brings his feet carefully to the floor, and in that moment, in that moment they both are so awakened and hot, so messy and desperate and wet, that Eiri might have seized hard at Tohma like he would any lover, anything pretty he found in his bed, and, ravenous, would slam him up had to the wall, and thrust into him, senseless, malicious, desperate and hot, or kiss him, or torment him, but this isn't how it is, Tohma knows him all too well, and Eiri would never, he couldn't, he isn't, he can't.

"Go on already,"

The voice of impatience, I could have finished inside, isn't this what you wanted, then this is for you.

Silent, intense, Eiri gets on his knees, narrow eyes closing as, slowly, his long writer's hands take their elegant grasp of the other boy's hips, the member pulsating hot as it slides in his mouth. Tohma doesn't hold back after that, he cries out without shame, oh, God, it's so good, they shouldn't do things like this, but, God, it's so good, you're still really so good, Tohma's hands grasp helplessly rigid in Eiri's long hair, member pressed hard at the back of his throat as at last comes release—

And, face flushed, out of breath, he slowly turns his gaze again down, delirious and spent as he curiously watches himself slide out from within Eiri's mouth.

Several moments pass before either of them says a word, and while, really, in that moment, they both would have loved nothing more than to seize each other's mouths, to ravage and taste one another and kiss, that's not what this is for, and also, they had a deal.

"Now you,"

Eiri says simply, dignity regained as he rises slowly to his feet.

"That's right…" comes the quiet reply, cheerful almost in reserved, formal tones, and Tohma just barely manages partway to pull up his briefs even as he bends down before Eiri, gentle hands on his thighs as his tongue reaches out.

"Ah…" he says softly, part to himself, because he realizes then he might enjoy this for his own accord, and this is wrong, as well.

But Eiri doesn't look at him like he would at a boyfriend or girlfriend or lover or slave, this is not to demean, this is not to command, this is because please, understand, you know how much I want this, are you really so cruel as to hold yourself back—

No, he isn't so cruel, this is to console, but there's no denying that he wants this, too, that he likes this, too, and instead of the mere end of the deal which he meant to deliver for just a short minute, it goes undisturbed for an hour or so, an hour or two and the rest of the night and he winds up entangled and wet in his arms—

It was bound to happen, really, but, really, we should really tone it down.

To be continued…