Disclaimer: The only thing I own is the story idea and only some of the witty remarks. I own so little; so please don't steal.
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Only the stupidest boys back in Tokyo carried switchblades. They were unseemly and they could cut off your balls in your pocket if you weren't careful. Besides, it wasn't like those kinds of boys had the balls to hurt someone to begin with; it was only stylish for punks to have that kind of thing. Masayuki never had one – anyway, you didn't need to have a knife to kill someone.
They certainly didn't keep it anywhere anyone could see it, but Masayuki's feeling particularly dangerous, so he keeps it – new and never used from the hardware store a couple blocks from the school – stored in his shirt's breastpocket. It stays here, hard and cold, for the entire day.
Makoto rarely comes to school to begin with, but there were a lot of people at the temple that morning and it was getting annoyingly noisy so he gets up, puts on the uniform, and comes to school. His entire year avoids him as usual, although Taro greets him in the hallway, which he ignores. Masayuki looks as if his greatest wish has been granted.
"Nee, Makoto," he says, brushing close to him in homeroom in that touchy-feely way he has about him, "can I come over your house today?"
Makoto tells him no, just like every other time he's asked, and yet when the last bell has rung and every student is filing out of the school, Masayuki follows him right along home like there's been some consent in the past six hours. He chatters on about whatever Makoto couldn't care less about so Makoto drowns him out so there's just a pleasant sound in his ears which is Masayuki's voice, distilled into one continuous wave.
At the point where there is only a small path to the front of the temple, Makoto turns around and says, "Stay," as if Masayuki's just a dog that followed him home. For a moment, the boy stands there rooted and Makoto thinks he's managed to dodge him yet again when the idiot scrambles after him, talking something about rudeness and inviting guests inside because it's only the polite thing to do. His grandmother isn't prowling around the hallways so he makes his way to his room with Masayuki on his heels.
"Go home," Makoto says.
"No way," Masayuki hums.
Makoto doesn't need anything else, so that's why his room has nothing but his bed, a few lights, his guitar, and the speakers. He doesn't have any need for a desk or any sort of books – they have places of their own in other places in the house. He consolidates so that everything he needs is in one spot in the room and everywhere else is unnecessary space. If he bothered to look, maybe he'll find a trail in the dust where he steps every day to get to and from his bed from the door. Masayuki prances in with no introduction and Makoto closes the door behind them. There's no need to spread the stupidity throughout the house.
Masayuki can't keep his hands to himself so he touches everything in the room, which isn't saying much. He runs his fingers over the camera, and the lights, and the speakers and every knob on the speakers, and the bed, and he reaches for the guitar, lying ready on the bed, except Makoto says, "Don't touch that."
Masayuki laughs and suddenly tackles him to the floor. Makoto opens his mouth to say get off me, you prick but all at once Masayuki's shedding his cream colored Tokyo blazer and there's a metallic sound of a switchblade. Makoto never once feels scared, although he probably should be since Masayuki doesn't strike him as the type to know how to use one. "Look," Masayuki whispers, waving around the knife like he had never seen one before. "Here." He feels the weight of the weapon pressed into his hand.
"Do it." Masayuki's breath is hot in his ear as he straddles Makoto's lap and makes an unpleasant, uninvited warmth pool in his stomach. It's hard to balance with a strange boy all over you and a switchblade in one hand. "Carve into me. Didn't you say so before?" There's a challenge and a smile in his voice. "You're not afraid to kill anyone, right?"
"I'm not a sadist," Makoto reminds him, but Masayuki only chuckles and guides his hand, with the blade, toward his arm, his bare skin. This is why he doesn't go to school, so he can avoid psychopaths like this. He feels the pressure of flesh against the knife in his hands.
"C'mon," Masayuki coaxes, and his breath is hot on his face. "I want this." So Makoto's wrist flicks and the boy on his lap flinches, but his anticipation for a thick, searing pain never comes; Makoto pierces the skin with only the tip of the knife, and leisurely traces five lines along Masayuki's arm. It's a dull, bearable pain, like a shot – he can tell because Masayuki only bites his lip as he watches. He flicks along different places on the lines, bringing drops of blood to the surface like tiny red beads with each movement of the switchblade.
"Music," Masayuki says, recognizing the format. Makoto cuts a treble clef to finish at the very beginning, the blood notes glistening at each spot. He makes sure not to smear any of them.
"Supposedly the most harmonious melody in the world," Makoto says. The knife has a streak of red where the blood is starting to run from the tip and for a split second, he feels like throwing up, how could his father – but he is distracted when he realizes Masayuki has been breathing hard for a while now and his face is flushed, oh. He's leaning so close Makoto can smell his shampoo, a deep, personal scent. He hears the zipper to his own pants and before he can comprehend it, Masayuki's rutting against him making the strangest sounds, and somehow, he's hard.
He's never really felt this sort of friction before and he distracts himself from thinking too hard about it by dancing the flat edge of the switchblade against Masayuki's back, which makes the boy lean into him with a mmm, a gentle pressure on his chest. "Masochist," he accuses lowly, and grimaces when he comes, and he hates himself for it even when he hears Masayuki's voice, now really just an unusually pleasant sound next to his ear. No one's going to come into his room so he won't have to explain the blood stains on the floor. The bloody measure has smeared against his shirt, along with other bodily fluids he's going to have to wash out of it himself.
Masayuki's face is really close to his own, but Makoto hasn't lost his poker face. "I'm not going to kiss you," he tells him.
"I didn't want you to." The cuts are going to leave a scar that will surely fade in a couple weeks time. Knowing the bastard, he's probably going to be picking at it during class. Not that it matters. He doesn't go to school a lot in the first place.
"Why did you want to do this?" Makoto asks as he's plugging in his guitar, not bothering to change shirts as Masayuki makes himself presentable to return home. Sometime he's going to have to clean up the mess on the floor because of course Masayuki won't do it. The notes vibrate in the air as he plucks the strings to warm up.
Masayuki straightens his tie with a perpetual grin. "It's better than a game."
Note: Ahahaha there I go, tainting fandoms again with my fanfiction, and only ten episodes in, ahahahaha. Except these two were impossible not to ship, so there I go. Thanks for reading!