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Despite the fire damage, and the staggering lack of furniture in one half of the house, Rohan’s place is the nicest Koichi has ever visited.
He sits on the loveseat adjacent to the door, Rohan sits across from him in a cushioned armchair. The back of the chair looms over his head and shoulders, simultaneously swallowing him to make him look small, as well as enlarging his figure and presence over the boy. Koichi thinks that he should include a chair like that in his next manga chapter, for a character who the audience isn’t supposed to quite understand. On the coffee table in front of them, a porcelain tea set sits, untouched.
“It’ll get cold,” Rohan leans over onto the arm rests, hand cupping his chin, nearly mumbling into his palm.
“Josuke isn’t coming, is he?” It’s been half an hour since 12:30, when their little get-together was scheduled.
“He’s never on time for anything,” Rohan crosses one Gucci pant leg over the other. “It’s not worth letting your tea get cold over,”
Koichi tentatively reaches for his cup. The outside of it has no remnants of heat, and the liquid itself, as Rohan warned him, is unpleasantly lukewarm. And too fruity for Koichi’s tastes.
“You did invite him, didn’t you?” Koichi asks, still holding the cup by it’s handle at his chest. Rohan’s lips muddle into a frown.
“What are you implying, dear Koichi?” Koichi can hear the tinges in his pitch and tone that indicate he’s playing dumb. Or rather, he’s playing as if Koichi is dumb. He doubts Rohan’s pride would let him stoop to such levels as playing dumb.
“Did you call him?”
“Yes,”
Koichi hums, satisfied with his answer, wondering why Josuke didn’t show up if he really was invited. He looks over to Rohan again.
“Did he pick up?”
“No,” Rohan says, and Koichi sighs internally. Despite being younger than both Josuke and Rohan, it often felt like he was meddling in the inner workings of playground rivalries. “His mother picked up,”
“Tomoko?”
“If that’s her name, yes,” Rohan stands up and walks over to the cabinet next to the kitchen doorway. A silver tray resides on top of it, with a bottle of something brown (Koichi isn’t sure what exactly) and expensive looking. It might be brandy, or scotch, or whiskey, but none of those things suit the idea of Rohan he has in his mind. The only drinks he could imagine Rohan with was something that came with a little umbrella. He takes the rounded lid off of the bottle and pours the crystal glass he holds about a quarter of the way full.
“What did she say?”
“‘Higashikata residence,’” he says in a frilly voice between a sip of his mystery drink. Anyone who wasn’t his friend wouldn’t notice, but Rohan’s nose wrinkles as he pulls the glass away from his lips, a slight cringe at the taste and an ode to the part of him that’s still so childlike.
“Rohan,” he sighs externally this time.
“I told her I was Kishibe Rohan , and I need to speak to Josuke,” he takes a larger sip of his drink. “She said, ‘I don’t know anyone named Rohan,’ and I told her I moved in about a year ago. She asked if I went to school with Josuke, I said no. She told me she didn’t know her son had friends in middle school,” he pouts, looking down at his near-empty glass. “Bitch,” Koichi hears him mutter. “Do I sound like a middle schooler? Tell me, Koichi, do I sound like I could be 14?” With his free hand he gestures to his throat while he talks, his Adam's apple bobbing.
“You didn’t call her a b- you didn’t call her that over the phone, did you?” Rohan is refilling his drink again, this time closer to the halfway mark of the glass.
“I told her I was 20, and I’m an intensely famous mangaka whose name she should know.”
Koichi leans back in his chair, looking at Rohan who remains vigilant in eye contact, like nothing he had told him was brash or embarrassing.
“She said she’d leave a message,” Rohan takes another large sip, if not a chug, of his drink. “I wonder if it bothers her that I’m 20,”
It should bother Koichi’s mother that Rohan is 20, but it’s hardly been discussed. Mrs. Hirose probably would’ve been more skeptical, and proceeded with much due caution, if Koichi were a girl, but people seem to hardly realize that those sort of things happen to boys as well. And with the plan being that Josuke was coming as well, she waved Koichi off with hardly any more than “be home for dinner”.
Subconsciously, nearing a conscious thought, Koichi doesn’t like going to Rohan’s house alone. It’s a thought he tries to push down a lot, like the ever present idea that every bump in the night is an enemy stand user attacking his home, he ignores it. It’s paranoia. And it’s ridiculous, because the only time he was ever attacked in Rohan’s house, he wasn’t alone, so the feeling shouldn’t be purely situational, based on who he’s with.
But it’s not exactly Heaven’s Door that he’s afraid of, underneath it all.
Yukako doesn’t like him. It’s not the same discontempt that she holds for Josuke, or his sister, or any other person in the world that has taken a wedge from the clementine of Koichi’s free time. When he tells her that he’s going to hang out with Mikitaka, Josuke, or Okuyasu in the afternoon, it’s usually the same play-by-play. She huffs deeply out of her nose, whether it be in person or on the other end of the phone, and gives Koichi an excuse as to why his friends aren’t fit to be in his presence.
“Mikitaka is strange,” she’d say for the alien. “Is that his real mother or not?” She could trade it out with. For Tonio, she would usually say something about how she would always cook for him, so he doesn’t need to learn, or that he might hurt himself with one of the knives. Okuyasu and Josuke were essentially interchangeable figures in her mind, the same bad influence on Koichi at the end of the day.
“They skip school all the time,”
“You should study with me, instead,”
“You won’t start doing your hair like that, will you? I think it’s perfect as it is,”
She had a million more of these little Yukako-isms that Koichi had heard.
They were all harmless, to Koichi at least. Just the product of an overly jealous girl trying to find her way into spending more time with her boyfriend. He found it cute, honestly. Endearing that someone could like him so much.
But when he tells her that Rohan planned to take him to the mall in the next city over, or that Rohan wants him to come over to preview his latest manga chapter, it’s entirely different.
Her pristine posture stiffens even straighter. She goes quiet over the phone. So quiet, that he calls her name into the receiver a few times, to make sure she didn’t leave. She doesn’t flip her hair in the prissy way that he likes to watch her do.
Her hair flips up on it’s ends, just barely, so subtly that he thinks she isn’t doing it on purpose. But it’s her overwhelming infatuation for him that has seeped into her subconscious, making it her stand’s second nature to protect him.
It was on one occasion, that she said something that refused to rid itself from his brain.
“I don’t like the way he looks at you.”
Everyone else in Koichi’s life, while still being a threat, is still his friend, family member or peer. But to Yukako, Rohan is more akin to another girl that she has competition with.
Everyone else in Koichi’s life thinks that Rohan is a creep, and he is. Koichi is his friend, and he can still recognize it. He licks bug innards to know what they taste like, his stand's only function is to invade privacy, and he’s made enemies of kids still in high school.
Yukako thinks he’s a creep too, but for reasons he can’t bring himself to properly think about.
Koichi thinks that Rohan is lonely. His parents say that people in their twenties are still children, really, and even if that weren’t true Rohan would still look like a big kid to him. He’s just a kid, in a vast, empty house that he has hardly enough things to fill with, or make it feel any less desolate. He’s in a town far away from his parents, with no office to commute to or coworkers to knock elbows with. The only people Koichi actually knows of Rohan talking to are editors.
When these things are considered, it makes everything about how he centers on Koichi less strange.
For example, how Koichi’s home phone number is the only one he has memorized. He has everyone else’s, including his editor’s, written down on a sticky note stuck on top of his answering machine.
Or how Koichi is the first to preview his new manga chapters. It’s not for being a die-hard fan, either, because if that were the case, he’d invite Hazamada to tag along with him. He’s unsure if Rohan remembers Hazamada’s name. He’s even gotten some official merch of Pink Dark Boy, unreleased to the public.
“How does it sound,” Rohan wondered aloud to him one day. “If that art is never released, and it’s forever exclusive to Hirose Koichi’s bedroom?”
Rohan had bought him many things, in retrospect. A small section of his closet remained reserved for the shirts and pants Rohan had purchased for him on outings, deemed too frilly and expensive for Koichi to wear on his day to day. He wore them around Rohan, sometimes, just to sit on his front porch and drink coffee. He bought his family an espresso machine as well, along with a bag full of Italian beans that they had to grind themselves. Rohan routinely voiced his displeasure for the Japanese affinity for instant coffee.
Rohan takes a seat next to him on the loveseat, so close that you’d think the couch was half as small as it’s actual size. He holds his glass into his chest the way one might do with a cup of hot cocoa, unafraid of it reaching thermodynamic equilibrium in his palm. (Another reason people might think of Rohan as creepy; he takes his drinks lukewarm, and without ice).
His eyes are closed, his black eyelashes nearly touch the tops of his cheeks. They look like Yukakos when she wears mascara. He’s only ever close enough to see Yukako’s eyelashes when he’s going in to kiss her, but he can see Rohan’s now, sitting casually next to him on the couch. He can even see the trace amount of stick eyeliner that he wears.
Rohan opens his eyes, sighing, and observes how Koichi’s small sock-clad feet dangle off of the couch when he puts his back all the way to the cushion. Fantastic. He should buy him some nice Italian shoes next time they go out, and let him wear them around the house. He’d listen intently to the click-clack of the soles on his hardwood floor, and invent a new onomatopoeia for the sweet little symphony.
He closes his eyes again, a small whine escaping his nostrils. Or rather, a purposeful, calculated whine. He can feel the cushion behind him move, Koichi’s head turning towards him.
“Are you upset about it?” Koichi asks.
“No,” he says, peeking his eyes open to nurse his drink. He catches Koichi staring at it, and tilts it towards him, wordlessly offering some. Koichi shakes his head. He’s denied all of Rohan’s offers to buy him alcohol or share his collection. Rohan thinks he’s almost too courteous.
“Are you upset,” Koichi tries again, “in general?”
Rohan's bottom lip juts out a little, like a fish, and he might as well be nodding.
“My manga has gone to complete shit, dear Koichi.”
“Do you want me to look at it?”
“There’s nothing to look at,” he admits. His drink has disappeared, again.
Koichi purses his lips to stop from gasping at the news.
“This is the first time since I’ve gotten my stand that I haven’t finished my panels before they’ve been due,”
“You still have 2 days, Rohan-”
Rohan opens his mouth to interrupt, but remembers he doesn’t like interrupting Koichi.
“-I’m sure that’s more than enough time to whip something together. I’ve seen you work.”
“You’re so optimistic, Koichi,” he sits his glass down on the coffee table, on top of a rounded coaster. “My entire week thus far has consisted of nothing but rotting in my studio,”
Koichi has never heard Rohan speak of himself so lowly. He can smell his mystery drink on his breath, inches from his face. Maybe the alcohol has loosened his inhibitions.
“What’s wrong?” Koichi asks. “Specifically,”
Rohan rubs his forehead over his head band, and scratches his scalp underneath his green hair. It upsets the gel that he’s put in it, and leaves the style dishevelled when his hand leaves. Koichi is probably the one person in Morio that has seen his hair completely down, without a headband. It was only ever when Rohan would wave at him from his porch on Koichi’s daily pilgrimage to school, when he was still draped in his silk-pyjamas.
“My ideas,” he begins, his fingers feeling warm. “I have so many of them, but the pacing of my story, I can only use any of them until another three or more chapters have progressed.”
Koichi listens patiently, although he doesn’t understand the problem.
“It’s oscillating, between having too many ideas for the chapters I can’t reach yet, and none for the current ones. I have all of the talent, and motivation, and all of the ideas, even, and then none of them. None of the ideas.”
Rohan’s vernacular is as elaborate as when he’s sober, but it lacks any sense. Koichi thinks that maybe he isn’t the one for Rohan to discuss this with, because he’s never made anything in his life, but who else is there for him to ask? It wouldn’t be staunch to turn his friend away in his time of need.
“I’m not a mangaka,”
“You could be,” Rohan says.
“But I think you might just need a filler in between last chapter and your next big idea,”
“Filler?” Rohan has turned his body towards Koichi even more, his right leg hooked over Koichi’s. He’s unsure of when he put it there.
“Y’know, when a manga slows down for a chapter and nothing important happens. Filler.”
Rohan is familiar with the idea of filler, but lets Koichi explain it to him anyway. His mouth is hovering over Koichi’s cloth covered shoulder, and he’s considering biting it, to find out what the fabric of a gakuran tastes like, and how Koichi’s muscles would feel under his teeth.
“I’ve never done filler before,” Rohan mutters, knowing that Koichi is already aware of this. Koichi offered the idea thinking that it might offend Rohan, but not being afraid or even gaging what his reaction to the suggestion would be.
“Is it out of the question?”
“I am not desperate, or clutching at straws,” Koichi’s fists are clenched on top of his thighs. Rohan takes his hand and unfolds Koichi’s fist, looking at his knuckles, and the wrinkles of his palm. “But it is not out of the question,”
Koichi tries not to pay any mind to the fondling of his hand. Rohan is an artist, and inspects most aspects of life diligently, absorbing all of its details. His hand is no different. Rohan holds Koichi’s hand between both of his own, pinching the loose skin on his knuckles, and watching how quickly the skin goes back down.
“What should it be about?” Rohan asks, curious as to what his little friend already has in mind.
“Oh, geez,” Koichi breathes. “Uhm, you should do a side character. One that doesn’t get a lot of panels.”
Rohan lulls his head to Koichi, indicating he’s listening.
“Or you could look at your last character poll, and see who the most popular side character is, and make it about him. Or her.”
Rohan pulls Koichi’s hand, that had been suspended between their laps, closer to his now. His arm is perfectly straightened, and Rohan pulls up the wrist of his shirt to look at his light-blue veins.
“Who’s your favorite character? I’ll make it about them,”
“I think you should look at the polls,” Koichi reiterates. “I know you really care about people reading your story, so I think you should let them know you care,”
“It’s all I care about,”
Rohan pulls himself closer to Koichi, and gently tugs his hand forward even more, placing his fist over the zipper of his cream-coloured pants.
Koichi jolts his hand away, but the grip on his bony wrist is firm.
“And you. I care about people reading my manga, and you.”
“What are you doing?”
Rohan lets go, because he’s too tipsy to undo his belt, the button of his pants, and his zipper with just 5 free fingers. Koichi retracts his arm into his chest, and makes no moves to get off of the couch. His brows are furrowed but his eyes remain focused on Rohan fiddling with the zipper that’s been caught halfway down on it’s teeth. Rohan chews his lip, these pants were worth, what, 100,000 yen? 200,000? And the zipper still gets caught. He’s beginning to wonder if the idea of designer or luxury clothing is all a scam.
He gets his fly down all the way, revealing black Versace briefs to anyone who might look over. Koichi recognizes the Greca border that lines the top; he's seen this pattern poking over the top of Rohan’s pants before. Shown only intentionally, of course. A message that spoke out to all that saw his midriff and recognized the pattern, saying yes, I, Kishibe Rohan, spent somewhere around 10000 yen on a single pair of underwear.
But they’re still briefs, Koichi acknowledges. He grew out of wearing briefs halfway through middle school, switching out for manlier, roomier boxers. Rohan is 20, wearing briefs that cost more than all of Koichi’s underwear combined, showing them proudly.
The fabric is so dark, that at first, Koichi doesn’t notice the tent poking out of them. Rohan grabs his hand, still closed tightly in a fist, towards that tent. Koichi is tugging his hand away in half-hearted jerks, his mind engaged with trying to assess whether or not he is misreading the situation, if this is all some big miscommunication he can laugh about later.
His knuckles are pushed against Rohan’s soft bulge. The fabric feels expensive, like something he’d feel guilty pulling over his ass in the morning.
“What are you doing?” Koichi repeats. Rohan moves his arm around Koichi’s shoulders, drawing him in closer than he’s ever been.
“I want you to touch me,” Rohan says again. It’s an unsatisfactory answer. Koichi is well aware of his motive now, but unsure of what he’s trying to commit.
“I will if you tell me what you’re doing,”
“I can’t believe you haven’t done this before,” Rohan is raising his hips up, trying to get more pressure against Koichi. “I bet Josuke and Okuyasu do this together all the time,” that wasn’t a lie to coax Koichi into feeling more comfortable with it all. He could envision the two, posture slacked over a dirty magazine, or perhaps just staring brainlessly into each other's eyes, wacking each other off for less than a minute before finishing.
Koichi accepts that he won’t get a word followed by a definition for what Rohan wants of him. He’s beginning to piece it together by himself. He opens his palm, relaxing his arm, and Rohan presses against him with fervor. He can feel the warmth of his blood underneath his briefs and skin. The fingers draped over his own are warm as well, gripping him until the pads turn white.
Koichi is more than aware of the fact that he plays a role in all of this, but it feels more like watching someone touch himself than participating. Rohan has pulled Koichi so close into himself that he can’t look down anymore for a proper viewing, the view that’s displayed when he tilts his chin down is the sides of their chests flush against each other.
He can feel that he’s weakly gripping at Rohan through the fabric. He looks Rohan in the face, trying to gage any sort of reaction, or perhaps a wordless explanation of why he is doing this to Koichi. But when he looks at him, his gaze is half-lidded, and so intense, that Koichi finds himself looking away before any thorough examination is held.
Koichi feels his hand pressed against the elastic band of the briefs, trying to shove them down. The underwear rides down for a moment, and he can feel a jarring lack of pubic hair when he slides across the pubic bone, but the fabric comes back up immediately, not pushed down far enough to grab at anything. Rohan grunts quietly from the back of his throat, and lets go of Koichi’s hand to hook his fingers under the band and pull them down fully.
His cock springs up, about halfway hard, and he leans away from Koichi to let the boy see it. Koichi glances down without allowing himself to do so, eyes burning hot from a meer glance at it.
Koichi doesn’t have the clearest idea of what constitutes as big, and he’s not sure that Rohan would even fall into the bracket of above-average for a Japanese man, but it’s bigger than his. It doesn’t pale in comparison, persae, but it’s a twinge at Koichi’s pride.
Rohan watches the way Koichi’s eyes flick down and then away, and how he purses his pale pink lips. He ought to keep a camera with him for these little expressions of his. He’d use them as references for all of his works; the mannerisms of a perfect boy.
He could ask Koichi to pose nude for him. He could sob into his hands about how the next chapter of Pink Dark Boy takes place in an onsen, but he’s never drawn anyone completely naked before, not even whilst studying anatomy. Koichi would be valiant enough to help his cause, he’s nearly certain. He would strip, if Rohan made it understood that this was for the good of him as an artist. He could take pictures then, too.
When he takes Koichi’s hand, and brushes it against his dick, now twitching at the ideas he’s been feeding it, Koichi goes back to trying to pry his hand away. Rohan nearly shushes him, like a dog.
“Come on,” he says, trying to keep his frustration from coming out of his throat and affecting his tone of voice.
“I still don’t understand,” Koichi keeps his hand away, trying not to tug too forcefully.
“You’re not an idiot,” Rohan soothes. “I think you have an idea,”
“I wish you’d just tell me, I already said I would if you’d just tell me,”
That is true. The boy deserves to be enlightened.
“I want you to use your hand to jerk me off,” Rohan states plainly, and Koichi cannot hear even a hint of embarrassment to accompany such a candid statement. Koichi’s head fleats to the side, the only sliver of his face Rohan can see is his jaw. He can hear Koichi’s breath coming out in short hitches, as rhythmic as a machine.
“Why?”
“It feels good,” Rohan leans into Koichi’s neck, the air from his nose tickling his skin. “Better when someone else does it.”
He turns back to Rohan, who has to flinch his head away to keep their faces from smashing into one another. There’s no fear in his expression, which was the worst thing Rohan could’ve hoped to see from him. No fear, because he’s much too brave, and Rohan isn’t the sort of person to express fear to. His face is more or less entirely blank, with the only thing that could be read from it, a sense of bizarre puzzledness.
“I can make you feel good, too,” Rohan offers.
“I’m fine,” Koichi declines. His arm goes slack again, making no attempts to move away anymore. Rohan seizes the opportunity, hastily wrapping his hand around Koichi’s and placing it firmly around the middle of his shaft.
Koichi had held his own arousal before, obviously. But the sensation of holding someone else’s was more akin to holding a small, squirming animal than a penis as similar as his own.
“Finally,” Rohan sighs at the feeling of Koichi’s warm skin wrapped around him properly now, not bumping or brushing against him.
Koichi’s wrist is limp, and there would be no pressure if Rohan wasn’t squeezing his fingers against him. The feeling is hardly anything different than masturbating by himself, or perhaps even slightly less quality, because he can’t direct Koichi to do exactly what he wants.
But Rohan basks in the feeling, adores it, because it’s Koichi. He wouldn’t tolerate the near-lousiness of it from anyone else.
“Tighten your grip,” Rohan asks him. He’s aware that it’s risky, because Koichi hardly wants to touch him in the first place.
Koichi squeezes him with an unexpected lack of hesitation, and caught off guard, Rohan makes a surprised little noise. Koichi veers his hand away immediately as though he might’ve hurt him.
It’s becoming unbelievably frustrating that Koichi can’t read his mind.
“No, just keep doing that.” Rohan says, and hopes he doesn’t sound as exasperated as he feels. It’s like he’s been sitting on this couch for hours, trying to get Koichi to cooperate.
He tightens again, and Rohan makes a more pleased noise.
With his grip shaped into more of a vice, Rohan impels it to move up and down for a few moments before asking;
“Can you do it yourself?”
Koichi looks at him with eyebrows raised, and nods.
Koichi masturbates nearly every night, either thinking of pictures from his mother’s magazine adverts or nothing at all. He lays on his left side, his right hand frisking away for an average of about 5 minutes, and when he feels close, he rushes to the bathroom across from his room and stands above the toilet until he finishes into the bowl. His aim is terrible, and he almost always has to clean his ejaculate from the bathroom tiles.
Rohan has learnt these things because of Heaven’s Door.
Rohan has learnt from this experience that the skills built from Koichi’s frequent self-pleasure are not transferring over to pleasuring someone else. When Rohan lets go of Koichi, he holds his penis like an entirely foreign appendage, or a tool from an alien spaceship that crash-landed on Earth.
“What should I do?” Koichi asks so innocently that Rohan feels a sudden spike in the urge to strangle him, in the gentlest way he could perform. He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply from his nose.
“Just do it like you do to yourself,”
Koichi blushes at Rohan’s implication, but obliges.
He averts his eyes down to his legs, too awkward to look down at the action between them. Rohan’s penis feels different than his own, just in his hand. He can feel veins bulging beneath his palm where his protrudes in different places, and there’s an overall entirely different weight to it. He moves the skin up and down in short strokes, because he’s never had to do any intensely long strokes for himself.
“Wait,” Rohan says, pulling Koichi’s hand off of him and bringing it up to his face. He bites the insides of his cheeks to produce more saliva in his mouth.
Rohan opens his mouth, his tongue shiny with spit in the afternoon sun that dispills through the windows, and places the muscle flat against the bottom of Koichi’s palm, towards his wrist, and licks a fat stripe against him, up to the tips of his fingers.
Koichi tastes a bit salty. His palms must sweat when he clenches his fists.
It’s fun to watch Koichi fight the urge to wipe his hand off on his pants. He visibly cringes, and again, Rohan thinks of the camera he ought to keep with him. Koichi holds his hand up, like it’s on display, and as though it were covered in ink, is afraid to touch anything. Rohan can see his eyes frantically searching his surroundings for a napkin or hanky to wipe himself off with.
Rohan guides Koichi’s hand back down to his erection, which had stiffened itself out even more watching the boy's display of disgust.
“Keep going,” he urges. The interaction has taught him something Heaven’s Door never told him: Koichi masturbates without any sort of lubricant.
Koichi tries to carry on as he was, ignoring the wetness in his hand that begins to coat Rohan’s dick. Rohan is moving his hips every few strokes, and the hold Koichi is in under his arm grows more snug. His hand slithers under Koichi’s armpit, the fingers hooking near his nipple. It tickles him, and Koichi crushes Rohan’s hand between his arm and ribs, unconsciously tightening his grip around his cock even more.
They continue in this position for several minutes.
Rohan keeps a stack of pornography shipped in from America and Tokyo under his bed upstairs. He likes the lack of censorship of American porn, but finds a sense of familiarity in the faces of the Japanese models, plastered in exaggerated moans, coming onto someone else’s chest.
As a substitute for pornography he’s used to looking at, he watches the change in Koichi’s expressions, or focuses intently on how Koichi’s hand feels different than his own.
Koichi feels the lap of a tongue on the side of his face, where a man’s sideburns would reside. Rohan takes note of the peach fuzz he feels; Koichi’s face isn’t smooth because he shaves, he learns, but because he has no need for a razor.
Koichi frowns at Rohan, but allows him to continue.
He tastes like the sweat that stems from the edges of his hair when his uniform grows too warm, and feels how the skin of his cheek is springy. He moves towards the center of Koichi’s face, tongue brushing past the edge of Koichi’s downturned top lip.
Koichi moves his head away, and the fact that he didn’t sit there, compliant, turns him on even more. He leans in closer, licking atop his lips, feeling the places where he’s bitten dead skin off, the flesh smoother. He wants to see where Koichi will try to shove him off, will he push him against his chest or his arm? Will he stop moving his hand between his legs to do so, or nudge him with his unused shoulder?
Koichi goes for the latter, and tucks his lips between his teeth whilst moving his chin towards his collarbone, denying Rohan all access to his mouth. The swift motion makes Rohan feel close to finishing, because he’s so damn resistant and cute, but Koichi staggers the motion of his hand while he moves, keeping Rohan from finishing over his fist for a few moments.
“Would you put your mouth on it?” Rohan asks with a lack of restraint found in his near-ejaculation.
“No,” Koichi answers immediately.
“No?”
“No,” he repeats.
“I only want you to do it for a second,” Rohan bargains, but then feels an unwillingness to let Koichi’s hand part from his dick, for even a moment, to get down on his knees. “Nevermind.”
While Koichi’s face is still turned, he licks at his neck, and when Koichi draws his face to his shoulder to cover his neck, Rohan licks at his face again instead. He’s hardly registering the tastes or textures of anything on his tongue, which is what he’d meant to do in the first place. He’s having entirely too much fun watching Koichi decide which part of him he’d rather sacrifice to be lapped at.
He offers Rohan his neck in the end. His throat feels so smooth under his mouth, he realizes he won’t be able to hold off on coming for much longer.
It takes much of Rohan’s self-restraint not to ruin the smoothness of Koichi’s throat with his teeth, biting and dragging them across Koichi’s fine honey skin. The desire mostly stems from wanting that bitch Yukako to see the marks he leaves. The idea of Koichi’s neck covered in hickies and bruises, putting on sweatshirts and turtle necks to keep her from seeing what Rohan has done to him, furious with shame-
He pulls at Koichi’s shirt, the first few spurts of semen erupting from him.
Koichi immediately pulls his hand away when it hits the back of his hand, wiping it on the back of the couch with a lack of hesitation not found when he was covered in Rohan’s spit.
Far too tenacious to let Koichi’s premature termination of the handjob ruin his orgasm, he strokes himself for the last few moments of it all, aiming it onto Koichi’s clothes. It was an amalgamation of the instant anger he felt at Koichi for pulling his hand away when he was in the middle of finishing, and a simple, primitive urge just to see it spread all over the object of his desire. Perhaps the bukkake porn beneath his bed influenced the decision.
Rohan has hardly a few seconds to catch his breath before he registers that Koichi has been repeating his name over and over now, for at least a few seconds.
Rohan looks over to him, and realizes that the wrath/lust induced decision to come over his clothes was one of the poorer ones he’s made. Streaks of white paint the stomach of Koichi’s shirt, over his crotch and especially over his thighs.
“Shit,” Rohan mutters. “Shit-” he says a little louder. “Stay right there,”
He stands up, his feet unsteady beneath his knees, knees unsteady below his hips. He pats the front of his pants, and then the back, before he feels the small lump of a handkerchief in his back pocket. It unfolds as he swipes it out, and damn, it was a good one too, with the kanji of his family name embroidered on it, and begins to wipe away at Koichi.
He tries to pinch it off, and then dab at it, but neither seem to get rid of the small white patches that clot the fabric. He scrapes at it with his manicured fingernail underneath the hanky, but the fabric is becoming too wet- and gummy- to do anything with.
Rohan is bent at the waist, cleaning up at Koichi while he sits there, staring at Rohan’s chest. He looks downright maternal. Rohan straightens himself and puts his hands on his hips, ruined handkerchief folded in his palm.
“Damnit, Koichi, I’m sorry.” He says, and there’s an unfamiliar tint of sincerity in his voice. “I’ll buy you a new one.”
“It’s fine,” Koichi says in the flattest, lowest tone Rohan has heard from him.
“No, I’m serious. What is it, 5000 yen? I’ll cover it.”
“It’s fine, Rohan,” Koichi raises his voice and stands up, making Rohan back up into the coffee table. When he sees his legs making their way to the door, a heat rises in Rohan’s ears.
“It wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t moved your hand away,”
Rohan thinks of a million more things to say after this one comment. That Koichi never said no, or like it was trying to get a dead fish to jerk him off.
But Koichi says nothing, and the opportunity for Rohan to fight with him doesn’t arise. He continues his journey out of the house.
Rohan snatches him by the back of his shirt, and declares something for the whole house to hear.
“Heaven’s Door!”
Koichi waves goodbye to Rohan from the bottom of his porch steps furiously, his arm oscillating back and forth like a cry for help. A hint of a smile has quirked itself on Rohan’s mouth, who waves back, turning his wrist from side to side like a princess.
Koichi walks down his sidewalk, cheeks still glowing from the excitement of tea with Rohan. He hopes that the shiny-newness of befriending someone so famous and talented never wears off. The giddiness that makes his legs bounce in class, pencil tapping rhythmically against the desk when he knows he’s going over to preview a new manga chapter after school has resided within him even after the umpteenth time it’s occurred.
The creamer that he split down his uniform still wouldn’t come out even after he stripped his shirt at Rohan’s sink, scrubbing at the fabric with soap and water, the tank top he wore doing nothing to clad his arms from the air conditioning of Rohan’s kitchen. He looks down at the small dribbles of white that streak his clothes, continuing down the street, and hopes his mother hasn’t already done the laundry.
Rohan watches the boy get halfway down the sidewalk of his street, before walking backwards into the threshold of his house, and closing his front door.
He stands in front of the door, looking at nothing but the white paint for a moment, his arms folded in front of him.
This was the 4th sort of involvement Rohan has had with Hirose Koichi, who would rank it as the 2nd from being the best, third from being the worst.
The worst was unquestionably the first one, which had occurred 2 months ago. He’d decided to do so on a whim after an erection had protruded from between his legs abruptly, and he’d all but forced himself upon the boy. He had no sort of plan, and only relied on his stand to erase Koichi’s memories of whatever he blundered. And blundered he did.
He came up from behind Koichi, while he was flipping through a book of Michaelangelo’s works in front of one of Rohan’s many shelves. Koichi knew Rohan was behind him, but still squealed when the man wrapped his arms around him, pushing him into the bookcase and kissing at his eyebrows and forehead. He pressed his erection into Koichi’s abdomen, who ceaselessly shrieked, saying things like;“What are you doing?” “Please stop,” “Don’t touch me!”
He let Koichi step away from him, because he found that in his case, rape wasn’t fun for either party. There was no sense of conquest, only burglary. He still grabbed at Koichi, who was making his way to the door, so that he could erase his memory of the encounter, and sent him home thinking that there was a school assignment he’d forgotten about. He went upstairs and had a fantastically weak orgasm within a minute of masturbating.
He wished he could extend the courtesy of annulling that memory from Koichi’s mind to himself.
Before he decided to do it again, he formulated something of a plan, or a strategy. It worked so well that he used it 2 more times after that, including this afternoon. It was simple; try to get Koichi home alone with him (pretend to invite others, if necessary), drink watered down, cheap whiskey until he appeared the appropriate amount of drunk to get handsy, make a sob story about something, anything really. This was always his favorite part, besides the handjob, because he always ad-libbed the tale of woe, and felt a genuine sense of interest in hearing Koichi’s solution to his fictitious problems. Then, of course, in the middle of their conversation, he would get Koichi to touch him.
On one occasion, and certainly his favourite, Koichi gave him a blowjob.
It was a stretch to call it such, but he wasn’t going to look his gift horse in the mouth. He still thought of it every night in his bed, jerking off under the covers with his eyes closed. He pictured how Koichi gave the tip it’s first few tentative licks, and how he cringed at the taste of his precum. He came on his face that day, and came several times on by himself, drawing up the mental image of Koichi’s round face covered in his cum, over his eyelid and clumping his short eyelashes together.
He’d been unable to coax Koichi into re-creating the moment today, but there was always next time.
Rohan walked away from the door, and began to put up his tea set.