Work Text:
Ginoza is well acquainted with the making of mistakes. He spends his life tightly wound, caution always flowing through his veins as he tries to keep himself from making any, and yet they still slip through. He's making another one now, another one slipping through his fingers, and he knows that this one will lead to another and another and another until they drag him down. He's seen it before, knows how things go, and yet he still isn't stepping out of the room.
It's dangerous to stay here, in Kougami's space. It's a mistake. The sight of obsession is posted on the walls, on the desk, on every spare surface there is. The ghost of Sasayama bears down hard on Ginoza, the string of betrayal feeling fresher than it should, after so long. It's a mistake to reopen old wounds; it's a mistake to think that the old cures will help them when those cures were never meant for a wound this deep, and Ginoza starts to move, forward, away, out of danger--
"Gino," Kougami says, and listening to that is a mistake, too. It's a word, only a word, a proper noun and a nickname that Ginoza shouldn't let him use, but it's wrapped up in old familiarity and long lost intimacy and all the ways they used to feel. All the ways he still feels, if he's honest with himself, which he really shouldn't be, because that's even more of a mistake than lying about it.
"I should go." It's an attempt to excuse himself, to leave politely if abruptly and move away from the mistakes he hasn't made yet and all the ones he has. There's an itch under his skin that he wouldn't be able to reach even if he scratched himself bloody, something deep and under the surface that demands answers that Ginoza can't afford to hear and sacrifices that he can't afford to make.
"Yeah," Kougami agrees, but Ginoza can feel his gaze on the small of his back, and he knows what Kougami's expression is without turning around. "But are you going to?"
No, Ginoza thinks, followed by a vicious you know that. But Kougami doesn't, not anymore, not really, not with this expanse between them. Inspector and Enforcer at the least, without touching on everything else. He doesn't want to touch on any of it, doesn't want to reawaken the desire to pull Kougami down and scream you broke because of him and left me here alone. He has practice, now, after years of holding in the words he couldn't say to his father, to Kougami, to everyone.
"I should," Ginoza says instead, another mistake to add to his tally, each one a line that raises him higher, higher, higher, to a sum he doesn't want to reach (but always fears he will -- the genetic links haven't been disproved; it seems like everyone he loves is fated to fall, and he doesn't think he's strong enough to stand against the odds).
He's not leaving. It's obvious. In admitting it, to himself, to the pressure of Kougami's gaze, the final mistake has been made, and there are no take-backs left. He turns away from the door, raising his eyes.
Kougami moves like lightning into the space between them, filling it up before regret can. Ginoza tastes cigarettes on his lips, in his mouth, heavy ash and bitterness. He thinks about chastising him, about gentle reprimands meant for a time long ago, back when it could be done with a smile -- but Kougami's mistakes are different than Ginoza's, and there isn't room for him to bear them both.
Ginoza's jacket falls to the ground; he's only peripherally aware of the feel of Kougami's hands on the fabric of his shirt, trailing down the buttons with a deft accuracy that feels too much like something Ginoza had almost forgotten. Kougami's lips are on his neck, on his shoulders, and Ginoza gasps loud against the quiet of the room, beats back the ghosts with his voice.
"Gino," Kougami says into the nape of Ginoza's neck. "Gino, Gino, Gino." It's like a mantra, like maybe it's what's keeping him together, and Ginoza almost laughs at the idea that he'd be at all involved in holding Kougami up because it seems so ludicrous-- but he is, isn't he, he's been making the same mistake since day one, since this became a mistake and even before that. Before, when it wasn't a mistake, when it was exactly what should be happening, two teenagers falling together into each other and ignoring the weight of the world to hold each other up instead.
He doesn't say anything. He doesn't know what to say, doesn't think he could conjure up any words, and Kougami's name feels heavy and wrong on his lips, all the different things he could call him echoing back before he's even released them. Instead, he pushes back against Kougami, tangles a hand in Kougami's hair and shoves the other straight down Kougami's pants.
The next thing that falls to the floor is them, crashing down in a tangle of limbs that's almost uncomfortable. Almost, but not quite, not when Kougami's pants are suddenly halfway down his legs and he's bucking into Ginoza's hand, hot and heavy and so familiar that the feeling sticks in Ginoza's throat. It stays there for a long moment, starts to settle in for a long night when Kougami's hand is on Ginoza, and all he can think is that he could be falling straight into the stars for all he cares about mistakes right now.
"Gino," Kougami is still saying, a hint of desperation in his voice. Ginoza pulls him closer with his free hand, shudders against the way Kougami's hand feels against his cock, and kisses him. Ginoza can't say what he feels. He was never good at that even before the floor dropped out from underneath them, but he thinks maybe this will be an okay substitute, maybe he can trace the line of Kougami's mouth and get lost in it like they were teenagers all over again, horny and reckless on the floor.
Kougami comes with a strangled noise that starts out as another repetition of Ginoza's name and gets lost halfway there; Ginoza redirects it, swallows it, lets it fall into his own chest like a comforting, suffocating weight. When Ginoza comes, he slams his head back so hard he might have given himself a concussion, lets out a moan that's worthy of all the adult-content net videos he pretended he never watched when he was younger.
They lie on the ground, half-dressed and half-conscious. The sound of their breathing feels the room, pushes everything else out until they're the only point of light that Ginoza can see. Ginoza is used to making mistakes, used to telling himself he shouldn't, used to prying himself away from the things he wants to do -- but this mistake feels too much like home for him to want to leave just yet.
He ducks his head into Kougami's shoulder, allowing Kougami to remove his glasses with an amused chuckle. The floor isn't very comfortable, and it's too chilly and sticky to lay there for very long, but for now, Ginoza wants to stay.
"Weren't you leaving?" Kougami asks, and Ginoza shifts to look at him and summon all his willpower to glare with the ferocity of a small kitten.
"I should have," Ginoza says, but doesn't dwell on it.
Kougami kisses him again, long and slow, and Ginoza lets himself fall into it. He isn't leaving. One mistake will lead to another, and another, and another, but for now, he can hold on to this. He can hold on to Kougami against the overwhelming feeling that he's going to lose him -- to ghosts, to obsession, to Kougami's own mistakes. For now, he can hold on.