sheffiesharpe (sheffiesharpe) wrote in kinkfest, @ 2008-03-05 23:00:00 |
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Current mood: | tired |
Entry tags: | a: sheffiesharpe, f: persona 3, march 05, p: akihiko/shinjiro |
"Uncovered," Persona 3 (Shinjiro/Akihiko)
Title: Uncovered
Author: sheffiesharpe
Fandom: Persona 3
Pairing: Shinjiro/Akihiko
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Very, very minor spoilers through July
Length: 2440
Prompt: Shin Megami Tensei Persona 3, Shinjiro/Akihiko: post-boxing match - "What are you doing here?"
A/N: Let’s envision this in late July, shall we? (And that's all the farther I am in-game, so please no spoilers in comments, por favor.)
Akihiko unwraps the tape around his knuckles slowly, savoring the tug at his skin, the perfect quiet of the empty lockerroom, everyone else gone after the match. His hands are hot, red-tingling despite the cushion of his regulation gloves. He’s hitting harder now, perhaps too hard—it’s been half a dozen bouts that haven’t even gone the three full rounds, two knockouts and four technicals. He’s stopped thinking of his opponent’s head as a primary target, though the other guy is doing his level best, always, to put Aki’s mouthguard down his own throat, because last month, one of the knockouts happened so fast, less than a minute—everything narrowed to target and action. For the first time, he’d felt guilty about giving it everything he had. Because another boxer in the ring wasn’t a Shadow, but that day, not quite a week after the full moon, his blood still hot and strange from that mess in the hotel, he wasn’t holding back. He wasn’t, but now he is, has to, and though it stings his pride, wounds the strength in his wrists to understand that the fight is no longer fair and his task is also to the safety of his competitors in these matches, he will do it. And what sting there is assuages itself in that. He allows himself half a smile; it doesn’t do to be overconfident, and he won’t be, not in the ring, but here, in the sanctity of wooden benches and glazed windows and the warm, sweet smell of the sauna covering clean sweat—he can relish it. He wads up the old tape, tosses it toward the trashcan—a firm shove to the back of his head sends him stumbling two steps, and he has to catch himself on one of the benches. Akihiko whirls, hands up and fisted, but there is no one.
There is, though, a chill draft, and he looks, sees the farthest of the windows ajar, soft on its hinges. The short hair at the back of his neck prickles—mostly from cold, his chest bare and his shorts only a thin shine of red satin that isn’t there for warmth, just to cover himself between discarding his jock and getting to the shower, but it also prickles with that sense of being watched, the way it is every night in Tartarus, how it always felt in that alley at Port Island Station with Shinjiro—and something small and hopeful winds tight around the reflexive dread. But nothing happens while he leans up, latches the glass closed again, the night breezy, gone sharply cool compared to lockerroom’s humid heat. He turns, looking for whoever pushed him, maybe Kohaku or Ichiro, because they like pranks and his concentration had faltered, but he hopes it is neither of them, because an unlatched window has become something like hope for him, these days, since—
“Think you’re tough shit these days, don’t you? Wiping the floor with scrawny high school kids.” There’s laughter in Shinjiro’s voice, and he turns the corner from the next bank of lockers, a long dark line against the yellow wood.
He’s always so clothed, so covered, but Akihiko isn’t going to go dashing for his shirt. Not after so much. The grin that shades Akihiko’s mouth is the conditioned response to that tone, and it’s only after his lips have committed to the gesture that he thinks it is the right one. “Watch who you’re calling scrawny. My weight class calls for wiry.” And not that Shinji has any room to talk. He is, always has been, mostly coat and hat and hair. And lately, mostly air, a mirage Akihiko keeps hoping to see but seldom does. But this is him, here now. Akihiko tries not to think how strange, how much like memory when Shinji would come to see him box, when Aki was only learning, when he got his first broken nose.
Shinjiro looks him in the eye, drops his gaze deliberately, raises it again. “Wiry, is it?” He comes closer, hands still in his pockets. “I guess so. The other guy had a few pounds on you, though.”
“Didn’t do him any good.” Another technical knockout, called by the other guy himself, early in the third round, and he had been pushing the upper bounds of the lightweight division, no doubt about it. Akihiko is waiting, not so patiently, for graduation, when he can leave scholastic boxing and take on the cross-weight-class bouts that the school clubs won’t allow for safety. “It’s not really about weight, it’s—” The observation sinks in. “You saw?”
“Wasn’t much to see. You don’t even run them around the ring anymore.” Shinjiro leans against the lockers now, just tipping himself to one side, letting his shoulder slump into them. Quick as a cat, he could be back up, Akihiko knows, but he looks so settled there against the wood; Aki can’t help but want to settle him there harder, push him flat and search his mouth for answers to questions he doesn’t want to ask right now. Not while Shinjiro is here, in this place, come to him instead of having to be found.
Akihiko bends to his locker, rummages for his towel. The lockerroom showers have better—hotter—water than the dorm, and maybe when he’s cleaned up, he can convince Shinji to come eat with him. Maybe it’ll go better than the last time at Hagakure.
“Want to get some food when I’m done here?” Akihiko doesn’t want to look up yet, lets it be casual, hates that he has to try this hard. What he wants to do is wrap his arms around the cloth-broadened shoulders and hit him or kiss him, but what he does is takes his time with his duffle, finding soap, and—fingers on the back of his head push again, not as hard as before, just enough to put his face into the darkened lee of the locker. He turns again, and Shinji’s almost grinning, almost like he used to.
“You haven’t done anything to work up an appetite, far as I’ve seen. Wasn’t even ten minutes.” Shinjiro’s long fingers settle on the buttons of his jacket, and Aki holds his breath. The thick red cloth lies draped over the bench, Shinji’s too-pale arms all knobbed bone at the elbows, so whipcord-lean that it worries Aki most days, but not today, not while the sharp want of a fight too short still lingers in his blood, not while Shinjiro is here, with him.
“It’s hot in here.” Shinjiro shrugs against the humidity of the room, and the little thrill that had pricked along his spine settles. Now isn’t the time to bring that up again; he will be glad, is glad, just to have him here.
“It’s a lockerroom.” Akihiko stands, slings his towel over his shoulder. “Give me a minute?” He says it as easily as he can, but the hope must bleed through because Shinjiro rolls his eyes, folds his hands atop his head, atop his hat.
“Tch.” That sound.
“I’ll be quick.” Don’t leave, is what he’s saying. But even as the words leave his mouth, Shinjiro’s hands are coming down. He’s going to reach for his coat again.
“Never said I was in a hurry.” Shinjiro’s fingers curl in the smudge-white hem of his t-shirt, haul it up, and somehow he gets the shirt off without dislodging his hat. He tosses it on the bench beside his coat, his grin the kind of familiar challenge that makes Aki’s blood thrum. “These kids let you off easy.”
There’s enough hollow between each of Shinji’s ribs that he could fit his fingers in the spaces, and Shinjiro steps closer, within arm’s reach, and Aki could, but he doesn’t. Instead, he grins back, laces his fingers together and stretches up, feels the pull and ease of his spine, of everything, because when he relaxes down, Shinji takes the end of his towel, pulls it free, snaps it at his bare knees.
“Boxer,” he says, “and not a mark on you after a fight. Way too easy.”
The dry rasp of fabric at the edge of his shorts, the warm weight of presence—it’s good. Good enough to let the old play come to his tongue, to not think about reasons.
“I suppose you think you’re going to give me a hard time.” And Shinji can, probably, if they’re not going to fist-fight, and that they won’t do. Not in earnest, not unless there’s a pretty damn dire reason. Aki feels giddy—to have this much back, so unexpectedly, it almost makes up for what they seem to have lost. Except for the two little shoves, Shinjiro hasn’t touched him, not—not like before. He braces himself for another snap of the towel and wishes, for a moment, he was still wearing his cup, because memory is getting the better of him, memory and this sweet flare of competition because Shinji’s staring him down, that ghost of a smirk haunting his mouth. They look longer than can possibly be comfortable, than can be normal, and Aki isn’t sure what they’re waiting for, only knows that the back of his neck heats up like it does before a fight. The back of his neck and the pit of his stomach. And Shinji’s lips curve up, his gaze dropped waist-level, where the scarlet satin is distended.
“Looks like I don’t even have to try.” His mouth is on Aki’s, his hands pinning Aki’s shoulders to the wood. Aki’s arms come up, the protest automatic, but where his forearms come up between them, he doesn’t push Shinji away. Instead, his right hand cups the back of Shinji’s neck, tangling in the sweat-tacked hair, and their teeth and tongues snarl the same way before their mouths press tight and practiced and remembering.
Aki presses into the kiss, away from the wall, finally biting at the edge of Shinji’s lip and pulling away. Left-handed, he navigates the worn zipper, the not-so-surprising immediate heat of skin on the backs of his fingers. He reaches, a push-pull of both hands, stroking his cock and working his pants down his thighs, and Shinji rocks forward into the touch for a moment before shoving back. His grip is like a vise on Aki’s wrists, the pressure steady, easy force.
“You don’t have to try, but you could.” Akihiko wonders if he is pushing too far, but he’s sick of holding back, sick of the concept, of waiting, of wishing. He snaps his teeth beside Shinji’s ear before he settles his tongue on the summer-salt under his jaw.
Shinji’s answer is the warm hard-soft of his cock against his uniform shorts. It slides like a dream, like it’s wet-slick—and it might be, soon, with sweat because this wall shares the sauna and with themselves because it’s been so long since it’s been like this—when Shinjiro steps back, lets go his wrists for a moment, he has to follow, his lip curled up until he sees the dark fabric fall entirely, Shinji wrenching off his boots, throwing them—
Naked. He’s naked, here, with Akihiko. His bones are the bare metal of street signs laid over with pale flesh, a different kind of whiteness than Akihiko’s skin, and he tries not to look at the fading bruises that pattern him. He looks instead at the jut of his cock, the wanting heave of his ribs, how perfectly bare and not leaving and perfect—Akihiko reaches again, pulls him close, seeking mouth and neck and the rippled line of his spine. Right-handed—faster—he tugs at his own shorts, not willing to let go, until Shinji’s hands are again on his wrists, gripping tight, holding them against the wall while he thrusts slow and long against the red satin.
In the space between the slick sliding of them, Aki thinks he should fight back, take the upper hand until Shinji takes it back until he takes it back again until they are a welted, glorious mess, but his blood doesn’t simmer in his fists this time; he isn’t even making fists at all. What he is making is some strangled, soft sound, and Shinjiro’s lips find the place in his throat where it sticks. He bites, sucks until the moan pushes up, across his tongue and into the room’s quiet, and he cannot even want to tug his head away because the mark Shinji leaves will not be covered by anything. Not anything save Shinji’s mouth again, nipping down then up to his lips, and Shinji lets go his left hand to slide his right down the curve of Aki’s ribs, to spread his fingers across Aki’s ass and pull him closer still. They rasp sweet-hot against each other, the fabric holding them as much together as apart, and Aki bites what he can reach, fingers dug hard and fast against Shinji’s shoulder. They hold on as though the room whirls, though the floor is sturdy beneath their feet, the wall at Akihiko’s back constant, and the only thing moving is them, together and apart in the red sleek haze of uniform satin and the pulse of blood in their ears. Shinji spills first, shoving Akihiko against the wall, so much that Aki has a passing worry for Shinji’s knuckles between his ass and the wood, but the thought is gone in the pulsing wet heat, how Shinjiro kisses him through his own shaking finish, how they stay with tongues interlaced until the fabric threatens to stiffen.
Shinjiro lets go his wrist, gently, though he puts his thumb on the hickey and pushes. When Aki is sure their feet are steady, he smacks the wan flat of Shinji’s chest with the back of his hand.
“Look what you did to my kit.” The material is clouded, darkened. Shinjiro’s face is none of these things—he laughs.
“Better wash it out before it stains, then.” He’s stretching his foot toward the puddled fabric of his pants. “Cold water.” His grin is smug.
At least he yelps when Akihiko presses him against the chill shower tile and turns the taps to cold, struggles and holds Aki across the chest and soaps the fabric roughly under the spray even while he’s still wearing the shorts. They stay that way until they’re both goosefleshed and shivering, and then Aki rotates the dial by degrees, lets the water-warmth build slow and slow until it’s steaming, and when he pushes Shinji back to the tile this time, the sound is no less sudden, but it speaks nothing of wanting to leave.