Digimon Fan Fiction ❯ Queerer Things ❯ Part One ( Chapter 1 )

[Obligatory Author's Rant: This is SUPREMELY out-of-character. I'm aware of that. It's pretty much supposed to be. I basically wanted to write about Takeru being an ass and Daisuke being a two-cent uke gutterslut, so I did. This is one of those stories that's either really well-written or really terrible; I honestly can't tell. Maybe one of y'all could enlighten me. I'm going to keep writing it regardless (probs). It was also obviously intended as a rewrite of my semi-Daikeru oneshot “Altogether,” but it turned into so much more than that (a.k.a. a gayfest), so I expanded it and… whatnot. It's a completely different story, anyway; if Hikari shows up in this one she'll be just as skewed as the boys (probably in the bitch direction) and it'll be fun. :D … And I think that's it. Enjoy this pile of crap; I had fun writing it.]

 

 

QUEERER THINGS

Part One

 

 

The linoleum floor is cold and grimy beneath my hands, layered with years upon years of sweat and dust and secrets cried in tears. There is a rip in the fabric of my sleeve and I don't remember where I got it from—my head buzzes with the effort as I try to induce some sort of thought process. My mouth is pasty and foul-tasting and my forehead, as I brush the back of my hand across it, does feel a little warm—but then again, my hands feel very, very cold. With a flutter of my eyelids the room tips on its side; I find that my hand has clamped over my mouth in an attempt to prevent the lurch that is growing in my stomach from going any farther.

 

Fuck him.

 

I try to imagine what I look like right now—this short, dark-skinned kid with disheveled hair and a semi-mutilated uniform collapsed in the corner of the dirtiest, most neglected bathroom in the school—but my dry musings are interrupted by the creak of the door as it opens. I am half on my feet already despite the dizziness that the sudden movement has prompted, just in case I need to dive into one of the empty stalls for cover—in case by some inexplicable twist of fate it's him—but no, it's just some kid. I relax, trying to look like I belong here (right—because hanging out in grimy old bathrooms is normal), but—of course—he's already noticed me and is making his way over here.

 

Shit.

 

“You're… um… Motomiya, right?” He's standing over me now, looking at me with a nervous curiosity. I meet his gaze, trying not to feel intimidated, but it's kind of hard—this kid isn't overly big, but he looks pretty muscular—like he works out a lot—and I… well, I was a pretty serious athlete in middle school, sure, but this kid looks like he could break me in half if he wanted to. “Motomiya Daisuke?”

 

My lips glued together, I nod mutely; I feel like I should get up, if just to make a break for the door—being boxed in like this is making me nervous—but I can't seem to move. The kid watches me for a few seconds more, probably weighing my reputation with my less-than-stable position at the moment, then lets his breath out in a whoosh and kneels beside me. I find it easier to focus on the concern in his eyes now that the muscles bulging under his shirt are presented as less of a threat. “You okay?”

 

I nod again, more slowly this time, being careful not to break eye contact. I can see what he's thinking—I've seen it a million times before. The tense hunch in his shoulders, the evidence of perspiration on his face despite the fact that it's anything but warm—he can't be in here with me, shouldn't be in here with me, but he is nonetheless. He's obviously heard of me, has wondered—it's only normal, isn't it? And why shouldn't I give the man what he wants?

 

This will be good for you, my inner self justifies. Give you something to do. A distraction. Besides, if you turn this kid down you'll just end up sitting here and jerking off while you think about him and…

 

I tweak my face into a mask of gentle concern and brush my fingers past his cheek, entangling them in the short dark hairs at the back of his neck before he can think about moving away. He doesn't, even if his eyes widen considerably as I make contact. There is a dusting of color across his cheeks. “You look tired,” I murmur.

 

“Yeah… well,” he says, his voice quivering noticeably as he clutches at his pant legs. “You know… been working out.”

 

Amazing. He's still bragging about his numerous talents even when the audience consists of some weirdo faggot with a reputation trying to get into his pants. This guy's a true jock. But then again, he hasn't blinked once since I reached out and touched him; you know you have them when they hold your gaze as if under a trance. I love that feeling. “N-Nothing I can't handle…”

 

I smile indulgently and pressure the back of his neck, guiding his face towards mine; he leans forward without a second's hesitation, his blush deepening to a steady crimson as his eyelids lower and his lips part in anticipation. My own twitch into a grin; it's hardly attractive, I know, but it's been a while since I've had one this willing. And jocks are my favorite; their single-mindedness is amusing, yeah, and they tend to have great bodies, but the novelty is what I enjoy the most. Jocks aren't supposed to be gay—jocks are supposed to smile big and flex their muscles and score as many touchdowns or baskets or whatever the fuck else as they can to welcome the success. I wonder (as his tongue slides into my mouth and I finger the buttons on his shirt) what I would have done in this situation were I the same kid I was a couple of years ago; I was always the jock in our little clique back in middle school. Ken played soccer like I did, but he was smart, too—Ken could do anything. Iori (I hiss into his mouth as his cold fingertips brush against the heated skin under my shirt) could have been called an athlete, I guess, if you can call kendo a sport nowadays—I know he's on the team at my old middle school. That's all I know about him now, unfortunately—haven't seen him in months. It's a little sad how we all grew apart like this—especially when Taichi and Yamato and Koushirou and all the rest of them (he undoes my pants with a deft twist of his fingers and I gently take them in my own; fucking meathead has no head for foreplay) are still so close after all these years. I guess the six of us didn't go through as much shit as they did together—we were never stuck in the Digital World, after all. We didn't have whole chunks cut out of our lives by that time inconsistency shit.

 

And unlike Taichi and Yamato, Takeru and I never—

I bite down on his tongue, hard; he moans like a goddamn whore into my mouth and pulls me tighter against him, eliminating the space between us. What is this kid, a fucking masochist? He's definitely gay, whatever he is; usually when I manage to get my hands on a jock in some unused classroom or behind the bleachers or, God forbid, in the back of his parents' fucking Lexus, it's always rushed and clumsy, with the moron practically chewing my lips off in his need to prove to himself that he's not gay. But this kid—he's totally out of it right now, drinking my body in through touches and caresses and deep, slow kisses. It's making me feel something strangely akin to guilt—this is the kind of kid who'll go off to college and find the perfect man to settle down and adopt malnourished babies with. And that's not me. It never would have been me, even if all that shit the summer before we entered high school never happened; I probably would have gone through the years just like this kid, a star soccer player with a knockout girlfriend and a Polaroid smile, and there wouldn't even be some slut in a dirty bathroom to make me realize all my weird urges and terrifying dreams were anything but just that—

 

He comes up for air, our lips parting with a wordless murmur from his end; he leans in to kiss me again but I cover his lips with two of my fingers, shaking my head with the smallest of movements. His eyes are heartbreaking—and I'm sure he'll have to miss even more of whatever team practice he has right now to find another bathroom and take care of the little problem that I've opted to neglect—but I can't do this right now, not to him and not when he's the furthest thing from my mind. I get to my feet slowly—I'm not even the slightest bit hard.

 

I've gotten too fucking used to this.

 

He gets up as well, wincing slightly as he does so (I do the gentlemanly thing and keep my eyes on the floor). He's standing much too close to me. “Do you usually hang out in grody old bathrooms after school like this?”

 

My shoulders tense unconsciously—he can't want me like this. He can't misunderstand. “No. I wasn't feeling well.”

 

There is a pause, and he decides to get straight to the point. “When can I see you again?”

 

I sigh and run a hand through my hair. Fuck. “You can't.”

 

“Why the hell not?”

 

His voice is more desperate than angry—I wish he would just yell at me. Beat the shit out of me. It would be easier. “… I'm not… I'm not someone you want to associate with. Someone will find out, and… you don't want that. Seriously.” Before he can express the indignance that's rolling off of him in waves—this kid wears his emotions on his fucking sleeve—I hold out my hand to stop him, still scowling at the grimy linoleum. Room needs a fucking janitor. “Don't try to say that it's not true or that it won't happen or… whatever; that's not the way shit works.” I run a hand through my hair again, glancing upon my forehead as I do so. Fuck. Fuck, I'm definitely running a fever. “You need someone who… deserves you.”

 

He's quiet for a moment, so quiet that I can hear the buzzing of the cheap fluorescent lights over our heads. Finally there is a rush of air as he lets out a sigh and steps away from me. A bitter smile creeps over my lips as he does so. Good boy. “… Well… are you sure you're gonna be all right, though? Because you looked kinda sick when I came in…”

 

“I'll be fine,” I say as cheerfully as I can. My stomach lurches and I try not to lean against the wall. “Thanks for caring. But really… you should go.”

 

“Yeah,” he says, almost to himself. He still hasn't moved. My conviction not to look at him is wavering; he's too sweet. Too kind to some slutty faggot with a heart of fucking gold he's just met in a bathroom after school. He reminds me of… of him. Before he became a goddamn motherfucking asshole, of course. Would it really be so bad for me to take someone like him for myself? I deserve something, don't I?

 

Don't I?

 

Just as my gaze begins to edge its way towards his face the door gives a warning creak and he practically leaps backwards—an automatic response, sure, but it still manages to widen the black hole festering in my chest. He's flustered, running one hand through his hair (slightly disheveled) as the other adjusts his gym shirt to better cover the slight bulge of his crotch (so much for not looking). I smirk at him viciously behind his back, hating myself for somehow thinking that this time would be different, and this is how I first see our new arrival: out of the corner of my eye. By the time I have turned my full attention on him my mind and face and everything else are blank with shock and the realization that, unless my tragedy of a life has been illegally intercepted by some sort of Deus ex Machina, I had made one grave mistake when I decided to come down here.

 

He fucking saw me.

 

“You're… Sugiyama,” the abomination says in that grotesquely cheerful voice of his, smiling at the kid in such a completely genuine way that it takes everything I have not to leap forward and rip a hole in his fucking pretty face. “From the football team, right?”

 

“Uh… yeah,” Sugiyama mutters—at least now I know his name—as he oh-so-subtly edges towards the door—now that someone else is involved he wants out, and is currently thanking whatever deity he owes his allegiance to that I had refused to sex him up any further. Another thought process I'm very familiar with. “Takaishi… right? Takaishi Takeru?”

 

Takaishi Takeru.

 

I can't help but flinch, betraying that shameful, pathetic part of myself that I've worked far too hard to bury—the side of me that jumps every time I hear his name, defying every ounce of reason I have in my body. I am staring at the floor, keeping up my indifferent, invisible charade with everything I have in me, but today it seems not to be enough; a dizzy spell hits me and I have to grab hold of a sink to steady myself. Takeru glances my way—I can feel his eyes on me, even with the ferocity with which I am ignoring him—and my fingers tighten. Involuntarily?

 

This is shit. This is such shit. For more than a year I've been avoiding him, trying my very best to keep him and this separate, but here he is standing between me and one of my fucking… customers. Not that he isn't usually—this comes to me in a flash and I feel myself shiver with the realization—but my personal demons have never before been so literal.

 

God dammit.

 

“I should… um… go,” I hear Sugiyama say, and I look up as the door creaks open—his eyes meet mine just as I remind myself that I'll probably never see him again and I am jolted to the bone. I had expected to see shame—embarrassment—perhaps even a raunchy grin if this kid were the class clown type.

 

Not jealousy.

 

And it is then that my mind and my heart and everything comes to a stop, as I realize that Takeru has not moved and neither have I.

 

He thinks—

 

The fact that the very thought can arouse me makes me grit my teeth and close my eyes as I sink slowly to the floor. I'm pathetic. I'm worse than pathetic; I'm as low as a worm. As low as the grime that is slick and cold beneath my fingers.

 

I am still shaking.

 

“What the hell…”

 

It's Takeru. Takeru is speaking. To me. I lift my head up and just barely manage to meet his gaze. My body feels so heavy.

 

“What the hell are you doing here?”

 

I stare at him for a moment before I realize he expects me to answer; I feel slow and tongue-tied and so, so fucking horny. It's not fair. He can't just start talking to me like this. It's been too long… “What… what the hell are you doing in here…?”

 

My voice doesn't sound right. Nothing sounds right, nothing feels right; it's not just his presence, something is genuinely wrong with me. The edges of panic grip my chest as he answers, just a touch of a sneer discoloring his sweet, cheerful voice. “I'm not the one sneaking around after school where he doesn't belong.”

 

Asshole. “It has nothing to do with you.”

 

He snorts derisively, a noise I have never heard him make. I find myself watching his eyes; they are startlingly blue even in this thin light—focused exclusively on the sink farthest from the one I am crouching under. “It does if my teammates are distracted while we're running drills for the finals.”

 

It's as if he's out-and-out called me a slut. A goddamn fucking whore. I lean my head against the icy cold of the sink and close my eyes to clear my swimming vision; I wonder briefly if I might be dreaming. Takeru only talks to me in my dreams. But no—for all my nausea and the splitting headache that has come out of nowhere, this is too real. Too consequential. Dreams—my dreams, anyway—don't operate on the laws of cause and effect like reality does.

 

What the hell caused this?

 

“… Hey.” His voice sounds louder—closer. I open my eyes and launch myself backward in a spurt of movement when I find him standing directly in front of me. The back of my head connects with the sink and I wince; the storm in my head has developed into a hurricane. Fuck. Fuck. He's peering down at me uncertainly, scratching the back of his head in a painfully familiar gesture. “What's wrong with you?”

 

I leer up at him, trying and failing to intimidate him. “Why the fuck… do you care?”

 

I sound terrible—I know it, and so does he. He inches back a bit, his jaw jutting in a way that makes him look peculiarly like his brother. It doesn't suit him. “I'm not just going to leave you here if you're about to… like… up and die or something…”

 

I suppose Takeru will never change. He's still such a goddamn nice guy even in these circumstances. Even with me. I let out a low but oddly contented giggle at the weirdness of this whole situation. “… Me? Something wrong with me? When has there ever… been something right… with me…”

 

“Don't be an ass.” He's kneeling in front of me now, his uncertain, damnably beautiful face no more than a foot from mine. All too suddenly. It's been so long… “If you're sick, then—“

 

“Your uniform's gonna get dirty,” I murmur, my eyes on his folded legs, snug against the grimy linoleum. “It's gonna…”

 

And then, through some massive lapse in judgment, I reach out and touch his knee. It's tiny, just a brush of my fingertips, but he jumps back as if he's been burned, stumbling as he scrambles to get to his feet. His face is twisted—it should make him ugly, but it doesn't. It couldn't. “What the fuck do you think you're doing?”

 

I stare up at him. My hand is still outstretched. “I… I didn't…”

 

“Like hell you didn't!” His voice cracks mid-sentence—I can see his fists shaking. Such a violent reaction… “What… God, what the fuck is wrong with you? All those rumors… I thought they were just being blown out of proportion; I thought it was something else entirely… but…” His lip curls. “It's all true, isn't it? Everything the girls say about you, everything the guys…” He trails off. His fists are still shaking. “And that whole thing last year with… with that guy Takemura…”

 

“He never offered me money,” I say quietly, and my mind is somehow lucid, just for that moment; I don't know if I'm imagining it or not, but Takeru's face has softened somehow, and his eyes… “Something like that… I wouldn't…”

 

And it's gone. My head is as cloudy as it was before and Takeru's face has closed up; he's not looking at me anymore, not even in anger, and I want almost to reach out and touch him again, even if he'll recoil in disgust. Please, just look at me…

 

“I…” I blink my eyes to clear my blurring vision; his jaw has set, he looks focused, determined… like he's come to some sort of mental consensus. “I should get back to practice.” He spares me a passing glance and I can hardly bear to look at him; his face is so noncommittal, as if he's deliberately denying everything that came to pass between us that fucking summer. Denying me. “If you're really not sick, then…”

 

God. Oh, God, he's turned to leave—the minute he steps foot outside he'll forget me; I'll once again be as far outside Takaishi Takeru's social spectrum as it's possible to be. Before I quite know what I'm doing I'm stumbling to my feet, uttering a choked “No…”

 

He half-turns, his expression unreadable, but that single syllable was one too much for me; My insides curdle and my stomach gives one final, explosive lurch; I've barely made it to a toilet before my insides empty into the porcelain bowl, my hands clammy and trembling as they clutch its shiny sides.

 

“Shit…!” Takeru is behind me, staring wide-eyed into the stall; I can see him leaning against it out of the corner of my eye. “Shit, are you…?”

 

“I'm fine,” I try to say—how hard can it be to say two words?—but as I try to speak my throat constricts and I retch, this time bringing up nothing; I have nothing left to throw up. I swallow hard and manage to spit out a sentence: “I'm… I'm okay… I think…”

 

He's quiet. I've half-collapsed onto the toilet bowl with my head buried in my arms, shaking, so I can't quite see his face—so much for my brave words—but I can feel his gaze on my back as I breathe slowly in and out, concentrating on the worth of every breath. A minute—two minutes pass; neither of us says a word, and I've begun to get nervous—I wonder what the look on his face could possibly read, whether he's still even here… whether I'm just sitting here by myself staring at my reflection like a sad, pathetic moron… but the light, hesitant touch on my shoulder tells me otherwise; I tense, scarcely able to believe it—Takaishi Takeru, the real Takaishi Takeru, not some sick, twisted manifestation present only in my dreams, is touching me—but I don't dare move. His fingers are still gracing my shoulder—I can feel them trembling through my uniform, but they have yet to move.

 

“I'm going to…” He pauses, swallowing deeply, before continuing: “… I'm taking you to the nurse's office.”

 

“You don't have to…” My voice trails off, not substantial enough to finish a sentence. “I'm not—“

 

“You just threw up.” The fingers on my shoulder tighten. He's decided now—I know that tone to his voice. It's the reason why I so often doubted my leadership position—secretly, of course—when he was around. Way back when. “Come on. Get up.”

 

I can't refuse him—especially with his fingers beginning to dig into my shoulder, the only sign that this whole situation is fazing him at all—so I dutifully rise to my feet, my knees and hands and everything shaking in response to the movement, and I feel…

 

Fuck. This isn't good.