Digimon Fan Fiction ❯ Queerer Things ❯ Part Two ( Chapter 2 )

[THIS STORY IS SO TRASHY. :D I HAVE SO MUCH FUN WRITING IT. It's the kind of thing that it makes me cringe to write but that I love to read. :D I don't know if it's an actual technical mishap or not, but I may have made it seem in the first chapter as if Takeru is wearing his school uniform. He's not; he's wearing sweats and his basketball uniform. Daisuke is wearing his school uniform. :D … That was bothering me. Enjoy; there's some actual gay in this chapter (WHOA SHIT!).]

 

 

QUEERER THINGS

Part Two

 

 

I could go to the nurse's office. I should. It would be easy—she knows me. Everyone in this school knows me. Just stick my head in, go “this kid fainted in the bathroom,” deny I knew him, deny I knew what caused it, and leave. And then I'd be free.

 

At least for a little while.

 

But seeing Daisuke crumple—just crumple into a faint, the toilet breaking his fall so that he looked like a broken doll, his head landing on the side of the bowl with a sickening thunk—my head goes absolutely blank. I don't know how long it takes for the sight of his face, flushed with fever as he struggles for breath, to sink in, but when it does I feel myself sink into a crouch and utter a whispered “fuck.”

 

I have no clue what to do.

 

I know what I should do. He's feverish and unconscious; I've taken first-aid. I know how to help a sick person. But nothing, unfortunately, that can be done without touching him. And I really, really don't want to touch him.

 

I haven't touched him—really touched him—for the last year and a half. That thing on the shoulder… that was nothing, of course, just to get his attention… and I had felt how warm he was even through his shirt and the jacket of his uniform…

 

And what if he wakes up? I mean, he doesn't look like he's going to anytime soon. He looks pretty fucking bad. But if he does, and he feels my hands on him… what will he do?

 

What will I do?

 

I must have crouched there and dithered for close to five minutes, watching his face contort with effort as his breath rattles on its way in and out; I might not ever have moved if the door hadn't opened.

 

I spring to my feet and pull the door shut as one kid, two, enter the room, talking loudly as they do so. My heart leaps into my throat as first I recognize their voices then realize they are talking about me.

 

“… So I told Kanzaki I didn't know where the fuck Takaishi was, and that if he didn't get his ass back to practice soon we'd have to cancel, since it's not like we can run drills without a captain. Not this close to the fucking finals.” It's Mitarashi, my assistant captain on the basketball team. He's not a terribly decent human being. And if I'm not mistaken, the other kid has to be—

 

“But do you know where he is, senpai? Really?” Hirasawa, a first-year student who's practically attached to Mitarashi at the hip. He's on the team, too, if just barely.

 

“Hell no.” I hear the tinny sound of Mitarashi spitting into a sink and grimace. Disgusting. “He just up and disappears during our break.” There's a pause during which I see Hirasawa's feet shift uncomfortably. “It's not like him.”

 

“Umm…” Hirasawa shifts again, coming a little closer to our stall, and I realize with a sickening rush of panic that they won't take much longer to notice Daisuke passed out on the ground, if they haven't already, and my legs along with him… it's a little pathetic, I think, that it's this revelation that causes me to gather him into my arms, almost without thinking about it, and climb onto the toilet seat, crouching there as I hope to God that neither of them heard or saw me.

 

“What?” I hear the click of a lighter and the distinct smell of a cigarette wafts in from under the stall door. I have to suppress a groan; I've been trying to catch Mitarashi smoking for months, and now that I have I can't possibly get him for it…

 

“Um… well, it's stupid,” Hirasawa says, his voice growing quiet in his hesitation. “But…”

 

“Out with it,” Mitarashi says impatiently.

 

“Um… I heard one of the starters say he saw that second-year kid wandering around. You know… that… um…” He swallows audibly. “Motomiya Daisuke.”

 

Every muscle in my body tightens—with rage or anxiety or something else, I don't know. Mitarashi doesn't say anything, but I've already become hyper-alert of everything—including, at last, the boy who has somehow ended up in my arms, his head lolling against my neck as his eyelashes flutter fretfully at my collarbone. His bare skin is hot to the touch—so indescribably hot that, for just a moment, I find myself struggling for breath as genuinely as he is—

 

“So what?” Mitarashi says finally. His voice is cold and quiet as I have never quite heard it before. “You calling Takaishi a faggot or something?”

 

“No!” There's a note of hysteria in his voice, but not for my sake. It's almost sad how he's nearly gone to pieces at the first inkling of disapproval from his idol. “No, o-of course I'm not—I mean—I was just repeating what they—“

 

“So you heard some jerk-offs talking shit about our captain and decided to believe them?” Mitarashi says, still quietly, in what might actually be an attempt to defend me. I can't quite believe it. Hirasawa has begun to babble again, almost incoherently; I can tell from his tone that he's on the verge of bursting into tears.

 

“Are you just going to believe anything anyone tells you?” Mitarashi asks him, his voice sailing easily over Hirasawa's noise.

 

“N-No—I wouldn't—they didn't say—I was just thinking—“ Hirasawa's voice warbles dangerously. “—b-because they were friends in middle school—“

 

You could have heard a pin drop. I grip Daisuke even tighter, my fingers digging into the folds of his uniform—which he must feel on some level, as he lets out a whisper of a sigh and shifts in my arms, his head nestling further into my neck. I nearly fall off the toilet. I feel like I'm going to die—which, honestly, is a decent alternative to what would happen if the two of them find me like this. Of course—Hirasawa went to our middle school. Hirasawa probably knew who I was then, even if I hadn't had the slightest idea he existed.

 

Fuck.

 

“Really?” Mitarashi says, sounding far more interested than he's ever sounded in anything. “You sure?”

 

“Y-Yeah… at least, he hung out with Takaishi-senpai and Yagami Hikari-senpai a lot—Motomiya Daisuke did,” Hirasawa says, his voice growing a little stronger. “He was… you know… normal then, I think.”

 

“Oh.” I can hear the smirk in Mitarashi's voice. “So they dumped him when they found out he sucked cock, huh?”

 

Hirasawa lets out a breathy giggle. “I—I guess.”

 

I don't realize how angry I am until I hear my own teeth grinding. For him just to assume, to say things about us like that without knowing anything… he doesn't know anything about Daisuke or even me, really, or that summer—

 

“Do you hear something?”

 

“I… I don't know… maybe…? Like what?”

 

“I don't know… I just thought I heard a noise…”

 

I freeze. Daisuke shifts in my arms again, but I pay him no mind, positive the noise is my own fault, until a light moan escapes his lips and he begins to stir. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, this isn't happening. There's no possible way I can cover his mouth without dropping him, and even if could… touching his lips like that…

 

Fuck. They're going to catch us, both of them, and there's no possible way I can explain this away—

 

“Probably nothing. This is an old bathroom,” Mitarashi says dismissively, and I thank every deity I can think of for his short attention span. He stamps out his cigarette butt on the grimy floor with one of his feet. “But we should get back to practice anyway. God knows Takaishi'll bitch at us if he came back, even if he's the one who was AWOL…”

Hirasawa makes some obligatory comment, but I barely hear him; they're leaving. They won't catch me in here with the school slut in my arms; I won't have to suffer the scrutiny of the entire student body as I build myself back up from what would have definitely been nothing but a terrible, terribly misunderstanding. It's disgusting how relieved I am. The minute the door clicks shut behind Hirasawa's hand-me-down gym shoes I let out a whoosh of breath I hadn't known I'd been holding; I'm going to walk away from this. Everything will be all right.

 

Until I feel the touch of his fingertips, feather-light against my cheek.

 

I'm so surprised I don't move a muscle—for a second. Then my reflexes kick in and I see rather than feel myself shove him against the stall door. He almost crumples again—almost—but manages somehow to stay on his feet despite his trembling legs. His eyes are open, but barely; he looks confused and disoriented—I would feel bad for treating him like this if he wasn't looking at me. And looking at me.

 

I can't stand him looking at me.

 

“What?” I say defiantly, sitting back on the toilet seat—as far away from him as I can get. “You—you fainted—and these guys I knew came in, and I couldn't let them…“

 

I trail off—`I couldn't let them see me with you' is too harsh, too conceited, even for me—but he doesn't seem to be listening; his eyes drop to the floor and he begins to nod, slowly, as if coming to an agreement with himself.

 

“This,” he says, his voice hoarse but certain, “is a dream.”

 

What? I stare at him—still horrified, still feeling sick to my stomach, but, incredibly, beginning to calm down. Slowly. “A dream?”

 

“Has to be,” he says, looking up and down and all around—before his eyes settle, once again, on me. I shrink back a little, distinctly ashamed of myself even as I do so. “You wouldn't have touched me otherwise. You wouldn't still be here.”

 

My entire body seems to be relaxing under the power of his words, even as I remain aware that this, the two of us talking to one another, face-to-face, is very much reality, even if I had never imagined that it would happen again, even in the darkest of my nightmares. The room seems to be getting steadily hotter, has been ever since I walked in here, and I realize, impossibly, impossibly, that I'm blushing—and the shame begins to curdle in my gut anew. “… Oh.”

 

Does it surprise me that he still dreams about me? I don't know.

 

“You're gonna need to go soon… right?” He says dully, almost methodically, and I wonder how many times a meeting just like this one has happened in the safe confines of his head. He looks flushed, too, although it many very well be just from his illness. I can't really tell. “You always leave. At the end.”

 

“Yes… yes!” I say, getting shakily to my feet. It dawns on me that he's the one giving me a way out, and I can't even begin to fathom how weird this day has become. “I have… um… I have practice… basketball…”

 

I lurch forward, intending to get past him, to escape back into the safety of the ordinary, the mundane, but he reaches out and grabs me by the wrist. “Wait.” His grip isn't strong—it couldn't be, the condition he's in—but the very moment he touches me I can't seem to move. I'm so close… “Just one thing before you leave.”

 

“But…” I swallow hard, willing him to let go of me but unable to pull away. “I need to go… practice…”

 

“You can wait.” He steps towards me—practically staggers into me is more like it, and I can't help the low gasp I let out when his body touches mine—I can tell how dizzy he is, how plain unwell, just by looking into his eyes, but there's something more… “I know you can wait. This is my dream… after all…”

 

I know what he's going to do. I knew the minute he touched my arm—perhaps even the minute I hid him from my teammates—but I couldn't stop it, any of it, and as Daisuke's lips touch mine I feel almost as if this is karma at hand, giving me what I deserve for my last two years of perfect, rose-colored high school life.

 

It's so hot—his rush of breath, his skin, his lips. I don't think I've ever felt so much in my entire life—his hands pressed almost delicately to the sides of my face, the sweat that's breaking out on my forehead, the very movement of the air around us. It's overwhelming. It takes another moment to realize that I'm kissing him back—clumsily but with certainty, as he pushes me against the side of the stall. I can barely breathe. My senses are completely overwhelmed.

 

Daisuke pulls away momentarily, our noses touching and our breath intermingling, but I kiss him again; I can't stand it. I need something to hold on to. His breath hitches and he kisses me back, harder; his fingernails dig into the side of my face as his other hand slides down my neck to finger the zipper of my basketball hoodie.

 

I almost hesitate—almost. But stopping him isn't an option anymore. I can do nothing but stand there with my eyes closed, attached desperately to his mouth, as he slides the zipper down slowly, painstakingly, and I shiver despite the heat.

 

It occurs to me somehow that this isn't exactly fair.

 

I feel the tips of his fingers brush my stomach—they travel down, down, achingly gently, and rest momentarily on the waistband of my sweatpants. My heart is slamming violently in my chest; I have to get him to stop—I need to—but my tongue is otherwise occupied and my body seems almost to lean into his touch, as his hand slips beneath the waistbands of my sweats and my boxers and… and…

 

There are tears in my eyes and my blush is hot and thick and courses across my skin, all-encompassing; I could hardly move if I tried for the shaking. I feel disgusting. This is disgusting, this feeling; it's vile and sickening and I can't help but crave it, the heaving in my chest and the curling heat in my gut. I don't want this. I can't want this, not ever, or the last two years of my life will have been for nothing.

 

Daisuke breaks the kiss again, inhaling with a soft, breathy sound that; I can't seem to identify with the harsh pounding in my ears. Wordless protest escapes my lips, desperate sounds that I can't quite imagine myself making, but he does something with his fingers—something that makes my knees buckle and shocks me into silence.

 

“Takeru,” he murmurs in my ear. Everything stops—my heart, the world, the air around us. “Takeru,” he says again, and there's an edge to his voice that sets my hair on end, “touch me. Please.”

 

It's as if he's said the magic word. My name on his lips. His skin is hot and smooth and perfect under my fingers; my knee slides between his legs and the moan he lets out is electric; we're leaning against each other now as his fingers curl against me, almost cold in the heat, and his name repeats over and over again in my head: Daisuke, Daisuke, Daisuke, Daisuke. I'm kissing the side of his neck, clumsily, harshly, and with every soft touch he stiffens ever so slightly, as if he's not quite expecting it. He feels small in my arms, but I can feel the muscles coursing under his skin. “Daisuke,” I murmur in a broken whisper, sinking my teeth into his neck; “Daisuke… Daisuke…”

 

“Aah,” he moans, curling up against me—

 

And then it's over.