#sweet surrender

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“This boss fight is killing me,” Shirahama groans.

Behind him, Sasaki hums absentmindedly, which Shirahama takes as, I’m not really listening, but you can keep talking. After all, if he’d meant, I’m not really listening, so stop talking, he would’ve slammed the door in his face. Instead he’d let him into his home with nothing more than a small nod, and once they were in his room he’d sprawled out onto his bed with a deep sigh. Content to let him rest, Shirahama had pulled out his Switch and curled up by the side of the bed. And then he’d opened his mouth.

“It just never shows up within striking distance,” he gripes. “And my long-range cast is terrible. And this stupid—lightning!” He scrambles out of the way of a bolt from above, keeping his HP intact, but the boss remains similarly unscathed. His ice spell is long-ranged, right…? What was it keyed to, again? He fumbles through the controls, and his character performs a spin attack that does nothing but kick up dust. As if to taunt him, the boss comes back into close range, and he chews on his lip as he tries to dodge its attacks.

A voice floats by his ear. “Is this everything you're planning to do today?” Sasaki asks dryly.

“I’m planning on beating it,” Shirahama rebuts. “Once I do, obviously I’ll be doing something different.” That said, he rolls into an attack instead of away, and gets his HP slashed by half as he tries to correct that mistake. He heals off the damage with a spell, but gets cut right back down to size, and with his MP almost drained, he calls it quits and resets.

“I’m so bad at dodging,” he grumbles, and feels the ghost of a laugh tickle his ear. At least his suckage is entertaining someone.

He hunches over his console and continues to babble. “At least the music’s good—but these controls. I can never keep them straight…”

“I liked the one theme from last time,” Sasaki says. “The main district.”

“Very pretty,” Shirahama agrees. He fiddles with his equipment setup a bit, trying to increase his MP reserves, and charges at the boss again. There’s a rhythm to it, even as he keeps failing—block, dodge, run like hell to outpace the big AOE attack, dash back to get a few hits in, take a few hits he shouldn’t, desperately heal so he doesn’t immediately kick the bucket, aim his frustratingly weak ice spell at the boss when it’s out of range of his sword… and die. Reload his save to do it all over again.

Another round of dodges—this time he lands a combo before the boss flies out of reach. Then he dies trying to replicate that success. He clicks his tongue and resets. Sasaki slips down from the bed to sit next to him. Now the pressure’s really on. Shirahama locks in, trying not to look like a total loser in front of Sasaki, and cautiously chips away at the boss’ health. He gets a few hits off with his ice spell, dives out of the way when the boss jumps close, makes a questioning noise when there’s a tug at his sleeve, takes a bad hit, and then a particularly sharp jerk on his arm makes him turn—

Sasaki kisses him. He—he—Shirahama’s brain short-circuits. The Switch falls from his hands and bounces off—somewhere, he doesn’t know, doesn’t care. Sasaki is kissing him, dragging his hands over the lengths of Shirahama’s arms, circling heat around every inch of skin until he has him pinned against the side of the bed. He’s totally surrounded. Everywhere he looks, there’s Sasaki—his body, braced above him and eclipsing his vision, devouring him like the moon to the sun, or the sun to the moon—and Shirahama feels like he’ll burn out trying to reflect it, heat spiking in his stomach and quivering out. He’d kiss him back if he had the bandwidth, but Sasaki doesn’t give him a moment—he just keeps kissing him, pressing his arms deeper into the plush of his mattress. As he gasps for air, Sasaki kisses him again, open-mouthed, and licks—licks!—into his mouth before finally letting him go.

Shirahama falls limp against the bed, leaning the weight of his head on the mattress, and breathes hard. The wood of the bedframe juts awkwardly into his lower back, but he can’t move. His brain feels like it’s bleeding out. “What—” he sputters, thoughts fritzing out into static as he looks to Sasaki.

Sasaki looks—he looks the furthest thing from recalcitrant. Like the cat that’s got its cream. He doesn’t even have to touch Shirahama to keep him pinned. Just this look, and it’s more than enough. In a low voice, Sasaki asks, “What, I can’t kiss you?”

Is he… sulking? “No, uh—you for sure can,” Shirahama assures. He swallows, dry-mouthed. “Just… was surprised. Why?”

Sasaki, bent low, runs a lazy finger over the lines of his palm. Shirahama can’t suppress a shudder. “Well,” Sasaki muses, “you were right there.” Brows furrowed, he peers up at Shirahama. “You didn’t… feel the same?”

That’s definitely a pout on his face. This is bad for Shirahama’s heart. He stammers, “I just—didn’t think about it.”

“Wow,” Sasaki says, completely flat. Under the cover of his thick, dark lashes, his gaze pierces straight through him.

“I—I’m thinking about it now!” Is it possible to flush harder? His face is too hot. He turns away.

Sasaki kisses his jaw.

Shirahama jerks back to face him. He can’t cover anything! “You’re so unfair,” he says.

“You came over to your boyfriend’s place,” Sasaki says. “And you wanted to play video games.”

“Maybe I—maybe I forgot…?”

“You forgot,” Sasaki repeats, judgingly. His hand drifts to Shirahama’s waist. A finger slips under his shirt.

“I—ah—it’s very new.”

“It’s been a week.”

He’s so close. Shirahama can see the gap between the collar of his shirt and his skin. “I’m a terrible boyfriend,” he bemoans.

“That’s right,” Sasaki says. “Ignoring me…” He lets go of Shirahama’s shirt and flicks his forehead. “Annoying.”

With a start, Shirahama realizes that Sasaki’s smiling. And he—he’ll react to anything, he’s terrible. The more he looks at him, at the mean, thin curve of his lips, the black, craving expanse of his dilated pupils, the more he feels overwhelmed. Three years of basketball and Shirahama’s chest didn’t look anything like that… He screws his eyes shut.

Sasaki doesn’t say anything more. Shirahama doesn’t say anything, too, but it’s because he just can’t. He’s totally out of his depth, here. And Sasaki makes him feel totally out of his mind, jeez…

Lips brush against his collarbone.

Shirahama’s breath hitches. The dark is making him hypersensitive. He can feel the texture of Sasaki’s lips, their soft pressure, and the pop of noise when he pulls away. They don’t speak, but he hears the way their breaths intermingle, the rhythm unsteady and stimulating. His heartbeat flutters, and he feels like a furnace that’s going to spill over, heat radiating from his skin in uneven blooms.

A tentative hand settles on Shirahama’s cheek. It’s warm—his blush smooths into an even heat under the touch. Carefully, Sasaki’s fingers brush against Shirahama’s lashes, and come away wet, glistening with stolen tears.

His voice curls, soft and hesitant, around Shirahama’s ears. “…Did I take it too far?” he murmurs.

He needs to jump off the nearest building, stat. Instead he closes his eyes and prays for the sweet release of death.

“No,” he manages to squeeze out. “I’m just—worked up.”

Sasaki stills. “Worked up,” his boyfriend echoes.

Shirahama slowly opens his eyes.

Sasaki is glittering. There’s no other way to describe it—he stares at Shirahama with an awestruck, shining face, lips parted in anticipation. He’s on a teetering edge; Shirahama wants to drive him off it.

The realization strikes: Sasaki likes him. It would be stupid to think otherwise, after Sasaki had told him the truth so directly, but knowing isn’t the same as feeling. Shirahama still remembers the way it had stung when Sasaki had hummed and meant, I want to shut the door in your face, back when he’d clung to him like an awful leech… he’s not sure what had changed, but now that Sasaki wants him, he doesn’t want to deny him anything. So he holds Sasaki’s gaze as best as he can, and begs, “Because… I really want you to kiss me.”

And Sasaki wants what he wants—great, awesome, wonderful—so he pushes him up against the bed again, and kisses him, lips soft and sweet and demanding. Shirahama sinks into the mattress, bedframe digging back into his tailbone, and eagerly responds. He wants to monopolize his attention. Wants to be kissed like he’s being consumed. Sasaki pulls back for a second; Shirahama catches his breath, and then his breath catches when Sasaki moves down to his neck, grazing the skin of his collarbone with his teeth. He tugs at Shirahama’s shirt, pulling the neckline low, and leaves the exposed skin riddled with marks. Shirahama kisses him back—he finally has the breath to do so—and can’t stop kissing him. Each time, it feels like something new. Sometimes Sasaki leans in for a light, closed mouth kiss, sometimes he sucks on Shirahama’s lower lip, sometimes he bites there like Shirahama hasn’t worried it enough, and sometimes his tongue is warm and wet and thrilling, and all of it sends Shirahama dizzy with want. Grappling for purchase, he curls his hands into Sasaki’s T-shirt, and beneath it Sasaki—his boyfriend—is warm and flushed, like his molten insides.

After what feels like hours, they peel themselves apart. Shirahama runs his tongue over his spit-slick lips, and tries, tries, to catch his breath. He has to put his back to Sasaki to have even a chance. Once he’s turned to the side, he buries his face in his hands. Seriously… it should be impossible for it to be that good!

He stays in that position for some time, taking measured breaths until the adrenaline leaves him and reality begins to seep in. His lower back hurts. He hopes the pain fades quickly, because he doesn't want to have to explain—

“Wait,” Shirahama says. “Uh—your sister isn’t here today, is she?”

Silence. Then: “No.” Sasaki’s voice is almost so rough that it’s unrecognizable.

“Oh, good,” Shirahama sighs. “I just—can’t look her in the eye.”

He expects Sasaki to get annoyed, but there’s no response. Shirahama steals a glance back.

Sasaki is faced away, curled over himself, going through the same self-soothing motions—inhaling, exhaling, finding a point of calm. It almost bowls him over again, to know he's responsible. That he can make him feel—like that.

He flicks his gaze away, and his eyes land on his Switch, which lays discarded and forgotten on the floor. He must have disabled the auto-sleep function in the settings, because the display still apathetically glows, YOU DIED.

Taking a loss… it’s not so bad, Shirahama thinks. Maybe very sweet. He gives in and steals another glance. Sasaki’s hair is all mussed up, like a skittish animal has run its claws through it. Shirahama feels a sudden groundswell of affection.

“…Wanna go another round?”

Sasaki’s gaze snaps towards him.

For a moment, Shirahama expects him to pounce, but instead he grins, wide and toothy, and beckons. Shirahama scoots forward, conscious of the way his back is twinging, and tries to find a more comfortable sitting position. Sasaki, perfectly at ease, just hooks his ankle and tangles their legs together. Somehow he manages to do it in a way where none of their knees knock into each other, and the delight in his eyes is so clear that Shirahama wants to hug him. He tips forward, trying to relax his weight against the floor, and places a steadying hand on Sasaki’s thigh.

“…Tease,” Sasaki says.

Shirahama goes a nervous scarlet. He doesn’t move his hand.

Sasaki leans forward. He swears, “I’m going to get my own place.”

Arietta walked into the Internet cafe, with the laptop that Qadir had gotten her. Normally technology was barely allowed, but with her skills with finding people and keeping a low profile. Honestly, she’s been trying to convince Qadir that Camarilla being on the internet isn’t the worse thing. That she could help them with staying on a low profile. If anything, It hurts all kindred being completely off-line.

He would not hear a single word of it.

She sighed and found a spot in the middle of the crowd. Not trying to hide herself and not trying to put herself out right in the front. Someone sat in front of her and she would feel annoyed if she didn’t already know that it’s Julia. She glanced up at her, she already had a cigarette in between her lips.

“This is a non-smoking establishment,” Arietta told her friend dryly. She had her laptop booted up and ready to go, this is a burner laptop. Something strong enough for what she needed it to do, but in the same hand. Something she can toss afterwards.

She had another one back at her haven with Qadir, she got it after her embrace and with her own money. She had to get rid of her old laptop. Well she left it behind when she died. But she didn’t need to hold onto material things. Besides, all of her belongings were tied to her living life. Qadir admitted to being surprised with how well she dropped everything from her past life.

“Oh, are you going to call security on me,” Julia remarked, voice snide.