~2000 words :: Bakuman :: Mashiro/Takagi :: 12/25/08
Akito’s pretty sure there’s never a good time to tell your best friend you’ve had the hots for him forever. (Note: This was translated into Russian by vanillemony.)
See, this. This is exactly the sort of thing Akito doesn’t need to see.
Saiko is crashed out on the tiny sofa, one leg up on the sofa arm and the other hanging over the edge. It’s not an unusual sight, not these days. They’ve been spending so much time holed up in the studio, catching a few hours’ sleep when they can. Hell, they’ve probably spent more time here this past year than they have at home.
So it’s not the fact that Saiko’s asleep on the sofa that’s the problem. It’s not even the way his shirt’s ridden up or the way his mouth falls open enticingly. Akito’s used to that, too. It’s wank-fodder, sure, but it’s not a problem in and of itself.
No, the problem is those track pants, or rather, the way they do nothing to hide the morning wood he’s sporting.
Why couldn’t he be wearing jeans? Nice, thick denim. Friend to teenage boys everywhere. A long shirt would be good, too. Maybe a sweatshirt over that. A blanket, or better yet, a quilt. The list goes on. The point being, clearly he could have taken precautions against this.
Of course, Akito doesn’t have to sit here watching him. He’s not tired enough that he can fall asleep in the armchair, so he might as well just go back to his desk and get some work done. Except anything he’s likely to write now is not exactly Jump material.
He’s pretty sure there’s no room in any of the stories they’ve tried, cult or mainstream, for one character straddling another on the sofa and riding his dick, and he’s even more sure Saiko isn’t going to want to suddenly start writing yaoi. For one thing, there’d be no roles for Azuki.
He takes off his glasses, rubs his eyes and the bridge of his nose. Saiko is now a blurry shape on the blurry sofa. A blurry shape with an erection. Fucking hell. His eyesight couldn’t be just a little worse? Enough to not see that?
Closing his eyes, he lets his head loll back, slouches down further in the chair and props his feet up on the coffee table. He sets his glasses down on the arm of the chair and crosses his arms. He kind of wishes he’d turned the light off, but it’s not worth getting up for. The only sound is Saiko’s snoring.
Tomorrow is Sunday. Today, rather. It’s closer to dawn than midnight. Miyoshi’ll probably be over. Fun. Akito’s still not sure how he ended up with a girlfriend, but it sure didn’t feel like he had any say in the matter.
There’s an mmph and a rustle from the sofa, and Akito turns his head, cheek resting against the worn fabric. He cracks open one eye. Saiko is now curled up with his back facing out, and Akito registers where Saiko’s hand is about a second before a low moan and hitched breath confirm his suspicions.
He closes his eyes, squeezes them shut, even as he’s wishing he had his glasses on. He draws his knees up, scooches around in the chair as quietly as he can until he’s facing away. He should have gone back to his desk when he had the chance, but even if he had, he’d still have to hear it.
It’s the longest two minutes of his life.
The room’s quiet after. He can’t tell if Saiko’s still asleep, but there’s no more snoring, no more slow, even breathing. Akito’s face feels hot. He bites his lip, willing his hard-on to go away. He should have worn jeans, too.
It feels like the world is holding its breath, like time has stopped. If he were to get up and go out to the balcony, there’d be a bird hanging in midair, cars stopped in the middle of the street. He should write a story like that.
Plotting it out distracts him long enough for his erection to fade. Saiko is still (probably) pretending to be asleep. It’s been maybe half an hour. Or maybe it’s been a hundred years and the world is all changed around them. He should write that, too, but it’s been done to death. (He still makes a mental note.)
He should stretch and yawn, get up without looking at Saiko and shuffle back over to his desk. It wouldn’t fool anyone, but maybe then they could pretend. The stretching wouldn’t be fake anyway, not after being all cramped up in this chair.
Instead he says, “Saiko?” He meant to sound casual, but his voice cracks the way it hasn’t done in months. There’s no answer, but that just makes him even more sure Saiko’s not actually asleep. “D’you think about Azuki when you jerk off?” His voice comes out right this time. Bright, teasing. Like he’s not dead curious, like he’s not getting hard again just thinking about it.
“Of course not!” Saiko practically shouts.
“She’s not… She’s not that kind of girl.” His voice is muffled like he’s talking into the sofa cushions. “She’s too pure. I don’t want to think about her that way.”
“But you want to marry her.”
Akito’s always thought Saiko and Azuki’s relationship was kind of ridiculous, but this takes the cake. For some reason Akito wants to punch him in the face.
He doesn’t say anything. Neither does Saiko. It’s pretty much the most awkward silence ever.
After like ten years or something, Akito gets up like he should have done to begin with. He puts his arms above his head and stretches until he feels his spine pop. He puts his glasses on and the sudden lack of blurriness makes him feel oddly defenseless.
He’s halfway back to his desk when Saiko says, “Do you?”
“When you jerk off.” The words are muffled still.
Akito nearly trips on his own feet. He sits down in his chair with a thump, whacking his elbow hard against his desk. “Shit,” he mutters, rubbing his elbow. He picks up his pencil and stares blankly at the half-filled page. He can’t even remember what he was going to write next. “Why would I think about Azuki?”
“I meant Miyoshi,” Saiko says into the sofa cushions. “You know I meant Miyoshi.”
“No.” It’s not a lie. It feels like the most truthful thing he’s ever said.
He can hear Saiko moving around, maybe sitting up, because his voice isn’t muffled this time. “Wait, what?”
“What do you mean ‘what’?” Akito tries not to picture Saiko with his mouth open in surprise, his cheeks red and his hair sticking up funny from sleep. It doesn’t work at all. He quickly erases a really bad drawing of Saiko with a dick in his mouth.
“But you guys are going out.”
“So who do you fantasize about, then?”
Akito shrugs. “You know.”
“I just…no one, okay?” he snaps. “Girls in Playboy or something, I don’t know.”
“I don’t know why we’re even talking about this,” Akito says, shoving his chair back and spinning around. Saiko is looking as stupidly sexy as he’d imagined. Saiko with his stupid ideas of romance like some ancient shoujo manga. Saiko who imagines himself in love with someone he’s barely even talked to. Saiko with his bizarrely chaste obsession with marriage.
Saiko who’s sitting there looking totally lost. His mouth opens and closes soundlessly and he looks down. “I don’t know,” he says quietly, and when he looks up again, his mouth is set, his eyebrows drawn together. He glares at Akito. “You brought it up.”
“You know what you need?” Akito says, standing up suddenly.
He flops down on the sofa next to Saiko. Sitting sideways like this, their knees touch. This is probably the stupidest idea ever, but it’s not like he can just tell Saiko the truth. He’s pretty sure there’s never a good time to tell your best friend you’ve had the hots for him forever, so instead he says, “You need experience.”
“What do you-” Saiko says, but his cheeks are red.
“You know what I mean.” Akito scoots a little closer, puts a hand on Saiko’s thigh and leans in. “Girls want a guy who’s experienced. They want someone who can take the lead, show them what to do.”
“It’s what she’ll be expecting.”
“But I, I don’t,” Saiko chews his lip, “I don’t want to cheat on her,” he pleads, his voice rising like it’s a question.
Akito looks him in the eye. His heart is racing. “It’s not cheating if it’s with another guy.” If Saiko doesn’t go for it, he can always laugh it off, say it was a joke.
But Saiko just looks relieved, like it’s the answer he was waiting for. He says, “Right,” and, “of course,” and against Akito’s lips, he says, “I’m in love with her.”
Akito’s never kissed anyone before, but he knows enough to tilt his head a little so there’s no nose smashing. Their teeth clack together, though, and he can’t seem to get the hang of the tongue thing and his glasses are getting smudged. “Let me,” he says, trying to get them off without pulling away. “Hang on, let me…”
He feels around for the table, sets them down. This close, Saiko isn’t blurry at all. Saiko kisses him hard, leaning forward a little, and Akito loses his balance and falls back against the other end of the sofa with Saiko on top of him. He thunks his head on the sofa arm and his lip gets caught between Saiko’s teeth, but it’s really not bad, not when he can feel Saiko’s dick hard against his thigh.
He arches up, rutting against Saiko as they kiss. He works one hand between them and reaches into Saiko’s pants. His underwear’s clammy with jizz from before, but his dick is warm. Saiko’s got his hand in Akito’s pants now, too, his forehead resting on Akito’s shoulder as they jerk each other off. It’s only the awkward angle and the way Saiko keeps getting him almost there and then fumbling, adjusting his grip, that keeps Akito from coming on the spot.
It still doesn’t take very long. He keeps thrusting, Saiko’s palm wet with sweat and precome, and then he stiffens, bites his lip and holds his breath as he comes in Saiko’s hand. His grip loosens and Saiko makes a little whining noise and says, “Come on, I’m almost…I’m almost,” and then he’s coming, too, jizz shooting between Akito’s fingers and onto their clothes.
“Shit,” Akito mutters. He doesn’t know where to wipe his hand.
Saiko pushes himself up a little, hand smearing across Akito’s belly when he pulls it out of his pants. He’s still close enough to be in focus. He’s already looking away. He says, “I’ll get some tissues.”
And then he’s gone. It’s getting light outside. Akito fumbles for his glasses with his clean hand.
They wipe themselves up in silence. Saiko pulls his pants down, steps out of his soggy underwear. It’s the first time Akito’s seen his dick, and he tries not to stare. He says, “We should keep some extra clothes here.”
“Yeah.” Saiko pulls his pants back up, balls up his underwear and shoves them in his backpack. “We should get back to work.”
Akito runs his hand through his hair. He pads over to his desk and sits down, spins the chair a couple times before settling in. He can already hear the scritch-scratch of Saiko’s pen moving over the paper. He sighs and pushes his glasses up to rub the bridge of his nose. They’ve only got six months to come up with something that’ll convince Mr. Hattori, and Saiko’s been even more impatient since the news of Azuki’s debut. He’s got to come up with something good if he doesn’t want to let Saiko down.
No, not just good, fucking brilliant.
He crumples up the page he was working on and starts again.