august
It's just the stupidest thing in the world. Jerking off in the dead afternoon heat of late August and not being able to come.
He's sprawled on his back on his bed, the bed that stands in one of the four bare sun-baked rooms he rents, the striped comforter kicked to one side and almost falling off to the floor. The window is thrown wide open but there's no breeze, and the sun that burns its merciless way in just makes matters worse. His forearm rests across his eyes, his fingers curled in a loose fist, sweat rolling out from under where skin touches skin on his face like tears. His (skinny bony stupid ugly) chest is bare, but only because it's so damned hot. The front of his jeans is open, but only so his hand can pull his cock out over the yanked-down waistband of his underwear, pull and squeeze it where it rests against his lower belly, stretch the blood-dark skin under its fingers. His hand is sweaty, and it makes it sticky instead of slippery. The friction is almost too much, almost hurts.
It really is stupid. Every time he starts to feel like he's getting close, the heat overwhelms him; it boils up in his skin and makes him feel sick and dizzy, and his cock starts to wilt and leaves his fist too loose around him and he has to let go for a few seconds, lift his arm off his eyes and stare at the window and cool down and concentrate. And then he starts over again, and gets to the same point, and has to do the same thing. Half an hour later and he's growling, almost sobbing with frustration as he loses it again, thinking about just giving up and quitting this time, peeling out of the rest of his clothes and going to take a shower to try to cool down and calm down, except he needs it so badly, it's like he's almost there, if he could just, just, just.
It's stupid because he's doing all of this and actively refusing to think about one thing, and it's the one thing that he knows, down at the back of his mind, would get him there in an instant. This one thing would win against the heat, would win against the stray thoughts of skinny bony stupid ugly that keep trying to intervene, would drag him into fucking his own hand until he came gasping whether he wanted to or not.
This one thing, and he's too scared.
He lets the circle of his hand go loose, just resting around the base of his cock; he lifts his arm from his eyes and rubs the sweat away, staring at the ceiling. The throbbing in his balls is low and petulant. The pressure on his eyes has made them blurry and sore, and there are little white sparks dancing across his vision. It's just so damned hot. The smooth skin under his hand is clammy and sweaty and feverish; it's gone a little numb, too. He strokes just his fingertips up the base of his shaft, tracing a vein with the blunted edge of his painfully short (so his palms don't bleed every time his hands clench into fists) nail. Trying to sensitize himself again. His cock twitches, a little pulsing shudder, and he finds himself vaguely resenting its existence.
This is stupid.
Really stupid.
A bead of sweat trickles down the side of his neck, and he shivers. He's hard; he's so hard, he's really hard and it seems like he has been for forever now. He wants to come. God I'm so hard god I want to come chases its own tail in circles in his head until the frustration starts taking some of the heat and hardness and duskiness out of the throbbing head of his cock, but that doesn't help, that's worse. He tries another stroke, and neither his cock nor he can be much bothered to care. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
Trapped inside his head, it doesn't bring much satisfaction.
He can't. He's not going to. Every time it happens he feels horrible afterwards, sick to his stomach, appalled with himself. It's embarrassing and awful and so awkward the next day. He really won't. Except he already is.
He already has been all this time, he just hasn't been letting himself do it all at once. Hasn't been letting himself hear it. Letting himself make it real.
Not thinking about any of this, he closes his eyes and puts his arm back across them. It feels a little cooler now, and drier. In the darkness that follows is the way fabric drapes across Tsuzuki's arm as he reaches out across a table for something. There's the V of skin that shows through at the top of Tsuzuki's chest when his shirt is unbuttoned a little. There's the fall of Tsuzuki's hair past the strange color of his eyes.
There's a comment or two that probably weren't supposed to sound anything but innocent. There's a couple very deliberate, silly flirtations. There's Tsuzuki's arm around his shoulders, and then -- enormous and hot -- there's Tsuzuki's hands being moved by a demon, his own body trapped between Tsuzuki's body and a window, Tsuzuki's hands pulling fabric underneath their palms like skin stretches under his own fingers now as they pet his chest, as one strokes its way up his thigh.
Incidentally, he doesn't know when his hand started jerking on his cock again. Or when his breath started turning into those gasps that just keep getting shallower and faster.
And now maybe the demon is gone. Maybe they're just Tsuzuki's hands. Maybe they're not just sliding around on fabric but opening it up and reaching inside, and Tsuzuki's hands are Tsuzuki's hands and one is right where Hisoka's is now, doing everything Hisoka's hand is, and tugging on him and pulling at him until he writhes until he begs until he screams until he comes --
Until he comes.
The fast shallow gasps stop altogether for a second, and he makes a little strangling noise through his clenched teeth as a little more hot and sticky and wet spills over his hand and over his belly. He doesn't even feel it. Time has pretty much stopped.
And then he starts breathing again with a huffing sigh as all his locked-up muscles go limp and drop him back on the bed.
After a few moments, he pulls his arm away and looks up at the ceiling again. It feels like a bit of a breeze is starting; it cools all the sweat plastering his hair to his face, his jeans to his legs. He shivers. Time to reconsider that shower, maybe.
There's some perfectly logical explanation for all this. He's sure of it.