The smell of blood is heavy in the air–the taste of it is metallic on Haruki’s tongue each time he breathes in. If he looks down, he can see the young woman who’d tried to stab him to escape from the game, her throat slit and her eyes wide open and staring–so he can’t look down, he doesn’t look down; he looks up instead, first at the ceiling, and then closing his eyes tightly. He can’t stop shaking.
“Haruki,” Gara murmurs to him, and his hands are both rough and gentle as they pass over Haruki’s hair, across his face, down his body. “Haruki, you’re all right, you’re all right–”
A noise like a sob tears from Haruki’s throat. He throws his arms around Gara’s shoulders and presses his face into the man’s chest. Here it smells like sweat and leather, and it’s almost–almost–enough to drown out the stink of blood. He gasps for breath and claws at his Bishop’s shoulders, his own legs suddenly too weak to hold himself up.
“Please,” he gasps, and he’s not quite sure what he’s asking for. “Please, please–” He forces his eyes open and finds Gara’s face stunningly close, so close that if he stretches just a little, they can touch.
“Please,” he whispers again, then lets his weight hang on his arms, off Gara’s neck–lets himself go limp as Gara makes a noise akin to a growl and moves finally. Haruki’s always been aware of Gara’s strength in a distant way–under the heavy black coat, his arms are solid with muscle–but he is now acutely aware of it in an immediate sort of way as he is lifted, his back pressed up against the wall. One of Gara’s hands slides down low on his back to support him in the fumbling seconds it takes to wrap his legs around Gara’s hips, and then he is being kissed, hard enough that he tastes blood again–but it’s his blood, sharp on his lips in the seconds before that small injury heals itself, and Gara’s other hand is in his hair, clenching so tightly it very nearly hurts.
Haruki has been kissed once before–in his last year of middle school, on the last day, a girl had left a note in his locker and met him behind the school. She had been lovely, soft and delicate and smelling of vague florals, and Haruki had genuinely regretted turning her down–she’d accepted with grace, but as she had walked past him, she’d stopped long enough to stretch onto her toes, kissing the corner of her mouth before fleeing. It was something he’d told Kazuki about later, as they walked home, and Kazuki had just laughed.
“It’s ’cause the guy is supposed to kiss the girl,” he’d said, with his normal breezy confidence that the world would resolve itself the way he wanted. “Otherwise it’s just too weird! You’ll have to take the initiative next time, Haruki! –But only if the girl’s worth it,” and Kazuki had frowned then, as if the implication was suddenly just sinking in. “It has to be someone special! All right? Don’t kiss any girls unless I give them the okay, first!”
At the time, Haruki had laughed it off, somewhere between fond amusement and exasperation. It had never come up again, and though other girls had confessed during their first year as highschoolers, none had ever been as daring as that first.
And that girl had been nothing like Gara now, muttering things into Haruki’s mouth that weren’t even exactly words, but low rough expletives; he pulls away only long enough to yank off his gloves with his teeth, so that the hand he drags down Haruki’s chest, ripping several buttons on the way, is bare, so that it’s naked skin on naked skin as he kisses Haruki again, making a low rumbly noise of pleased encouragement when Haruki slides his own hands into Gara’s hair and holds on, kissing back with the clumsy eager desperation of the inexperienced.
“Please,” he gasps again, and makes a strangled noise when Gara gets his pants open, when fingers callused by knives and swords wraps around his cock and pumps hard and fast. He squeezes his eyes shut again, tightening his legs around Gara’s hips. “I want–”
“Not like that,” Gara rumbles; his voice is nearly unintelligible, a growl against Haruki’s mouth. He lets go, takes away that lovely harsh pressure as Haruki’s hips pitch and roll desperately. “No, Haruki.”
Haruki snarls himself and yanks at Gara’s hair. “I said–”
“S’gonna hurt,” Gara mutters, shifting to do something with his free hand, with one cupped under Haruki’s ass to keep him up in the air. “Not gonna.”
“I’ll get better,” Haruki nearly shouts, and even in his fogged state, he can hear the tinge of hysteria to his own voice. “I’m your King, I’ll get better, I’m order–”
Gara kisses him hard again, biting down hard on his lower lip and worrying at it, and then his hand wraps around Haruki’s cock again. There is another presence there, smooth and hot and hard, and Haruki realizes with a start that it’s Gara’s cock pressed up against his own, moving with him when he rocks–and then Gara’s hand moves again, fast and rough, kissing away the cries that Haruki can’t help but let out. It hurts in a way, but he wants more of it–he wants things that make him forget the smell of someone else’s blood, or the empty-eyed people whose bodies scatter the floor around them–the more it hurts, the better it feels, and the less he can remember how Kazuki’s eyes looked that one summer afternoon, when he’d promised to screen any girl who’d try to get close to Haruki, and all Haruki had wanted to do was wrap himself around his friend and never let go–
He comes with a force that startles him; he slams his head back hard against the wall and the name that escapes him is more a sob than anything else. He twists his fingers punishingly hard in Gara’s hair, then lets himself go completely limp. The adrenaline and desperation of the moment fade, and he’s suddenly so tired that it’s an effort to keep his arms and legs hooked in place around Gara’s body. He tries–he does–but the strength leaves him, and as it does, strong arms wrap around him again, cradling his body with a tenderness out of place from the violence of before. The kiss that is pressed to his lips is delicate, worshipful.
“You are my King,” he hears Gara’s voice murmur. “But there are still some things I can’t do.”
Those rough hands are gentle now, holding him like he’s something precious, and Haruki moans once, and lets himself sleep.