Chapter Text
“Attention whore.”
It was under his breath, and certainly way too quiet for himself, let alone anyone to hear, but the feeling of the phrase fell nicely out of his lips, slotting through like a fine puzzle piece. In a twisted sort of way, Makoto felt that he was right. Every morning, a new face of awe-filled wonder accompanied by a swishing ponytail is taped to Ryoji’s side, and every afternoon as his eyes catch on the pungent yellow scarf, the girl is discarded; out of rejection or a deficiency of feelings on Ryoji’s part. A hypothesis was by no means difficult.
A slap and a shrill whine from the infamous bachelor snapped Makoto out of his trance.
“Can you NOT flirt with every girl that happens to breathe?”
“Actually, I flirt with gu-“
“Oh don’t tell me you flirt with coffins too!”
While their verbal spar hammered in his ears, Ryoji’s eye contact lingered on Makoto. It meant little, of course, he was only trying to evade Yukari’s relentless slaughter, but a smile broke from Ryoji’s lips and a wink was sent in Makoto’s direction.
“Makotoooo…” He wailed, “You know what it’s like, right? A handsome guy like you who has girls constantly swooning after you! It’s a tough life…”
A sharp huff was pushed from his lips and it escaped his usual, flat tone. He found himself siding with Yukari in the debate, and an unexpected warmth surged from inside him when the boy dramatically collapsed to Makoto’s side, pleading his case. He supposed the weight that pulled on his left arm was manageable for the time being.
Ryoji would hop to a different target sooner or later anyways. And as he skipped his way over to Fuuka, the reality of Ryoji’s shallow purpose kicked at him like an immature child.
*
Makoto found that later on in the weeks, he would notice Ryoji’s beaming presence more often. But, only because Ryoji forced himself into Makoto’s bubbled world. Yukari's one-off comment about Ryoji’s attraction to coffins was apparently some fate-entwined foreshadowing that led to his capture into the death-adorned dark hour and a permanent place in Iwatodai Dorm. His abode of a paltry plain manila room was embellished with the singular coat hanger that exhibited his new SEES uniform. Ryoji’s presence had yet to fill the room, but Makoto knew that in due time, it would. He knew it was too late to object to Ryoji’s presence when he finalised their budget housewarming party and found his own room adjacent to Ryoji’s. He wanted to throw the boy against the wall and watch him meld with the blank slate, becoming an acoustic panel between the two rooms. But, there would be no use in soundproofing a room that barricaded him from no one, huh. He supposed he would have to think that plan through.
*
As if the fragile wall could not contain Ryoji’s vibrant personality, he infiltrated Makoto’s room and made a second home on the end of Makoto’s bed. In these times, Makoto learnt that Ryoji’s favourite subject was humanities, he swayed when he talked about a topic that truly interested him, and his left eye was a more saturated hue of blue than his right eye, but it was only noticeable upon close inspection.
Their hands intersected as they reached for the textbook in tandem, Ryoji’s hands were soft, almost like silk. His fingers were slightly longer than his, and the ends of his fingers possessed evenly trimmed nails. Watching as his index finger glided over the smooth paper, Ryoji nimbly placed his finger on a relevant example.
“What's the deal with this diagram? If-”
“It’s not to scale, Ryoji.”
“Then why did they give us a diagram in the first place?”
Makoto let out a light sigh. “We’re going to use the derivative to solve it-”
“What’s a… der- der what?”
This was going to be a long night. And not the type of long night that Makoto dreamed of.
*
Aside from nights of study and the scaling of floors in Tartarus, the two would often splay themselves on Makoto’s bed. Or, rather, Ryoji would waltz into Makoto’s room with the proclamation that he couldn’t sleep during the dark hour. “Insomnia or something!” he appeased.
Whether it was the fact that the salon of ideas they created took place in the dark hour or not, Makoto found that these conversations would take a detour from the usual array of topics.
“Do you think love can be created?”
Makoto’s eyes widened at the prospect.
“Wh- why do you ask?”
Ryoji ignored Makoto’s question and posed a new one.
“It’s like energy, which can neither be created nor destroyed. Is love an energy?”
“Is this because you’re finally studying instead of chasing girls around the school-”
“Hehe… or maybe, it’s because I’m with you.”
*
Strangling Makoto into a hug, he kneeled before him and presented his coveted maths exam with an “A-” scrawled on it.
“Oh, why… are you showing me?”
“Because I passed, Makoto!”
“...yay-?”
“Come on, Makoto! Show me that cute smile of yours.”
Pulling the corner of Makoto’s lips with his fingers, a smile was forced out of him. While it was a stupid and futile gesture, their faces were viscerally close. Feeling Ryoji's warmth so close sent a jolt through Makoto's chest, and he hastily removed Ryoji's hand from his face, fearing the intensity of his own emotions.
Their hands remained intertwined for a fragment and time broke into shards. Ryoji’s dopey grin softened into an endearing smile with a sinister quality, and his avoidance of the embers in his chest backfired, resulting in a burst of rekindled feelings.
“You promised you would let me do anything if I got an A, remember?”
A swivel of his tongue, the shadows cast from his lashes, and a caress of one’s hands.
“I said within reason, Ryoji. I’m not made of money.”
“Oh? But cost is not the issue here, Makoto. You’re jumping to conclusions.”
“It’s- it’s an A minus.”
“The last time I checked, an A minus contains an A.”
Snapping out of the hazy field cast over his vision, Makoto retorted with more grit than what he intended, and passing students shot judgemental scowls in their direction. What those passerby were unaware of was what truly deserved their scrutiny; the thoughts Makoto would conjure up after a night of relentless study with Ryoji.
*
“I wish I was that textbook.” The internal voice would quip back one night. The way Ryoji’s fingers scrunched at a page that particularly irritated him or how his finger would run along the question worked as a distraction, and Makoto was left frustrated.
He wished to be under Ryoji’s scrutiny; under his watch- under his fingers that would delicately pull him apart.
A voice materialises in his mind, and it whispers softly into his ear.
“Relax, I’m here.”
He imagines Ryoji’s nimble fingers trailing down and a kiss to his chest. Makoto toys with his own nipple, and sighs at the vivid image the action creates.
He brings his own hand to seal his mouth at the immediate noise; it reverberates in the silence of his room. The weight against his lips allows him to ponder ways of which Ryoji would kiss him. Would they be soft and merciful? Or would his fervour have a tantalising bite to it; making quick work of Makoto’s mouth, shoving his tongue down Makoto’s throat.
The wall he leans against is cold, and a shiver is sent through his body. It contrasts the warmth of his hand and the fire in his cheeks. He tilts his head back to let a small sigh slip and he begins to palm at his erection.
The garments produce a soft thud on the floor and his cock is exposed to the steamy air. Wrapping his fingers around it, he fantasises of Ryoji’s supple lips and articulate fingers. Teasing remarks in Ryoji’s voice flood his mind. Whines attempt to free themselves from behind Makoto’s hand, and an ecstasy floods his chest. His vision sways, and the images of Ryoji’s service blend with reality, blurring the line between fact and fiction.
After he cums, pleasure is overridden by the wave of tears that crash over him. Makoto curls up on his bed, furiously wiping it all away. His hand is plastered over his mouth, breaking the sobs that pour out of him. Makoto can feel the shame crush him whole, and all he can do is wail in his disbelief for what he just did.
The boy he just jerked off to peacefully rests in the room adjacent to his.
“What the fuck is wrong with me…”