Breathless
Joker Game © Yanagi Koji
I do not gain any profit from writing this fanfiction.
Breathless—that's how you are when Miyoshi smiles, curling his lips, drawling out your name, "Sakuma-san."
You used to think that the most beautiful things were something like the canopies of cherry blossoms in spring, or diamond-like stars spread over the night sky in the countryside; the sweetest of taste is the confectionaries sold at those small shops, lined up along the old street by the river near where you live; the worst of heat was the scalding onsen, at the height of summer while the festivals are lively and the streets are merry.
But when his hand latches onto your tie, pulling you closer, you know nothing compares to the glimmer in his eyes as they light up. More than any stars, more than any diamonds, you can almost see them shine even while his eyelids are closed, and slowly, excruciatingly, effacing the distance between you two.
Miyoshi's lips are soft and saccharine, dangerous yet addicting. They're bad for your health but there's no helping it; from childish pecks on the cheeks to fiery kisses; you surrender with lungs screaming and mind pausing. He knows exactly how to defeat, and he blithely drowns you in every breath.
It's almost unfair how he has these tiny fires on the tips of his fingers, smoldering everything they touch as he trails along the front of your shirt, leaving burn scars in spots where they meet your naked skin.
You hate him for the way he teases, and you despise the time he makes you wait, nevertheless in the little, perfect world that is your dim room, Miyoshi always takes control. Then damn your poor soul, Sakuma, for always letting him put the rein on you. But do you mind, or do you even care? There's always something malfunctioning inside you every time his teeth scrape your neck after all, and all you can think about is the torridness engulfing and how pleasant Miyoshi's perfume as his body presses fervidly against yours.
Placing ardent kisses to your jaw, he asks exultantly, "Tell me what you want."
"Miyoshi," hands unbuttoning his waistcoat, "you."
He chuckles, almost innocently, and for a moment you think that's how so-called angels would laugh, but who are you trying to fool? Before you is obviously the devil—without his horns, but equally treacherous as well as merciless, and he's ruining you in the daintiest way possible. You should've run, Sakuma, far, far away before you even fell. Now is a little too late for that, and both of you know there's no way back. Secluded from the bustling city night and cold alleyways, inside the room where you're revolving and Miyoshi's the axis, everything else blown to oblivion. He turns you a mess, he makes you wither, he drives you insane; and you'll crave and you'll ask and you'll beg, until that bloody ego of his satisfied.
Yet, Miyoshi is ever so erratic.
One moment he is mocking, the next he will be generous. He'll shed his shirt idly, but he'll allow you to undo his belt quickly; he'll let you bury your face in the crook of his neck, while his foot traces your inner thigh. When he smiles, somewhat affectionately, you'll forget that this is the man whose lips always curve cynically. Perhaps you've become too sentimental, but the fluttering feeling inside your chest is something undeniable, and every time you see him laugh you know this is what people call joy. Miyoshi will then run his hand through your hair dearly, sneaks it to your nape, tugs slightly and draws you into fervent kisses. "I want you too," he'll whisper, "Sakuma-san."
Reality turns blurry, everything in your eyes shifts like a montage, it all happens so slowly yet so fast, until somehow, he'll gracefully place his legs on the sides of your waist, granting what you yearn.
On nights like these you always want to shower him with praises, telling him how wonderful he looks, spilling out just how much you love every little part of him. You wish you could tell him your crazy ideas—leaving the army, cutting ties with the agency, escaping to the rural area together where the war won't ever reach. If only you could tell that you'd be ready to let go anything, if only you could tell that country and honor and everything do not matter anymore when compared to him; if only you could tell, if only he'd say yes.
Even so, in between the pants and the grunts, you never say anything, for becoming a soldier is to fight and to protect, not to love, and no matter how tantalizing the notion of having him all for yourself, you know that Miyoshi won't ever give up the life of a spy, even if you had asked him to. You know that he lives for it (and later you find out that he dies for it too); in every moment and every beating of his heart, Miyoshi is a spy down to the tiniest atom of his very existence.
As you cry out his name all of those thoughts will shatter, and in the deafening silence where he tensed before his release you always really want say—please, please, please—then suddenly the world explodes, in scintillating white as you shut your eyes and he bites down your shoulder hard, suppressing any sounds.
.
.
.
When you wake up just before the morning sunlight enters, he's already gone from your embrace. Faintly you hear the sound of running water in the shower, and he'll come out of the bathroom not long after, fresh and handsome, with clothes and hair neatly set. On his way to pick up his suit jacket, Miyoshi will always stop by the bed to plant a kiss on your forehead, "Go back to sleep, Sakuma-san," then another peck to one of your eyelids, "sweet dreams."
In every morning you see his back waning, disappearing behind the door, you mouthed—please, don't go—but he never looks behind, and you'll gradually drift back to sleep, to a dream where you two could be together, freely, blissfully.
Oh then too bad, isn't it, Sakuma? That he steals everything of you, while you can never take all of him away. Too bad that Miyoshi loves back, but never as much as you love him; because he's a monster after all, and monsters do not have hearts.
Breathless—that's how you are when he leaves.