Warning: Contains short flashbacks of sex, most of which involves Yashiro in various positions

For as long as he could remember, there were things in the world that Doumeki Chikara couldn't understand. And that was just fine by him.

He didn't understand why none of his teachers seemed to like him. He didn't understand why the nurse to whom he lost his virginity had come onto him. He didn't understand why his sister developed feelings for him or why his father had violated all the laws of heaven and Earth by sleeping with her. He especially couldn't understand his sister's expression on that awful day. That cold, dead mannequin of a face. Shouldn't she have been clawing that bastard's eyes out of his sockets? Shouldn't she have flailed and raged against God and man alike? Shouldn't -?

Anyway, he didn't understand any of it. And in a way, it was just fine that he didn't understand. Because in all of those situations that were well beyond his capacity for reason, there had only been one obvious course of action.

(In order: try hard in school anyway, fuck the nurse, ignore his sister, beat his father to a bloody pulp and do jail time for it.)

But now, for the first time in his life, Doumeki didn't understand something but wished to God that he did. A great many somethings, in fact, all of which revolved around Yashiro.

For instance, he didn't understand his own evolving feelings of jealousy. He'd always wanted Yashiro, from the first moment of seeing his almost inhumanly graceful figure, that poise and self-confidence.

And yet, the first time he'd seen Yashiro getting fucked (detective on the table, legs spread and being slammed mercilessly), he'd only felt the need to protect. Which, really, is why he pulled the guy off him and worked up the nerve to speak to Yashiro for the first time.

Are you okay? Followed by Of course I'm fine, you moron. An auspicious start.

Time Number 2 was with someone he couldn't recall (detective again?) and all he felt was awkward. (Yashiro facing Doumeki on the couch, the guy behind him, slamming him mercilessly). Just sheer awkwardness. Almost no resentment. And no lust, obviously. His limp fellow down south made sure of that. If anything, he felt relief when he was asked to leave.

The first prick of jealousy was when he threw the door open to Time Number 3 (Yashiro with bound hands up against the window, Ryuuzaki behind him, slamming him mercilessly.) Yes. Okay. That time, it was jealousy. Especially when Yashiro, in that breathless voice of his, a voice that retained that smooth, honey-like quality even when he was being fucked, begged Ryuuzaki not to stop because he hadn't finished.

And then there was fateful Time Number 4. The huge, loathsome cop who was more gorilla than man. That time, it took everything in Doumeki's power to leave the room. To ignore the cries of pain from the other side of the door. It was jealousy, sure, but it had morphed into something else. Something with complicated, tertiary shades he couldn't even begin to analyse.

And so he was left wondering… what had changed? He'd always wanted Boss, even before he was Boss. So why the slow, painful transformation from Time Number 2's awkwardness to Time Number 4's pulsing jealousy-hatred-self-loathing-desire?

He wished he could understand himself because he needed to gather all his wits, even if his wits numbered in the single digits, to make it through what was going to be Time Number 5. Not only did he need to make it through for his own sanity, he also had to make sure he wasn't being a blatantly obvious, jealousy-riddled oaf in front of Yashiro who would probably fire him without skipping a beat.

He prayed Yashiro hadn't noticed and wouldn't notice. He hadn't prayed so hard in his life.

Yashiro, of course, had noticed.

To be fair, it had probably taken him a little (a lot) longer than it should have. But he had finally caught on.

And ever since they dropped the injured Nanahara off at Kageyama's and tussled in the backseat for what felt like hours, Yashiro had been monitoring him closely.

His observations were hampered by live-wire memories of Doumeki's tongue in his ass, the strength of the grip on his ankles and the by-now familiar stroke of that large hand on his cock. And that expression. Always that expression. I want to know what you look like when you're dying to have sex. Hadn't Yashiro wished for exactly that?

The memories made him half-hard even now, days later.

To try to shelve them, Yashiro observed. He kept his face angled so he could watch Doumeki during meetings. He said certain things specifically to test his reactions. It was like throwing a buttery crust and watching the gull creep closer.

He was planning ahead, diligently, to make Time Number 5 as painful for Doumeki as possible.