Chapter 1: Wicked Game
It was bloody fucking hot, that's what it was.
Long roads of asphalt shimmered under the parching sun and formed the mirage of a melting world. Angry tongues of celestial plasma were lashing out against his skin and raiding the insides of his pores. 'great.'
The temperature shown on the thermometer was'are–you–bloody–joking?!' and the object was about to pop like Sid Vicious on cocaine. 'Bloody Terrific.'
Like hell will Yamato miss a match, though. Especially for such a bogus reason. He slapped on the densest sunblock the pharmacy had on sale and parked his posterior in his favourite seat. Namely – the very front, yet somewhat secluded section, of the stands.
The spot was rimmed by a fence tall enough for him to rest his elbows on, and always had some water company's sponsor advert – or whatever – dangling from it. From here, he had a perfect view of everything happening on the field. And more importantly, a perfect view of everybody on the field.
And even more importantly – of every bodyon it.
It's not that he was such a huge football fan or anything. Sure, when Yamato played, it was the shit. He'd let Taichi drag him out on some weekends to score some goals. But, altogether, watching twenty-two ugly mugs chasing down a ball like dogs while passing it around like pigeon-shit-related diseases was mostly boring – at least in regards to the game itself.
No, his reasons for challenging the wrath of summer's burning afternoon involved the aforementioned.
There are some things two people simply can't go through together without becoming as close as friends can get without being surgically attached. Saving worlds, adventuring, sleeping the bare minimum of CM apart, taking shits next to each other, and limping home bloody together while scaring old people along the way tended to be a few of those things.
Plus, Sora will be making her debut as a goalie after not having played in a competitive match for about – 'what? Nine years? Maybe eight if luck is on her side?' Yamato thought, trying to do the maths.
Maybe it was a one-time gig and she wouldn't have been here if she hadn't lost that bet to Taichi all those months ago – 'which kinda meant luck is not on her side, no?' – but she was determined to keep her word.
Ergo, showing support was a must and Yamato would sit right here and share his personal space with football hooligans: a bunch of blokes who smelt about as good as an eviscerated road-kill did after an unfortunate encounter with a zoo-necrophiliac. Only these casuals were louder and had firms that'd smash your legs into smithereens mid some aggro, if they didn't like your face.
'What was it about anyway?' Yamato rolled the small titanium pole piercing his tongue around in his mouth. Once, then twice . It tasted of metal; the iron inside blood. A good taste. 'Something idiotic. It's always something idiotic.'
His other motives were of a much less innocent and much baser nature. Hence, his favourite sitting spot. The ad there managed to cover him from the waist down. He could grind himself against a strategically placed metal pole and stay inconspicuous while ogling the busybodies on the field and getting himself off. And undressing some of them with the miraculous power of imagination.
Yamato fought his facial muscles to stop his depraved stream of thought from showing. Really, just being here had addled his brain. As though he turned on a television in his head and it was set on the adult channel, replacing whatever he was seeing with a movie screen playing 'The Giant Penis That Invaded New York.'
And in case a random yob out there was peeing himself – no, Yamato didn't have some prejudice against boobs. Or against any other organs exclusive to the female anatomy for that matter. Vaginas were all right. They were cute. It's just that on match days he most definitely came for the cocks, dicks, todgers, huis, shafts, poles, members, instruments of mass insemination, tools of ass destruction – and whatever other witty analogies existed to describe what was, essentially, a penis. Call it a preference.
Yup, he could recite the entire scene from Four Rooms right about now – the one where the woman was tied to a chair 'cause she and her husband were kinky that way.
The sharp blow of a whistle pierced through the air and the players were taking the field. Woohoo!
One after the other, muscular, athletic blokes shuffled into the grass with those sinfully small shorts and knee-high socks, waving to the audience.
Then, finally, Taichi, the proud captain of the team and the ace striker, joined in with the rest of the players and Sora in tow.
Brown eyes darted to the place where Taichi expected to see the golden-sunset shine of messy, silken hair.
Sure enough, he met a poignant stare and a distinct smile meant for him only. Few things touched Taichi the way it did.
Taichi always thought Yamato had a nice smile and that he should show more of it, but he'd never tell him that. That bastard was a bit shyer than he initially let on and this shyness often translated to aggression which turned into 'what can't be solved with violence, can be solved with great deal o' violence' and someone got kicked in the yarbles.
Taichi grinned, flashing a row of pearly-whites which had the capacity to blind a blind person further.
No exaggerations intended, but Taichi had a smile so bright it could tempt sunshine to come out of the clouds during a monsoon. Yamato was putty.
The pixie-faced captain raised his fist Yamato's way, shaped into the devil horns, before checking around to see who else arrived.
Once satisfied, he turned to Sora, gave her a long, supportive squeeze on the shoulder and pointed in Yamato's direction.
The friendly presence seemed to buy her confidence back and lift her mood some. She waved at Yamato as she approached the net she was supposed to guard.
And the match was on!
While everyone was keeping score and cheering for their respective teams, Yamato's concentration wandered between the players themselves. More specifically – the extent of his gaze narrowed down to the zone of their crotches for some basket shopping. Those stiff bulges, sweaty, steamy and warm, doused with that particular scent of everything Man.
He squirmed in his seat. His sweat, mingled with the first renegade drops of his happy, viscous fluid, was amounting to a wet, though not entirely unpleasant, experience.
And then there was Taichi – a true, prime specimen, blissfully unaware of any of Yamato's perversions, aimed at him or otherwise. He was effortlessly sexy; tight cords of rough flesh sheathed in a sun-kissed skin of molten coffee. Taichi was running now, panting from the exertion, and charisma poured out of every orifice in his body.
For future reference, what Yamato should consider is visiting the team's practises. Then he'll get to see them doing stretches. Maybe even watch Taichi's shorts ride up into the paler sections of his thighs during a split. Yes, Taichi was bendy. Yamato could suggest giving Taichi a ride home and revel in the gentle fragrance Mr. Football Star emitted when he was fresh from the shower. The one his sweaty, naked, shiny self takes, with a few other well fit blokes, after he's done looking like a babe on the field.
With the lack of handy Blistex, Yamato swapped his tongue over his lips, using spit as grease against the dryness in his mouth. How will it be like to have Taichi pant for utterly different reasons?
It was a fantasy Yamato entertained a little. No, scratch that – a lot. He entertained it a lot. To have that godly body, slick with sweat, pressed against him from behind, hands running over bare skin and teeth nipping, buried in him, stroking him from the inside and filling him up.
Yamato sighed, letting off steam. He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment the concept of fucking his best friend had become... well… a thing.
He saw Taichi grow from a pushy, bratty kid who played 'follow the leader' into the real thing and, in turn, into a poised, intelligent and confident man, who was as easy to smile as he was easy to get all hot-blooded. The kind of man who commanded the attention and affection of every person he met along the way with his radiating cheer, which was absolutely charming, and a huge, kind heart. He saw Taichi, no matter how many times Yamato yelled at him, ignored him or took a hard one at his face without pulling the blow, come back to him.
As far as Yamato could tell, the seed of the idea had probably almost always been there and simply, organically, blossomed into fruition along with his genitals.
Who knows? Maybe it was because he and Taichi spent such a long time together under intense conditions. Maybe it was how they were forced to open up to each other or polish their communication skills. And maybe, just maybe, all those fights they used to have were an excuse to touch each other in ways which were simply unacceptable on any other terms.
When it comes down to it, hormones are brainless proteins, peptides, and steroids which disregard the nuances of the actual situation. They don't know if you're all hot and bothered because you're livid over someone who's utterly in your face, and are about to punch them silly to get them off of you during a fight, or if it's because said someone's body is warm and close and is pinning you to the ground.
They don't know where all that frustration is from. Yamato didn't know either. After he hit puberty, they hit him. And they hit hard. Then all the lines connected and he figured it out.
It can't be fixed, but he can't resist.
Not that he ever talked about it – fuck no! Not even with Gabumon. The moment Yamato blabbed about it and it got in anyone else's head, he won't be allowed to ignore it. It would become a real thing and if it became a real thing, he'd have to confront t. It was all Descartes-like and a headache.
Yeah, it killed him just a bit more every day to murder these – Needs? Urges? Emotions? – and inhume them where no one could find them. Keeping Taichi out of it was worse.
At some point, Yamato started sharing whole pieces of his life with Taichi. Yamato thought Taichi tried doing the same. Or he hoped.
The initiative was Taichi's. Two years ago he wouldn't shut his maw about it: that he and Yamato'd really talk about what was happening in their lives. Silly, seemingly meaningless things too. Just to talk to each other as much as they can. The concept was that if they were put against a crisis or another war again, they would know how to better react to each other. There were other incentives: they could be together more; it was less lonely. They won't "fight wars alone" – that's what Taichi had said. So Yamato'd expected Taichi to get royally pissed off at him for not telling Taichi how much he wanted him.
It was never intended to be some big fucking secret and Yamato sure as fuck didn't want it to be one. Who needs this shit, right? Yamato wanted to tell him, and made practical plans around telling him, but then he just… didn't.
But such is life. Boo-motherfucking-hoo. So what? Better people than him had worse problems in the world.
And why didn't he flat out tell Taichi if he was such an incredible and understanding friend? Because it would have been bloody stupid – that's why!
Yamato spent some good few years, after returning from the Digital World, convincing himself he was having a phase of pre-pubescent hormonal bouts. By the time that theory finally crashed and he was ready to tell Taichi, Taichi was already busy hooking up with the best samples the opposite sex had to offer, and only those, while affirming his heterosexuality. Affirming it over and over and over and over again.
So why should Yamato bother? His mummy didn't feed him Idiot breastmilk when he popped into the world.
Yeah, at first it hurt about as much as one could expect of the nasty blend between emotional cock-blocking and sexual frustration studded lavishly with guilt. But the real dick there was that, in some place… in some place it hurt so bloody much because Taichi was not some "ladies man". He was nothing, nothing like that. Taichi… Taichi was in a different place than most people. He did things for his own Yamato's friendship with Taichi was the only thing that mattered to Yamato. So all the shite feeling? Yamato got used to it – employing the repression skills he learned during his parents' divorce.
The pain ebbed into the background of his mind till it faded into yet another one of those flat notes belonging to the soundtrack of a person's life.
Still, even now, even after everything – and maybe because of it – there is not a single nucleic acid in Taichi's DNA Yamato will ever want to change. Taichi was like no one else.
Sure, business got ugly sometimes, and Yamato would take the credit for being the instigator for a good 95% of those incidents. There was something about Taichi that used to irk Yamato so bad it gave him an itch and they pissed each other off like only few others could. They almost beat the living shit out of one another once and exchanged every single insult the darkest corners of the Internet had to offer sans swears which included the other's mother.
Usually they bridged their differences and sometimes they didn't. Thing is, when you fight someone you get to learn everything there is to know about each other sooner or later. There are magnitudes of mutual respect to gain from that.
He and Taichi were the polar ends of a magnet, and Newton's Third in manifest. Side by side, they were unbeatable. Can't beat the laws of physics, right?
Best friend, brother in arms – blud. No-one, no-one other than Gabumon, contained him the way Taichi did. Yamato had good friends who he cherished, a brother who meant the world to him, and parents he thankfully got along with at the end of the day. But he didn't find words for the feelings he had. They were too amorphous. Nothing else he knew could compare. As a musician who wrote his own lyrics, that was a big, frustrating sore in his arse.
He wanted Taichi in the physical sense, but at the same time – that wasn't the end he cared about the most. They were so close. Their unconventional friendship, the intimate relationship they forged for themselves in it, was a bond they hadn't recreated with anyone else. For Yamato, that casual intimacy they shared, and the natural way they carried it for so many years, and through so many battles under such extraordinary circumstances, had made the borders which were usually used to divide relationships into types melt away. Melt into either secondary or plainly irrelevant concepts. His feelings were not romantic or sexual or familial or even singularly friendly. They were, but they also weren't. He just loved him, unconditionally, somehow. Somehow which was entirely their own.
That was just how they were connected to one another. Not everything has to be defined; some things have a right to exist all by themselves.
Otherwise, Yamato was not too selective about the trivialities of gender or sex. As far as he was concerned, he cared for what was between a person's ears rather than what was between their legs.
Which is where his problems started – most people had nothing between their ears. So, contrary to popular belief, he was not humping everything that moved like some slaphappy rabbit.
Although he wasn't a prude or anything either. There were many people.
Yamato saw the back seats of many cars, went down on all fours beneath many desks, pleased behind many stages, and visited more by-the-hour motels than he cared to remember. The gym's-shower-rooms epiphanies he had at thirteen because of Taichi – he lived them out in a world of black coffee, cigarettes and random sex. And he didn't have to be attracted to anyone or even like them. They served a purpose, just like he did. They weren't that good, but he fucked them anyway. Then everyone went their separate ways. Was he proud of any of that? Barely. Sometimes, though, that's just how life ends up being.
He didn't care much for labels either. If anybody asked, he liked to think he'd reply that both he and his libido were liberal with their tastes, and that his sexual deviance had no filters. Straight, gay, bi, whatever – at the end of the day, those were just a tiny part of a bigger, meaner family of labels. Labels that some people hung on other people because, god forbid, they would otherwise have to deal with the unquantifiable complexities of the human psyche and the huge grey area that it is.
Those were right wankstains who were so simplistic in the attic area that they couldn't do any mathematics which involved fraction arithmetic above the minimum required for primary school. Or compose sentences more sophisticated than bumper sticker slogans, for that matter.
Lower yet on the evolutionary scale, were those who took it up to eleven and divided the planet into a dichotomous, binary system. Yes, no, black, white. Not much of a say, is it?
Heuristics can be such a screwed up mechanism in the hands of right twonks.
What really got to Yamato, though, was how, in time, the labels were adopted by the victims. Those who received them often tried to mould themselves to fit the trope's stereotypes, like cookie dough in a sheet pan, or pieces from a factory. Now humanity is stuck with an overabundance of leftovers from the assembly line that wasted away in junkyards and polluted the scene. Worse – they were all so repetitively boring.
It's not like he wasn't aware of social stigmas – he was a member of planet Earth and everything, but even his parents didn't give a flying dog dung. Not that they had the time to. So, as long as his grades were up and the police didn't show up at their doorstep, he was free, by his father's account, to glue his furniture to the ceiling while choreographing ballet routines between the rooms to Tiny Tim's 'Tiptoe Through the Tulips'.
So, for him, sexual prejudice was something which always belonged with nosey parkers that had serious insecurities regarding their own dicks – many of whom loved the cock themselves and couldn't own up to it. Them, and with holier-than-thou preachers on the telly who were spreading their poison along. Exactly the sort of individuals Yamato honestly had to ask – "if there is a monotheistic god and it is so butt-hurt over men shagging each other through anal penetration, than why did it put our G-spot up our arses?"
Hell, he could phrase it scientifically – what is the correlation between a proposed deity being butt-hurt and the existence of the prostate in its current location?
Yamato reckoned they imported it from the western belief system, sometime during the Meiji era. Why – he'd never know. Samurais were heavy into the pederasty department and in Japanese history, neither Shinto nor Buddhism were ever actively averse to some man-on-man action. Half of Shinto is based on one huge orgy anyhow.
Besides, it's been in his experience that most homophobes were such dicks because they were afraid to be treated the same way they treated women.
That was some serious Lord of the Flies psycho-bullshit right there.
Nobody, bar an evolutionary anthropologist, should care about Homo sapiens screwing other Homo sapiens. Unless their priorities were somehow seriously down-side-up, most people should have better things to do, mind their own business, and let everyone else fuck in peace. And, if fucking isn't a hobby of interest for certain parties, said parties should be free to lead their fuck-less lives without being gawked at like freaks, or worse – like pandas in zoos.
As for those aforementioned fuckers and strangers who didn't know him – why should he be arsed about them? Yamato said it how it is and just always sort of figured that people who were gagging for approval from others so badly probably didn't approve of themselves enough. He didn't have time to get invested in the opinions of the intellectually impaired.
Actually, the truth no one likes admitting is that nobody knows no one. They just want to pretend they do, when the fact is that there is often a substantial gap between what people think and what the rest of the world gets to see of that. 'No man is an island'? Rubbish. Humans would drown in the ocean that's each other's sorrows if they weren't. It's either keeping your filters up or meeting the twisted side of humanity – or whatever else somebody doesn't want to see.
Yamato was fine with it, though. It was alright when no one tried too hard to get to know him. Gave him the sense of privacy he needed plenty of. If his one-night-stands saw him as this distant, unattainable object, a beauty to desire, use, and dispose of – whatever. Let random whoevers across the street decide Yamato was some social-anxiety-ridden introvert, just 'cause he kept to himself. It didn't matter any. But maybe Yamato was being a moneyed arse who let the piss go to his head because he was privileged. He had Gabumon, Taichi, Takeru, his band, and the Chosen Children.
They were the ones that mattered.
Everyone else can mount it.
Fuck, he didn't want his mind to go there now. It just depressed him. He didn't feel like getting all irked and riled and the sun was being cruel enough.
Instead, he chose the well-worn path of meditating about Donita Sparks'teaching. The woman was a saint in black eyeliner, shredded articles of clothing, and guitar straps who handed free, disjointed lifestyle advice to potential hazards to society such as himself. Appropriately, he hummed L7's 'Shitlist' with the occasional words becoming audible on his lips every other line. It's not like he was bothering anyone – no one here heard anything anyway.
He wasn't actually that bitter on most days. He really wasn't. Considering the alternatives, Yamato was chuffed to bits with his lot in life. Weather was being bloody awful today, though, and he had way too much free time to master the act of ranting and elevate it into a form of art. Art which may inspire lyrics. Lyrics which would be assimilated into notes at two in the morning along with the howls of jackals. Notes which composed music. And music is beautiful. Music was something Yamato could be passionate about. Like a scream, only without screaming.
It was half-time, and the team members regrouped right next to where Yamato was sitting, huddling around their coaches to talk strategy and boost morale. Taichi's team was leading two to four but there was plenty of time to close that gap yet.
At this point, it was so hot the entire arena was suffused with multifaceted sweat smells and the deodorants of everyone present.
And then Yamato's entire span of attention was diminished to contain a single, defining moment: 'Off! Off with it!' – Taichi was taking off his shirt.
The whole process probably didn't last more than a few seconds, but for Yamato it was a slow motion picture: fingers hooking into the folds of his top which clang to the wet, unyielding physique. Blue fabric sliding over tan skin as Taichi lifted it over his shoulders, exposing a lithe figure and well-sculpted abs which glistened under the thick sheen of sweat. And, finally, that magnificent trail of hair, extending from Taichi's navel all the way down beneath the waistline of his shorts – a suggestion of the hidden treasure underneath that's tempting like the foreplay before the act.
'Fuck.'
It was a good thing Taichi was so immersed in the match. He'd have been mighty perplexed by the glazed over situation going on through Yamato's face, and his impressively dilated pupils.
'He'd think I'm dropping acid or something,' but 'damn, he's fit!'
Well, of course he's bloody fit. Taichi's an accredited athlete. It was just that Yamato hadn't seen him quite so exposed in this particular way for a very long time: the golden triangle of wet, bare-chested and wearing tiny shorts that showed his long and sexy legs. Bonus points for all the physical labour Taichi was pulling; it really maximized the effect of all those bronzed muscles.
They had been taking so-called "showers" together for a while in the Digital World, seeing as the fabled Roman bath houses weren't exactly lining up for the gig. Also, neither wanted to be alone when MetalSeadramon swam nearby, trying to bite their regal rumps off. The habit persisted into the real world for a while – in summer camp or the swimming pool's changing rooms.
At least until their testes plopped out and erections became a thing.
Yamato still walked around shamelessly in the men's changing room. The whole thing was so bloody stupid. Unless someone pulled the entire Monty Python cast out of his pantless self, Yamato was not about to see anything he hadn't seen a billion times before. And if anyone fancied taking a looksee at his backside while he was bent over, more power to them.
Taichi, on the other hand, got surprisingly shy on the subject over the years. The sexy, "courageous leader" was sorely missed, but Yamato didn't fancy beign the sort of large-diameter-dickhole who puts peer pressure on others due to being too insecure to manage his shit on his own.
'Not again, that is,' with a pang of guilt, the incident with Jyou in Devimon's mansion flashed in Yamato's mind. And the Chosen Children's favourite Doctor was so fucking graceful when Yamato apologised to him, no less – despite the four year delay.
There was also that visit to the hot springs a few years back, but Yamato was too damn ticked at the time to enjoy the yummy treat that a shirtless, humid Taichi can be.
'And those muscles became so much more defined since then!'
It's not exactly that Yamato's life had been devoid of Taichi's naked arse. They were mates and all and Taichi was practically a resident of Yamato's flat. Was his favourite go-to to vegetate. Every now and then, Yamato accidently walked in on Taichi while the latter was getting in or out of clothes, and sneaked himself a peek.
This – now – was a top-notch show, the likes of which Yamato hadn't been privy to in forever. The pressure on the stiffy he had been growing for the last hour became overwhelming. If he wouldn't release soon he'd spontaneously combust and become a case study for Bruce Dickinson's sequel documentary.
Yamato slumped all the way back into his seat and ground against the piece of rigid metal. His mind drifted away, into situations he can't experience in real life…
Nine Inch Nails' "Closer" was fading in and out of the background like a defective record.
"Strip," Taichi commanded - his voice raspy with frustration and barely contained arousal. Vocabulary was far beyond his reach. He didn't have to be verbal, though, and he knew it. One look, and Yamato will be on his back, legs in the air.
Yamato obeyed, but before most of his belongings hit the floor, Taichi grabbed his shoulders and forced him down. All the way to the floor till Yamato was kneeling in front of the raging hard-on constricted behind Taichi's jeans.
One firm hand tunnelled through the fine, platinum hair, shoving Yamato's pretty face between Taichi's spread knees. Taichi was not subtle at all about getting what he wanted.
Yamato glanced upwards, giving his partner his best doe-eyes.
Taichi looked at him impatiently, watching Yamato reach for the zip and pull it down, agonisingly slow like the tease that bastard was. He did it with his teeth - as though it was the last of the cheesiest pornographic fantasies.
Taichi couldn't look away even if a bomb hit the house; his little sex bunny was just too damn cute. The way Yamato looked when he pulled out his member, like he was anticipating a treat – massaging and pumping it with that slender hand of his, was slutty and sweet.
Shit, Yamato was far too good at this. Taichi was losing it and he had other, better ideas in mind. He locked his fingers on the back of Yamato's head and jerked him into his pulsing cock, poking the dark crown into Yamato's white cheek. Momentarily enjoying the contrast of skins and the humiliating act.
"Take it to your throat."
Yamato grinned at the cock-flesh spanking his cheek and didn't dare disobeying. He wrapped his lips around the sizable girth, somewhat straining his mouth to fit the whole thing in. It hurt his jaw a bit.
He didn't move his eyes from the brown ones for a single moment. They were gorgeous, looking at him like that, and he loved them so much when they were pleased.
And he will love them when he'll hear Taichi give that last, guttural groan and his dick will jerk in Yamato's mouth. He will love to sit up and take Taichi's entire load all over his face. Or however Taichi would make him take it.
Yamato just wanted Taichi's throbbing knob moving in and out of him, and he wasn't picky about which of his holes was being used for that end. The only thing that mattered was opening Yamato up and making him take it hard and deep in there.
He started at a slow, seductive pace, disciplining the tempo of his suction, intending to taunt Taichi until he lost his mind.
Yamato was basking in the dirty smell of sweat on Taichi's balls and the salty taste of his shaft, mixed with the first few drops of pre-cum that leaked onto his tongue.
Almost immediately, he was granted a deep growl of reckless lust – confirmation of his good behaviour.
Taichi loved those shameful lips. They were so lovely – all glassy, wet, and red from stretching to their limits to fit all of him inside.
Soon enough Taichi was going crazy. He needed more and he needed it now – thoughts of consequences out of the window. He interlaced the fingers of both of his hands into the blonde tresses, holding Yamato in place while he ruthlessly fucked his small mouth.
"Fuck!"
He was pushing himself deeper and deeper and deeper into that warm, moist hole, burying himself inside the quivering throat, heedless of the desperate choking and gurgling sounds emerging from beneath him. The vibrations were sending Taichi over the edge and he couldn't contain himself "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!..."
Yamato's orgasm hit him the exact moment the dominant daydream version of Taichi did.
"Fuck…" he finished, and remained with his eyes shut for a wee bit longer, gently coming down from his climax and back into the match where the real Taichi was running around.
If he found out about the sort of fantasies Yamato was wanking to, Taichi would have been furious. And disgusted. Not because he was the leading star of Yamato's internal porn-industry. Nope – the git will probably be flattered to bits by being wet dream material. It was because Yamato made him out to be a real bastard.
Though Yamato supposed it was he who should be disgusted with himself; why did he fantasise about being objectified and handled so crudely? He was one twisted fuck.
'No shit.'
But Yamato wasn't through yet.
He bent over, folding so that the buttons of his skinnies pressed too much on the metal barbell of his belly-button's piercing.
It was painful; just the right amount of pain.
And if he put on a bit more pressure, just a tiny bit more, maybe his skin would rip that little bit. A tiny tear in the otherwise unblemished white of his skin and dark red drops will come flowing through.
Just one will do, though.
Just one and he will have that blessed release he craved.
The one he needed.
He should be careful, though – he promised Taichi not to overdo it. The last thing he wanted was discriminating evidence all over his briefs and shirt. Taichi'd go berserk with worry and do circles around Yamato like an angsty mother hen.
'I should get a new ring,'he figured 'I want a new hole in my body and something hard to fill it with.' He amused no one but himself and sniggered at his own lame joke.
Currently he was weighing his options. His was a bit on the fence between a Prince Albert and a Guiche while leaning towards the latter.
He should do it today. He should call up Victor right after the match; see if the mountain sized ink-master had already opened the parlour.
The whistle signalling the end of the match resonated through the arena. The crowds wearing blue and waving the similarly coloured flags of their team were ecstatic with the cheers of victory, chanting Taichi's and Sora's names and singing Queen's 'We Are the Champions'.
Apparently, during the elapsed time Yamato spent in his sexual dream world, Sora prevented the rivalling captain from scoring two goals against them. Meanwhile, Taichi, per tradition, passed the ball to one of his mates and let the bloke hit the winning one against the opposite team.
The implications of this glorious achievement were that they won 5-2 in a blindin' performance and were automatically moving on to university's league nationals!
Taichi was running up the field, his hands stretched sideways like the wings of a dragon. There were drug-worthy levels of ecstasy slapped on his face while he was jumping up and down, with copious amounts of energy bursting from his body with the force of a jet engine.
Yamato instinctively imitated the joyous expression. He wanted to remember Taichi just like that for the rest of his life; with that natural enthusiasm. To carve that image into Yamato's chest with a scalpel, and be warmed by it on cold days.
Taichi crashed into Sora, embracing her so hard he was one step away from mashing her ribs – first into her kidneys and then into thin dust – before he continued to run around his team mates, venting his hyperactivity and shouting incomprehensibly. You'd think his arse was on fire.
As soon as Yamato got down to the field to deliver his own congratulations, he was pulled into a bone-crushing hug of his own and temporarily lost the ability to exchange carbon dioxide for oxygen.
Not because Taichi knocked out the air from his lungs. Nope – not anything silly like that. T'was because a warm, half-naked, wet Taichi was clinging to him. If Yamato closed his eyes, he could pretend that they were in the middle of a hot banging session.
Utterly oblivious to how he should respond to the taut and worked-out muscles he was cocooned in, Yamato mechanically placed his palms on Taichi's slick waist and interacted with it as little as he could. The rest of his effort was put into preventing his heart from flying straight out of his arse.
It was amazing how close Yamato's parted lips were to the salty indentation at the base of Taichi's throat, and yet so frustratingly – endlessly far. Yamato could smell him. It was all sweat and armpits. That's how Taichi would smell after sex. It was lovely.
It was a brilliant thing Yamato'd already got himself off earlier. Otherwise, Taichi would have discovered Yamato's pride and joy poking his inner thigh. That would have just caused a delicate situation all around.
Or not – it's Taichi, after all. He'll call Yamato a bending queer, he'll be decked; they'll laugh it off. Good times will ensue.
As far as Yamato was concerned, he was alone with Taichi in the universe. No dirty looks or wondering expressions aimed at them. No eyes upon his scars. Unfortunately, reality was an exquisite, rotten bitch which had to interfere, and they parted.
Sora smiled behind Taichi's back and Yamato nodded her way.
"Alright?"
"I-"
"Brilliant, man! We're on fire!" Taichi shrilled, answering on her behalf. Sora laughed, brimming with elation as much as any of her single-use football team mates.
"Sure as shit we are!" she said, uncharacteristically foul-mouthed – probably infected with the buckets-full worth of testosterone being exuded all over the place. "Guess I missed this more than I should, huh?"
Hands shoved into his pockets, Yamato quirked his lips into a fond half-smile without much to say.
A swarm of fans, friends, and family members rushed its way over like a horde of hungry wildebeests. They shoved and smashed into each other to join the victors in a celebration which will most likely evolve into a booze-ridden carnival.
It will be grand. People will get on the piss in instalments and the face-planting will reach impressive acrobatic levels.
Since Yamato didn't fancy rubbing against stinkin' strangers all day – he decided this was a good a time as any to make as a tree and fuck off.
"My place tomorrow?"
Both Taichi and Sora nodded, with the latter adding two thumbs up before being swallowed up by the loud masses.
Withdrawing from the tightness of the throng, Yamato made his way to the catwalks above the stands where he hoped to have at least enough quiet to hear his own voice while he dialled the number for the tattoo parlour owner.
After three consecutive signal rings, Yamato grinned at the burly baritone rumbling on the other end of the line.
"What?" Victor grumped
"When are you opening?"
Yamato didn't care for the pleasantries of beating around the bush and neither did the big man. It's not like either one of them wanted to listen to what kind of day the other has had, or how shite life was in general on the other's side; pretty much the standard human interaction in a nutshell – only without using the hypocritical civility of cold empathy. What's the point of 'how do you do?' when most people just tune out mid answer to think about other things or bide their time till it's their turn to talk about themselves? Besides, Victor had a strict no-BS policy with which Yamato was good at co-operating.
"Six PM – ink?"
"New metal," Yamato corrected.
"Good. Fucking hate your skin."
"I can make it in an hour. Will you actually be there on five?"
The question was moot, of course. Victor did whatever Victor wanted to, and that included being over thirty minute late to meet a client because the man needed his dose of muddy black coffee.
He owned the place and there was no one in the entire world, save for maybe Ozzy Osborne himself, to tell the big fella' what to do with it.
"Sod off, yob."
Victor hung up, leaving Yamato humming the main guitar riff for Sabbath's 'Iron Man' to the beat of the beeps while wiping his cooling underarm sweat stain over himself.
Ah, that was rank! Yamato was sweating in places which were not eligible locations for sweat glands to exist in. 'Shower! So badly!'
This was going to be a hot summer, but somehow Yamato was pleasantly taken back to that fateful one. The one which started very much the same way nine years ago – when everything changed. It was swollen with potential for things to come.
'Who knows what might happen on days like these.'
When he moved to retrace his steps and head for the exit, a familiar scene caught his attention.
'Well, looky looky here.'
Not far from Yamato's favourite spot was Taichi, still marvellously starkers from the waist up, being boldly flirted with by a brunette girl, who was testing the waters before making her move and diving straight in. She was almost as cute as Taichi was.