The smell of blood is almost acrid. Not quite like a humans, Ryo thinks, but something more acidic, more putrid. Like some sort of sewage.
"Send away the interviewers," Ryo whispers to Jenny, and she nods, once, wide-eyed and silent.
Akira Fudo had come to Ryo, bloodied and almost in tears, shaking with a fury Ryo feels he might not ever know. Seeing him had sent a chill into Ryo's stomach, a brief, panicked worry- has he done something stupid, gotten himself impossibly hurt- but no. Akira is fine. Thankfully so.
He is curled up upon his bed, trembling faintly and looking somewhere between furious and in misery. His eyes are wide and wet although Ryo knows he is holding back tears. He knows this face; that rare one where he actually doesn't want to cry. He holds his head, hair gripped in two, angry fists.
He is too hard on himself, Ryo thinks, but does not say it.
The money lands near his thigh, two wads worth several thousand. Ryo imagines what
Akira might do with it. He's seen him, after those brutal fights, the way his breath becomes ragged
and the way he looks at passing women. Fine, he thinks, as passively as he can, let him do as he pleases. "Humans use vices to try and forget," Ryo tells him. "That is their habit. Learn from it." He is moving away from the bed, to allow Akira to decide, to allow him to leave, when a hand, still slick with blood, clamps over his wrist.
The blood- orange, and with the consistency of oil- smears. Ryo pauses. Akira Fudo has always been strangely warm. When Ryo turns, Akira is looking up at him with those sharp eyes, and he sees a sort of hopelessness that makes his lips part.
"Why, Ryo," Akira's voice is ragged, "Why do you sound so cold?" The words surprise him. Ryo stares. "You don't seem to care-"
"Of course I care." He had never known Akira's parents, not really. But he supposed he knew love, and what it was, and he knew that they both had loved Akira dearly. He had seen it in how they would wipe his tears away when he'd skin his knees, when he'd lost a pet goldfish that had only lasted a week. Ryo doesn't pull his wrist away. Why would he? Akira is so warm. And so rarely does he reach out to him like this.
"How could I know?" He demands, "All you've done is watch…! You never cry, you never-" Akira rambles, stops, grappling for something, looking at Ryo, then their hands, then the bed, the window that looks over Tokyo, everywhere. His coffee brown eyes lock on Ryo's again, and something stirs within Ryo's chest. He is not quite sure what it is. "How could I know, Ryo?"
Ryo does not answer for a long moment. Akira's fingers limply free his wrist, and Ryo is struck by the coldness that remains, the blood sticking to him. He turns away from the bed, silent, and feels Akira tense behind him.
He is staring down at his hands when Ryo returns, two towels in his arms.
"If you are going to stay here," he says, quietly, "do not get blood all over my bed." The bed dips when Ryo kneels upon it, lifts a damp towel to scrub at the blood on his arms, chest, and stomach.
"Ryo-"
"Hush." He can feel, somehow, the way Akira's heart is rushing. He ignores it, or tries to. "You've been too reckless. What if there is another Nagasaki, waiting to film you and expose our secret to the world?" Akira blinks at him. "You must be more careful, Akira."
He glances away, allows Ryo to hold his arm and find the dried blood between his fingers. His hands are rough and big. They're strong, yet soft, not yet calloused. A month of the way he fights and they will become rough, Ryo thinks, and wonders how'd they'd feel against his neck. He pushes that thought away when he feels how his cheeks become hot, how his icy eyes widen for the briefest of instances.
Akira looks clean- and smells, slightly so- when he folds the dirty towels and sets them aside.
"There." He says. Akira is only watching him. Ryo frowns."What?"
"Nothing," Says Akira, absently, but his gaze is still stuck on Ryo, at his eyes, then falling to his cheek, his mouth, his jaw, his neck. Ryo feels a heat rise in his cheeks that he is not too familiar with. Something like irritation bubbles in his mind and he opens his mouth to speak Akira's hand finds his cheek; it's slow, and Ryo is surprised he did not see his hand coming.
"I," Says Akira, "Feel tired."
"Sleep, then," Ryo will offer him his bed, if only Akira will ask. Ryo will offer him anything if only Akira will ask. Anything. Anything at all.
"Not in that way," Akira sounds faintly broken, still, that sadness lingering in his harsh voice. Ryo frowns.
"You just need rest," Ryo moves to stand again when Akira's grabs his wrist again."What do you want, Akira?" He asks, surprised by how nearly exasperated he sounds.
Akira Fudo leans forward, then, and his lips press messily into his, and he gasps, surprised. One of those hands, big, strong finds the dip in his back to prevent him from falling, and instinctively, Ryo reaches and grabs his arm. He squeezes, feeling a rising something in his chest.
Panic? Uncertainty? Those two, and something else. Something hot and rushing and like a drug.
He can feel how Akira's heart races, how one hand has gone to Ryo's shirt and is drifting up it. Ryo arches when he feels a fingertip against his cool skin, and it is hot, so very hot.
"Akira-" Ryo is breathless when Akira breaks away from him, only to surge forth and find his neck. "Akira, wait- " But already does he sink those two, sharp fangs into the curve of Ryo's neck, and he cries out, digging nails into Akira's arm. "A-ah, A-Akira-" He does not know how many times he should say Akira's name, but it has always fit his mouth perfectly, rolling down his tongue then his throat and filling his chest with something Ryo did not think existed.
Akira's tongue laps, like an animals, at the blood he's drawn. Ryo feels himself trembling and he recalls the drugs at the Sabbath, tablets that had made his mind feel hazy, thoughtless, and calm. Like now, he thinks, and moves his head to return those kisses, to press wet, precious things to Akira's cheeks, then jaw line, to his neck where he sucks, pressing himself into him. The bruises come up purple, dark against Akira's warm skin. He grunts, digs nails into Ryo's hips where he's holding.
" Ryo, " His voice is harsh, growl-like, and it sends a violent shiver through him. He allows Akira to grip his hips, throw him over onto his back. The mattress is soft and he blinks dumbly up at the other.
Akira has always been lovely, but somehow becoming Amon has done something to him, something to sharpen that jaw, to darken those dark eyes, to make his lips seem fuller. Ryo's hand is trembling when he reaches up to touch Akira's cheek. It's soft. Akira leans into the touch and Ryo feels his breath catch in his throat.
"Is this okay?" Akira's bare chest is heaving. Has he always looks this toned? Ryo thinks, his other hand wandering to touch his chest, his stomach. Perhaps it was the bite that's made him so confused, so frazzled. Yes, yes, that's it. It is not the fluttering in his chest or the redness in his cheeks. No. Not that.
"Yes," Whispers Ryo, breathless, "Yes, of course," He thinks, suddenly, that this is very much right, this is something that should have happened long ago, long ago.
Akira dips down, and his mouth finds his again. Ryo rises up, lets his chest meet Akira's. He is hot, pulsing, his skin likely steaming, and Ryo is surprised when he hears himself moan, a soft, withheld sound.
Akira snarls, his hands coming up, gripping the middle of Ryo's shirt.
"Here, I'll-" The words are hardly out of Ryo's mouth when Akira tears the shirt open.
Buttons fly, onto the bed, rolling on the floor. Ryo's lip curls in irritation and he moves to grab Akira's hand when the other catches his wrists, pins him down, presses hard into him, kissing him feverishly again. His tongue is wild and rough and needy. "You're too rough," Ryo says flatly, as though it is bothering him.
"Shut up," Growls Akira, grinding against him.
"If you want anything from this," Says Ryo, "You will have to take your pants off,"
Akira seems annoyed, very annoyed, when he growls again, climbing off of Ryo quickly, pushing his pants away. Ryo is slower, more deliberate, and impatiently does Akira climb upon him again, yank them off until they are both bare.
Ryo has always been very pale where Akira has been dark. Still, when he straddles him, Ryo cannot tell where one begins and the other ends. He thinks, once again, that this should have happened a long, long time ago.
"Are you going to begin?" Ryo asks, smiling a shit-eating grin, "Or are y-"
Akira grabs his legs, roughly, suddenly, pulling them apart and thrusting into him in one swift, harsh movement. Ryo throws his head back, crying out much louder than he would have liked.
"A-Akira-" He whines, gritting his teeth. Akira is rough, violent, even. Sweat is already beginning to rise on his shoulders, his forehead. He hardly notices how his teeth, all of them, seem to sharpen, how his nails become claw like. Ryo cannot notice anything, nor focus, nor think. He sees nothing but black spots and Akira, thrusting into him wildly. Akira kisses him more, brutal things that bruise Ryo's lips, stain his neck, and break his skin. He lets him, his hands reaching up and finding his back. He finds wings there, two, bat like things that Ryo thinks are quite lovely. They twitch and strain with pleasure as Akira moans against his neck, grunting and gasping. Ryo digs nails into his back, arches when the feeling in his gut is too much, too strong.
" Akira," Is all he can whisper, out of breath, vulnerable, " Akira, Akira, Akira-"
Akira kisses him when he comes. Ryo moans, loud against Akira's mouth, tasting blood where he's bitten his bottom lip too hard. The feeling of heat filling him almost makes him come again, Akira arching his back, and pinning Ryo's shoulders into the bed. This, Ryo thinks, as his thoughts finally return to him, as the room finally stills, and as his breath finally begins to slow, is what I've always wanted from you.
He is too exhausted, for a moment, to notice Akira is gripping his hips still, that he is turning him over. He lifts himself onto his elbows, facing the bed now, breathless, turning his head to see Akira.
"What," He says between breaths, "are you doing?"
Akira is gripping his hips, his cock wet from cum as it presses against Ryo's ass. It's all so vulgar, so in-your-face sexual that he can't quite believe he is here, bent over for Akira to have.
Akira's shoulders are rising and falling from how he breathes, so rough, so ragged, and he is almost drooling.
"Stay still," It is almost a threat, and Ryo is surprised when he finds himself obeying, trying to keep still and quiet as Akira slides into him again, slower, more gentle this time. Though Ryo puts a hand against his own mouth, he almost can't stifle a tiny, whimpering moan. His body feels overworked, too sensitive. His whole self is trembling, and Akira slides deeper into him, then out, groaning a throaty sound that is so full of desire, just hearing it makes Ryo grip the bed sheets.
"A-Akira," He whispers, "H-have you thought of this, before..?" It is meant to sound teasing, Ryo withholding a cruel smile as he takes all of him, trying to see straight as those stars start spinning in front of him again. Akira's hands are so tight on Ryo's hips, he knows bruises will remain by the morning, sweet reminders that he will be treasuring.
" Yes," It surprises him, this confession, because Ryo has thought of this, also, of Akira taking him with those hands, that body - he was so much bigger now, something to be afraid of and yet something, also, to pine over. He could hold Ryo down and fuck him all night and Ryo could not do anything about it and Ryo loved it, loved that power, that unbridled, human fury and that heart which thundered in his chest. He is surprised, again, when Akira reaches out, grabs a fistful of Ryo's hair and yanks. He cries out, gritting his teeth. Ryo cannot speak, now, for Akira's turned all his retorts, his teasing little comments on their heads. He can only grasp at the sheets, moan, and thrust back into him.
Akira comes a second time, and Ryo does, too, though not quite so hard as Akira does, groaning as he still grips his hair, threatening to tear whole handfuls away.
Akira does not leave right away, and Ryo finds himself greatly relieved. In the corner of his mind he'd feared he would tug up his jeans and stumble out to return home to Makimura Miki and family that was quite normal.
Instead, he lets Ryo place his head on his chest, and listen to that heartbeat return to a slow, gentle pace. Nearly peaceful.
Ryo notes, dully, that he will still need to clean the bedsheets, anyway. Oh well.
"Ryo," Akira's voice is soft, faintly worried.
"Yes?" Ryo whispers back, his eyes closed. He is smiling. He does not know why.
"Are you sorry?"
"Why would I be?" He feels like he's known Akira for a thousand years, perhaps more. Nothing you can do will ever make me sorry.
That, to Akira, seems answer enough. He says nothing else, and Ryo feels his fingers in his short, closely cut hair.
When he falls asleep, Ryo dreams of nothing, a pleasant change from dreams of bright lights and a weeping demon. He can only hope that Akira dreams the same.