"Do you see the stars, Hibari-san?"
Hibari doesn't reply. Or rather, he cannot reply, because the stars slither around his neck like a glittering necklace, and press tight against the skin, so tight he feels their little sharp edges biting into him. Their kisses are like his own, always with a bit of teeth.
He grounds his hips into the shadow beyond the stars, and the shadow moans and laughs, a strangely melodic sound. No one else has a laugh like that, like he's dancing on broken glass, and the more his feet bleed, the more joyous the music rings.
Hibari knows that rhythm, he's been trying to breathe to it for the last eternity. Samba, he calls it, a foreign dance, as foreign as his voice and eyes and the way he fucks.
Mukuro laughs again, and Hibari snaps his hips forward, choking laughter with moans. He's relentless, harder than his tonfas, but the shining coil around his neck doesn't get any looser. The room exists no more, the glittering stars drowned everything else out, there is only Mukuro's voice and the faraway whispering of surf over wet sand. They are—were—in Tokyo, ages ago when it began, when he pushed Mukuro into the black tiled wall of the bathroom and claimed his mouth like a winner takes life and gold. They are in Tokyo, there is no sea.
Yet he hears the waves again, there is sand on his skin, there is salt on his lips, and the stars are biting his neck again. He closes his eyes against their light, squeezes Mukuro's thin hips and drives forward until it's almost too hard, until there is a star inside his chest, and it grows within him, unfurling its rays like a bird taking flight.
Then it explodes.
Hibari opens his eyes to a quiet semi-darkness smelling of some tropical flower that ought to be poisonous. Stars wink at him from beyond the wall-to-wall window. He lays in gently foaming water with his head in Mukuro's lap. Mukuro sits on the marble step leading into the giant jacuzzi bath, the last of steps still above water surface, and it must be uncomfortable for him to sit on the hard stone after what they just did, but his face shows nothing but a beautiful, dainty smile.
Hibari absently wonders why he even concerns himself with such thoughts. His throat is burning even through the heavy contentment coating his whole body. He's almost thirsty enough to drink the bath water. He hurts so good, like right after a fight, only better, because even though he got hard when he felt his tonfas bite into yielding flesh, there wasn't anything but his own hand, and that was usually afterwards. People were disgusting herbivores, and he would never defile his body with their touch. There wasn't anyone with a smile like a honey-dipped razor blade, with skin like mist and snow, with a body that knew how to take and be taken, with stars at the tips of his fingers.
And then, suddenly, there was.
He turns his head lazily, finding Mukuro still hard and waiting. The scent of him is like the deep part of the flower soaked with thick sticky liquid that traps hummingbirds to be consumed by the plant later. Before he can think about it, he opens his mouth for a taste. He licks up and down, he wraps his tongue around the head, he lets it in as far as it can go, and then he enjoys the release, letting it wet his dry throat.
And he never bites, not even once.
But only this time.
