Matt knew it was wrong, sick, in fact. What he was doing. Touching himself with his jeans round his ankles, leaning his head back against the cool tiled wall and repressing a moan as his best friend lay unconscious in the next room.
But it was his fault Matt was here.
Mello's body was just-
… even in it's half burnt state he-
… it was just so… fuck.
With his skin glistening, adorned with a sheen of sweat. Body writhing in pain, back arching, groans… oh god those groans. If Matt closed his eyes tight enough he could imagine they were in pleasure, not pain. That the distortion of his body was due to Matt's cock pounding into him, not the agony of fried nerves. That the sweat was from exertion, not fever.
The skin, the sweat, the warmth. Mello's skin was on fire. So hot. Hot to the touch. The heat making an almost solid barrier. Matt felt like he was touching him even when his hand was still centimetres away. God he wanted to touch him. Run his hands along the flat stomach, up his chest, down his thighs, tongue following everywhere, then roaming more.
But he couldn't, his friend was sick. Possibly dying. Matt was disgusting and he hated himself for it. But he couldn't stop.
So his hands explored his own body, eyes closed tight as he pictured Mello with his sweat and arching and groans and then coming.
Cheeks burning with shame, stained tissue down the toilet, he'd return to his friend. Drip water through parched lips, change salty soaked bed sheets, stroke hair to calm his whimpering. And then he'd be back in the bathroom. Touching himself with his jeans round his ankles, leaning his head back against the cool tiled wall and repressing a moan as his best friend lay unconscious in the next room.