Title: First Time.
Fandom: Psyren
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Haruhiko remembered the first time he had sex. Yeah, he was never doing that again. OMC/Haruhiko.
Fan Bingo squares:First time for everything, the way we were (pre-canon), wild-card (Hey, it's that guy – minor characters).
Haruhiko remembered the first time he had sex. Yeah, he was never doing thatagain. He might have just gotten himself into a little bit of trouble trying to help out Chika (that was before he got himself into a whole lot of 'end of world' trouble trying to do the same), and everything had kind of spiraled from there. It was hard enough finding legitimate work when you were only 17, try finding legitimate work that paid enough to cover criminally high medical bills.
And, well. Fair was fair, right? If the hospital was going to fucking extort money out of them just to keep Chika breathing, then Haruhiko and Lan might as well make a little money in ways that were just on the wrong side of right, as well. At first it had been little things. Lying about his age so he could get shitty bar jobs. Pawning off goods that didn't technically belong to him. Delivering the odd parcel and hoping like fuck that no-one sprung a knife on him instead of handing over the cold, hard cash. That sort of thing.
Ha, not much to be fucking proud of. But then, it wasn't as though they had much choice. Screw over the occasional drug dealer, or let your best friend's baby sister die because the hospital thought you should cover their power bill. Which was the moral option again?
Haruhiko was hot, so he couldn't really blame the other guy for hitting on him, or for flashing a few thousand yen when Haruhiko told him to buy a drink or piss off. What he could blame the man for was being such an incredibly badfuck, because Haruhiko knew sex couldn't possibly be that horrible normally. Shit. The population would have died out by now if that were the case. He could remember how sloppy the other man's mouth had been, how his fucking tongue had slurped across his cheek as one hand roughly tugged at Haruhiko's jeans. They'd never even left the bar – had ended up in the shitty bathroom that reeked off stale alcohol and piss out back – and Haruhiko had gone down onto his knees in that cesspool, wondering the whole fucking time if the germs were viral enough to pass through his jeans and contaminate his skin.
It was that moment that stayed with him more than any of the ones that followed, strangely enough. There, on his knees, his fingers trembling just a touch as he worked down the bastard's fly. He didn't remember much after that, just that there had been the wrong kind of heat and the absolutely wrong kind of pain. Oh, yeah. And the vomiting. He remembered the vomiting, and how raw his throat had been after he'd emptied the two meals he'd eaten that week in short, ragged up-chucks. But that hadn't come until afterward, once it was just him and that dingy toilet, one hand pressed against the dirt floor and the other gripping the rim tightly beneath his fingers. It was a good thing that the bathroom mirror had been smeared with grease, hairspray and who the fuck knew what else, because Haruhiko hated to think what he would have looked like, especially considering how much the twisted freak had liked his hair.
A couple of days later they'd been offered a role in a fucked-up religious cult that was directly challenging the Yakuza and pissing off people with shitloads of money. It had seemed like a more palpable option. Because, shit. In his scrapbook of most humiliating moments, being bent over a broken toilet by some panting, desperate fucker who couldn't even wait for Haruhiko to get his jeans down past his knees was wedged somewhere between getting beaten in a fist fight by an 8 year old and bursting into tears in front of Ian and Lan like a goddamn girl.
Yeah.
It had NOT been a good couple of months.
The end of the world was practically a blessing.