First Time: Kamui Sumeragi and Seishiro Sakurazuka

There were many facts of truth in this world. And one of the easiest facts of utter truth to memorize was the fact that socialites loved to party. Loved it. It was in their blood. Because in case you couldn't spell, just as there was an "I" in "win", there was a "social" in "socialites". Therefore, socialites loved to party. It was simply in their blood. They were born with it.

It could also be considered fact that socialites party hard, and socialites party best. Partying was partying. Anyone could party. But when a socialite partied, it became an art. An art that took skill. An art that was more instinct than intention.

But there was a reason why socialites partied hard and best. First, what was partying? What was the definition? Not the dictionary definition, but the definition that you would give to someone who asked you what partying meant to you—what you had to mean to party. Would it be to lose all inhibition? To let go of all thought and just…escape? If that were the definition…then wouldn't it make the most sense that socialites were the best at it?

Any person could only take so much stifling before suffocating. The need to escape was something all humans possessed. Even when inebriated, there resided something that was full of truth and that truth filled. And whatever that was, if it wasn't coming out regularly, it would fight its way out—however it could and without restraint. After all, truth was just another instinct like lust or anger, that when held back could be prevented.

But just as alcohol weakens the mind and body, it also weakens the restraint to hold back lust. To hold back anger. And to hold back truth.

Bodies. Flesh. Skin. Heat. It was hot. Warm…yes, that was it. It wasn't hot. It was just warm. Good warm? Bad warm? Didn't know. It was just…warm…hot. Didn't want to decide. Music. Sweat. Lights—high, keening sounds, and colored, bright lights. Almost too bright. Not good. The floor shook. Vibrated. From the music? Maybe. Didn't care.

Smoke. Smoke was drifting from his mouth. That was good. Thirsty. Needed a drink. Ah, a drink. There on the table. A drink. Good. Tasted good…cold…not cold enough…but okay. It would do. More smoke. Wait…eyes? Were they eyes? For who…? For him? Beautiful eyes…but…not…no. Not his eyes. Not for him. Beautiful eyes—dangerous eyes. They were dangerous. Stay away. Didn't want them. Hated them. Hurtful eyes.

Keep away. Subaru. They were Subaru's eyes. For Subaru—belonged to Subaru. No. Keep away. Had to keep Subaru away. Not for him. For Subaru. Should he? No. Wanted to? No. He should. Needed to. For Subaru. Too hot. Dangerous. Eyes. Not for Subaru. Never. Keep away. Go away. Why? Don't hurt him. Not Subaru. Stop. Go away. Had to go away—had to run.

Dangerous eyes. They were coming. Closer. Nearer. Hot. Much too hot. Thirsty. More smoke. Thirstier. More smoke…it made him thirstier. The more smoke, the more he drank. Good? No. Wasn't good. Didn't matter. Forget. He wanted to forget. Needed to. Do. Something. Had to. But…what? What could he do…for…Subaru? No. Shouldn't. Would hurt him more. But…did it matter? No. He wanted to. Ah…so hot. Perfect.

Lips. Tongue. Saliva. Mouth. Warm. Teeth. There was a thud. A door closing? A click—the door closed, yes? Yes. He heard it. It was the door closing. Still hot—too hot. Hands on his body—his body on fire. Something…anything…needed to go. Go off. Get off. The body…no…him. Clothes. Needed to come off. Take them off. Rip them off. Didn't matter. It had to come off. Now. Hurry. Hands. Grab them—help him. He needed to take the clothes off. Dangerous eyes. Watching him. Off. Clothes.

Hard. Wet. Hot. Salty…was it salty? A little bit. Couldn't taste. Lick it. Suck it. Hurry. A hand was in his hair…did it feel good? Something…a finger…was it…? In him. Hurt? A bit. Didn't matter. It was fine. Faster. Continue. In his own hands—wetter, slicker, warmer, harder. Gasps. Encouraging shouts. Faster, it said. Kamui, the voice shouted. More? More.

His turn. Spit it out. Your turn, the voice whispered. Sounded excited. Sounded dangerous. Dangerous eyes. More. Didn't matter. Faster. What? Sex. Perfect. Fine. Good. Ow. Oh…it felt good. Hot. So, so, so hot. Almost too hot—but it felt like a good burn. Like the sun—only more intense. Moving…they were moving? They moved. Back and forth. Against the floor…or against the wall? Didn't matter. Wait. Condom? Yes. Stop…? No, don't. Can't.

Almost there. Hurt…pleasure…it felt too good. Too good…don't stop. Didn't stop. Didn't matter. Dangerous. No, wait, don't why, keep going—wait, Subaru…shh stop don't know I need wait he's just go more faster harder more hot too hot I can't just wait more more no don'tplease tellstop stayneveraway--!

Kamui held his head in his hands. His immature eyes widened at the sight before him. The sight that was so ghastly, it might as well have been the ruins of the earth lain out before him after the apocalypse. It was awful—destruction of everything he'd ever cared about right before him. It was all in ruins. Ruined. And he'd ruined it all by himself in one night. One stupid, fucking night.

The door of the club's storeroom was locked. All around there was alcohol and plates and glasses and silverware and things to fix the lights. Everything a good club's storeroom should have, along with toiletries and a few blankets here and there oddly—or not so oddly. Kamui didn't dare look beside him, but he knew he had to. First of all, his clothes were there, and secondly…well…he had some groveling to do.

"Seishiro," Kamui whispered. "Get the fuck up."

The Maestro blinked his eyes sleepily and smiled up at Kamui. "Good morning. How was your night? Sleep well? Good dreams? Nightmares?"

"Yeah. I had this one nightmare where we slept together."

"Lovely." Seishiro sat up slowly and tousled his hair away from his eyes. He propped his elbow against his leg, leaned his cheek on his palm and watched for Kamui's next reaction contentedly. "So…how was I? Fucking brilliant, I hope. Or should I complement you first? I don't know where you learned it, but that was the greatest fellatio I've had in—"

Kamui nearly shouted, "Please, I'm begging you to shut up."

"Is that all?" Seishiro continued pleasantly.

The writer wrapped his hands around himself, fingers digging into the bare, perfect skin. He cast his eyes down. He knew he had to do this, and he knew Seishiro knew as well. He inhaled shakily; it felt like he was almost trembling. "Don't tell Subaru."

"What's the magic word?" Seishiro said in a singsong voice. His eyes mocked Kamui.

Kamui shut his eyes. He opened them unsteadily—his vision blurred. If he cried…just…ugh. The hot film of saltwater stung, and his head already pounded from the extreme hangover. When he moved his head even the slightest bit it felt like he was about to die. "Please. Please don't tell him. I'll do anything. Just…he'll hate me. He can't hate me. Please don't tell him. He's my brother—I'm his brother. Please."

Seishiro twirled a strand of Kamui's hair between his middle and forefinger. He grinned, his hand slipping down the writer's back. "Kiss me." Kamui gritted his teeth. He knew what asking a favor from Seishiro could be like. But he…he came up, one hand on the side of the conductor's face and only intended to press his lips chastely against the recent high school graduate.

As soon as their lips touched, Seishiro shoved his tongue into Kamui's mouth and chained his hand around the back of Kamui's neck. The conductor's arm trapped itself against the small of the writer's back. He pulled away just enough to say, "Convince him to break-up with me."

Kamui tried to pull away, but Seishiro held firm. "He loves you." Kamui tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, eyebrows coming up at the center into a pleading expression. "He loves you so much. You have no idea."

"It's college—Akamizu. I don't want to spend my next year waiting until Subaru graduates, and I don't want to spend the next three years fucking one person. I'm the Maestro." Seishiro smiled, "I'm a Sacred. And if I break up with him then won't that just prove how he got the best of me? I don't care how you do it—but he listens to you, so convince him. He'd better. You've got this next year to make him. If he doesn't…I'm not responsible for what I do to him after that."

Kamui's mouth hung open. After that…he didn't need to be told to convince his brother to break up with this man. He would've done it of his own volition anyhow. Seishiro…this bastard was…no. Not Subaru. Please, not to Subaru. "Fine," he whispered. "I'll try. Just…don't tell. Please."

"I won't." Seishiro smiled.

A/N: For Kamui's drunken/stoned/high state, I thought I'd try a new writing style. Again, that was an experiment, so if it failed utterly in all shape, form, and size, let me know and I'll lock it away on my thumb drive 0_0. But if it worked....I may or may not use it again since it was a confusing writing style, and a tough one. Kind of rewarding and fun, but challenging. Anyway, so this happened in the summer vacation between Kamui and Subaru's sophomore and junior year, and Seishiro's high school senior and college freshman years. Meaning, in terms of Intrigue and Compelled, it was last summer vacation. So pretty recent. And if I could put stamps on chapters, I'd label this one with a nice bit "PLOTPOINT!!". And this chapter is probably the entire concept of Impulse put together. It's hot, it's sometimes fun, but you'll probably regret it majorly. The lesson? One who thinks clearly does not get stoned, drunk, high beyond the depths of reason and then sleeps with his brother's bastard of a boyfriend.

Another last note, whenever the chapter title says "First Time", it doesn't necessarily mean the first time of the characters, it just means it was their first time together. And more than likely, it's their last. At least, that's what you should hope. (Unless you're Doumeki or Touya).