A/N: This was one of my favorite chapters in my head. I hope I did it justice. Even more, I hope you all like it!

Let It Burn

Koga glared at the bronze numbers marking Kijima's apartment door. Three-oh-six. He shuffled his feet, kicking at the carpet and looking up and down the hallway. He'd repeated "this is a good idea" in his head so many times while he was getting ready it had become stuck in his head like the mind-numbing lyrics of a children's song. The mantra on repeat as he tried to decide between a button-up or a t-shirt. Falling off his lips in a whisper as he blow dried his hair, setting the curls in place with mousse. Scrolling like subtitles over the back of his brain as he stood in the liquor store trying to decide between a Spanish red or to go for the sake.

Now, armored in his striped button-up, clutching a bottle of sake as that one untameable curl fell across his forehead again, he still couldn't quite make himself believe it.

He could hear Kijima inside, the man so full of life he was taking over the hallway with his personality. Was it really necessary to sing the Italian mambo just because he was making pasta? Was it?

Koga pushed the curl off his forehead again and raised his fist to knock. It wasn't necessary, no, but why did he always have to default to being so critical? He was starting to hate that part of himself.

The door swung open before his fist descended.

"Kogs! Being a creeper! Come in, come in- mambo Italiano, ey mambo-" Kijima shuffled a box-step dance as he stepped back, pointing out the pink house slippers set out for Koga even though Koga had been over so many times he could have dropped the niceties. "Mmm, sake. Weird choice to go with red sauce," he said with a wink, pulling the bottle out of Koga's hands. His fingers draped over Koga's as he did so, the touch warm and pleasant. Sometimes it didn't matter who the other person was; just touching another human reminded Koga he was alive, and that life was beautiful. Kijima smiled, biting his bottom lip before turning to attend to his simmering sauce in the kitchen.

Koga followed him, leaning against the kitchen counter. The scents of bay and oregano wafted through the room, blending deliciously with tangy tomato. He had to admit of all the men he'd dreamt about this year, Kijima was the only one who could cook. There were benefits to that.

"Smells good," he said.

Kijima whirled, still walk-dancing in time to the upbeat mambo music, saucy spoon flung out dangerously close to Koga's face. He skid-stepped closer and Koga could tell he had thought of a juicy pun. He considered running but braced himself instead. Kijima leaned low, his face down by Koga's abs as he drew in a long, dramatic breath and slowly rose to eye level.

"Yes," he said, his lips wide in a chaotic grin, "yes it does."

Koga swatted at him, his face screwed up. He never knew what to do with Kijima when he got like this. Half of him wanted to blush, the other half wanted to murder him. Kijima caught Koga's wrist mid-swat and placed the spoon in his palm, winding his fingers around it one by one.

"Come help," he said. Koga shook his head, but took the spoon and moved to stand by Kijima's side, stirring the sauce slowly to keep it from burning as it simmered. Kijima hopped on the counter next to the stove, pouring himself a glass of red wine. He raised it to Koga like a toast. "Save the sake for dessert; this is the perfect pairing."

"Like us, right," Koga said, baring his teeth at Kijima.

"Oh, you tease!" Kijima said, eyes bright with laughter.

"Just sparing you the trouble of spouting all the bad puns tonight," Koga muttered, turning back to the sauce. He hoped the steam would conceal any faint pink on his cheeks. He wanted this to work. This was safe, even if Kiki could be too brash sometimes. He knew him. He didn't love him, not yet, but that could come right? If you knew someone well enough and you tried hard enough. He swallowed down his unease and forced himself to focus on the dinner they were preparing.

Kijima slid off the counter. Koga felt him draw near, pressing against his back, his chin resting on his shoulder as he watched him stir.

"Do I look like I need supervision?" he said.

"The naughty ones always need supervision," Kijima said, turning his face just enough so he whispered directly into Koga's ear. His hips ground against Koga's. He smelled of Cabernet. "And you have been very naughty."

Koga kept stirring, forcing his hand to move slowly though it wanted to speed up and move in time with his pulse. Kijima always knew how to make him want it. He deserved it, he told himself, scraping the bottom of the pan. He'd had so much self-control. Maybe too much. What would have happened that night, Sho's head on his lap, or later— his skin fresh and warm from the shower, if he hadn't been so in control? Koga licked his lips, drawing a grunt from Kijima that thrust him back to the present.

Kijima reached over his shoulders to turn off the stove, the action forcing Koga to push himself back into his chest or risk being burned by the pot. Humming, Kijima let his arm fall down across Koga's chest instead of back in its original position by his side, his fingers now tracing nonsense patterns over Koga's shirt. Koga could feel his skin start to prickle beneath the gentle contact.

"Want to see my new favorite video, Kogs?" Kijima asked, his hand unceasing in its gentle exploration of Koga's shirt. He trailed over the collar now, flicking lightly across skin occasionally, but always returning to the fabric path.

Koga nodded, unwilling to trust his voice and unwilling to betray the lust rising in him. It had been too long, and he just wanted to want someone he could actually have.

Kijima's hand traced down over Koga's spine before twining through his fingers and leading him over to the couch. He pulled Koga down onto the couch next to him, holding the phone where they both could see, his free hand moving to lie comfortably over Koga's shoulder, anchoring him as he played with his hair.

"It's my new favorite music video," Kijima said, tapping his thumb on the screen search bar. His voice grew husky. Koga could feel his lips ruffling his hair. "There's this one part where the silver haired guy runs his hands down the singer's body and I could swear they've seen each other naked." His teeth nipped Koga's ear. "I couldn't wait to show you."

Koga's breath was coming in gasps. The artist's name was in bold below the paused screen. He didn't wait to watch this here.

Kijima pushed play.

The throbbing of a steady bass line forced itself upon him as the camera panned over an abandoned warehouse. Dry yellow weeds grew through cracks in the pavement; windows cracked and shattered dotted the worn brick face. Kijima played his fingers along Koga's clenched jaw.

The camera flew through a window on the lower floor. Koga braced himself, but the sight of the ice blue eyes blazing from the screen still pierced him. He pursed his lips to keep himself silent. Forced even breaths. Sho was... beautiful. His hair flew wild and unkempt over bare shoulders. The style accentuated his slender jaw and delicate lips, drawing a stark contrast between their grace and the firm, lean muscle of his chest.

Kijima ran his hand slowly down Koga's neck as Sho started singing, stilling just over his heart. "Wait for it," he whispered. Koga wanted to tell him to shut up and listen but he swallowed the words as a pair of white, eerily delicate hands slid sinuously over Sho's shoulders, snaking down his chest to encircle him. Sho's neck twisted, his veins standing out thick against his skin as he sang. His eyes never left the camera, something cold and dead in their depths that ate at Koga.

The camera zoomed out far enough to reveal the man standing behind Sho. His purple eyes gleamed with dark emotion a little too close to anger. Koga's stomach roiled as the man slowly drew heavy chains around Sho, the chains replacing his arms and binding the singer to a metal chair. His voice echoed in the vast space of the empty room, singing words full of passion while his features screamed he was just another piece of debris for the room.

The music grew more tense, the rhythm accelerating and taking Koga's heart rate with it as the man traced his hands up Sho's chains, caressing them as if the iron was his lover. He leaned forward and kissed Sho's neck, eyes locked with the camera.

Sho closed his eyes. The man disappeared. Water started rushing into the vast room, waves toppling discarded crates and sweeping metal shards and pieces of pipe into a maelstrom around Sho's feet. He began to sing the chorus, his eyes still closed, his features unnaturally calm as the water rose higher and higher.

The hunter becomes the hunted

I wander in the dark

Your words tempt and strangle

Confusion in my heart

It's time to bury

Time to rage

Your story's missing

It's time to rage

The water rose to his chin; Sho finally reacted, throwing his head back to snatch a breath before the water rushed over him.

The screen went black. Koga leaned forward, away from Kijima, gripping the phone. An eerily hollow guitar solo ripped through the darkness. Dim light filtered through the water; Sho's form floated, still bound, his hair floating in halo-like wisps framing his face.

Koga's breath felt shattered and rushed. He didn't like this video. He moved to turn it off but Kijima stopped him, pulling his hand to his mouth to kiss the tip of his fingers.

Sho's body twisted in the current, his back arching as the water pushed his chair. His head, hanging low, drifted up in a strange, disjointed movement until his lifeless face was directly in front of the camera. The guitar stopped— silence fell for a moment—

His eyes snapped open, stealing Koga's breath as black pupils lit by flames confronted him.

Let it burn, once-Sho mouthed, bubbles exploding from his lips.

The guitar screeched as flames started in the depths of the flood, burning impossibly hot around Sho. The water started to boil; Sho bared his teeth in a grin and started to sing again, the water evaporating around him and filling the room with smoke. He stood, the chains sloughing off him, stepped over like carcasses as he walked out of the burning warehouse. Fragments of building fell around him. Sho's voice rose, his voice arcing to sing the final melody. The camera soared with his words over and into the burning building, flying through a window as it collapsed, the final frame a shot of the man, his purple eyes a deep blood color in the flames. He sat on the chair, unbound, as the fire destroyed the building around him. A smile flickered across his face just as the screen went black.

The apartment fell silent. Koga gripped the phone, his knuckles white. He blinked heavily, trying to clear his vision.

Kijima's hand moved on his shoulder, rubbing gently. "This destroys me every time," he said. His voice felt like an intrusion. Kijima kept talking, his fingers playing with Koga's ear, his face tilted to angle up toward Koga's mouth. "When he runs his hand slowly up his body— you could see it, couldn't you? That tension between them. Either they're damn good actors or they've been together."

Kijima's forefinger traced lightly over the corner of Koga's mouth, his eyes dark with lust. "And given that they've chosen to be musicians, not actors, I'm going with the latter." He leaned forward, his eyes lidded and lips eager.

Koga broke Kijima's grip and stood, the phone sliding out of his hands to the floor.

"I need to leave."

"What—"

"Leave, Kiki— I need to leave. Where's my— there. I'm sorry. Thank you for dinner. This isn't working. Enjoy the sake. And the pasta. I'm sorry—"

He rushed out the door, his feet carrying him faster than his string of disconnected sentences.