Gah it's just keeps going on! This is the second chapter people! Well Fuji's life is starting to go don hill now ^^ R&R Please and tell me if this is hideous. If any happens way too fast, be sure to tell me. Some part are purposely rushed or sped up for the purpose of this story. After all, you're mind doesn't tend to slow down when you're having a bad day and all you can do is think about it.
Warnings: M, ToFu, Language. Don't like, don't read. Simple as that ne?
He couldn't believe it, how brightly the morning sun shone, blaring across his closed lids. He flinched painfully, cursing himself for even opening his eyes to the smallest fraction, dazzling light burning his retinas causing him to groan and turn away.
He found his body complaining with every motion; small or big, not wanting to be rocked or swayed at all. It felt like his stomach was floating not held in place at all and making him feel queasy. His entire body ached, tired and worn from the night's events he could no longer recall.
It hurt too much to think, in fact it was killing him, every pulse or noise or break of light, causing his head to feel as if someone was continuously hitting him, the horrible pounding wracking against every vulnerable fiber he had.
Groaning again and feeling his stomach summersault, he gripped the covers and pulled them, with a tired effort, over his head, blocking out the light, trying to mute the sounds of the birds singing their once beautiful, now painful, songs.
He couldn't sleep, he wanted so desperately to go back to sleep, regardless of his nightmares. The reality of waking hurt too much to bear, he thought his head may explode with the intense pressure.
The silky fabric, though soft and comforting to the touch, did nothing to soothe his agony, resting lithely over his exposed skin. It was warm though, a great relief from the coldness he had felt that night.
To be honest, he couldn't remember. Not one small detail could flit through his aching mind, unknowing and wondering of the night before.
Strobes; pulsing, beating lights that timed in with each beat. A small recollection as he opened his eyes in the sweet, tangible darkness. Kind to his eyes, allowing them to adjust wearily, not at all focused.
He felt his stomach flip again from where he lay, comfortable under the warm duvet, snuggled close to him and protecting him from what ever wished to agonise his head more.
He vaguely wondered how much he had drunk, but thought better of it; trying to remember something impossible, making his head spin though he was lying flat.
Head spinning, eyes unfocused, and stomach turning; though definitely empty, he knew he was going to be sick.
He held on, fighting it back and sitting up quickly, in search of the bin he knew was by the bench.
Too quick; he moved to quick and the world seemed to attack as one. Blinding light entering his eyes, making him close them sharply and flinch once again. The world spun so fast, not even leaning against the head board helped to balance him as he tipped, ever so greatly, to the side, crashing down on the mattress with a moan, hand to his mouth and stomach.
The movement, the shear jostling he had given himself, made his mind leave him completely. Gone, far away stuck inside of a never ending twist and turn, spinning quicker and more incoherently than possible.
It wasn't just painful, it was white hot agony, soaring through his head and ravaging its path through every available spot. It felt as though the two halves of his brain were being tugged on, in a futile game of tug of war, making their way to splitting him in half.
Heaving, he leaned on his arm, dry retching over the covers; gold and beige he saw, as his body tried to de-tox. But with an empty stomach, all ready emptied of its contents, that was nigh on impossible.
He coughed, looking around, dazed and hurting. Only now did he notice his surroundings, the bed he now lay in as opposed to the bench he had slept on.
Not a single unguided or incoherent memory could lead him to how he got here. His already dilated pupils growing larger as panic set in, his heart race pulsing, pounding, sending a rush of blood to his and making him sway.
No, he shouldn't be panicking; it was ridiculous; being in a strange place, a random room among many, with who knew who else, somewhere in this obviously posh house hold.
He pushed back the covers, uncaring for the agony his body screamed at, or the ache of his head, making him unbalanced, chastising him for his stupidity, making every movement more painful than the last. Revenge of a sort, he thought, smiling moronically as a self deserving hatred he found satisfying.
Why shouldn't he be punished, certain memories, snippets of last nights 'activities' returning to him, making him heave once again as he stood.
Wobbling, swaying, tipping over the softly carpeted floor, untouched it seemed, by anyone else. His vision failing him terribly, his depth perception and judgment of distance now out the window, made him wonder why the floor and the room seemed to shift, either closer or further away, trying to make his way safely to the door opposite.
There were two doors; the one in front of him, and the one to the left of him, much further and tiresomely away from him.
Hand on the handle, keeping steady, using any strength his body had to function properly, to take orders, he gripped the handle and twisted.
The door swung open, apparently from being pushed too hard, though how he had done so he did not know, and crashed against the wall, the loud noise almost killing him.
He held his head, groaning in disbelief of the renewed -not that it had ever left- pain, dancing and having fun as it tormented his senses; he sunk to the floor.
After a few minutes of mindless, for he was, sitting around, waiting for the door to stop moving, or his vision at least, he stood up.
Shaking, he pulled himself up the door frame, groaning with each step into hellfire, his mind and stomach laughing in vengeance at him.
He deserved it, was his only thought, taking hold of the porcelain sink for balance, washing his face with the running tap and looking upwards toward the mirror.
The first thing he noticed was the lack of make up, the colourful spread from yesterday was missing, then as he looked downwards; so were his clothes, replaced with a pair of silk pajamas, matching the colour and interior of the room, a strange gold beige against his pale green skin.
He looked a state, a complete and utter sight that made him want to smack himself. How stupid had he been? How sick and disgusted did he feel now? Was it even worth it?
Of course not. It wasn't worth it; although he had got what he wanted, although he had managed to forget, if only for a few hours, it was definitely not worth it.
The feelings and memories he tried so hard to suppress came back, full force to the front of his mind. His legs gave way and dropped him to the cold tiles, heavy sobs wracking his chest, his head thumped and pushed, his heart breaking for the hundredth time that week; each time just as painful as the last.
Clear tears etched their way along ivory white ceramic, trailing their sad tale along the crevasses of each square, joint to the next, small rivers now forming.
He couldn't stop; he couldn't breath, hyperventilating once again, against the hammer in his chest and head. Crying so hard. His already wrecked throat damaged further. He didn't care, he felt sick and tainted, remembering events and stupid, foolish decisions. The stupid and foolish words he had said to the person he cared for most, now probably off somewhere, hating him and trying to move on, as he himself couldn't.
He hated himself, he hated it all. It hurt too much, it hurt to think, to breathe, to cry and to feel.
Feel; a funny choice of wording he had thought; breath hitching as he startled at a pair of arms encircling him from behind. Pulling him close but not in a threatening way.
Regardless, the panic returned to his already racing emotions, and he spun around, eyes contacting with a familiar shade of blue against his distorted blue, eying him curiously yet sympathetically.
He opened his mouth to speak, to ask in his broken and distant voice the only question he could think: why?
The old friend, for he was to a certain degree, shook his head and pulled him closer, not letting him waste his breath on needless chatter, letting him cry heavily into his chest, feeling himself vibrate with the force of those sobs.
He sat there, straight and tall, supporting the younger boy that clutched to him helplessly, undignified and broken. No matter how hard he tried to compose himself, a memory would return, breaking the small, weak barrier he had only barely managed to retrieve, sending him into despair again.
Each breath hurt, each turn of his head on someone else's body scarred him, and burned him. The feeling that it should be someone else, it was supposed to be someone else, picking him up, setting him down and straightening him up. Wiping his tears away and setting him in bed, sitting with him until he was calm.
Calm, another funny choice of words. He was past calm, somewhere distant as he stared at the interwoven fabric of the others shirt, absently playing with the buttons in some half asleep manner, not really knowing what he was doing.
He knew he shouldn't, he knew it was idiotic and wrong, but he couldn't help it as he undid them, much to the confusion and amusement of the older boy.
Taking his hand he stopped him, making him sit straight and watching his eyes, belaying the fact, that though it was the next morning, the younger hazel haired boy was still under influence. The alcohol still working its way around his body making him lightheaded and the world slightly surreal.
Staring at him like that, he could only tilt his head in confusion, wanting to speak but sure the other wouldn't allow him. But then, when had he ever listened to anyone, especially now. Wasn't he supposed to be this dangerous live wire, doing what ever he wanted, out drinking all night till he was paralytic?
He didn't care anymore; the one person he wanted wasn't here, the person to pick him up and help him wasn't the person he wanted, but he knew that that person wouldn't come. He had made sure of it; he had said those horrible things. As if the other would want him now; this disgusting, shameful person. A slut among the many that bar and clubbed hopped, getting of with strangers, too drunk to know what he was doing.
He didn't think, seeing the boys eyes widened before him as he lent in a kissed him on the lips. The other staying frozen in shock as he pulled away, watching with lust filled eyes at the shocked boy. Snapping out of it he frowned, opening his mouth to ask his still drunk guest just what, exactly, did he think he was doing? But he found himself cut off before he could even get two words out, a warm tongue exploring his mouth as lips moved against his own. Probing and daring the other to kiss back as hands found their way up the silver haired boy's chest, pushing him back against the head board.
Finally the diva pushed him away, looking a cross between angry and turned on. Finally he spoke.
"Fuji what do you think you're doing?"
The tensai, Fuji Syuusuke, smiled that smile, the one which anyone who had met him knew meant trouble. Cerulean eyes, clouded with alcohol, pain and lust looked over his 'dear' friend's body, and he cocked his head tauntingly.
"I'm planning on doing you Atobe," came his hoarse promise, now straddling the captain, kissing him deeply once again, causing him to moan and kiss back on reflex.
Those eyes, died as quickly as they came to life, undoing buttons, kissing his way down the others neck and chest, biting, sucking, licking until he heard those wanted noises.
Some part of him kicked himself, but it was soon pushed back and he felt the heat traveling downwards, turning him on as he pushed teasingly against the others pants, tight with their own problem.
The captain, Atobe Keigo, tried to fight back, to regain some moderate control over his body, thinking of any kind of distraction; tennis, his family, a dog, the birds outside. Anything to not give in, moaning as teeth teased a nipple as hands roamed, sickeningly finding him self reciprocating these movements, mapping his own way across the other small frame.
Tables turned as this time he forced the smaller boy on his back, refusing to be topped by someone so small and of all things drunk, which he was himself still a little, having returned from a party himself that night. Lust over taking all thoughts as he made his way down the others stomach, hands tugging at the waist band of the smaller boys pants before stopping and returning to kiss him again.
He was fighting back as much as he could, giving the other enough but not all, but to the other it wasn't enough.
Smaller hands tugging wanting at the older trousers, pulling them loose and, much to the others chagrin and pleasure, finding he was just as hard as he. Hand moving slowly at first, though he knew what to do, unsure of how the older boy would react as he seemed to looked irritated.
He closed the gap between their mouths as the other moaned, clearly getting the message of what the other wanted, his small, skilled hands moving faster along his length until he came, gasping into the kiss.
The diva had never felt more vexed, being used like this. But self control was hard to find when still tipsy and being taken advantage of by a clever, drunken prodigy.
It wasn't long before both were naked and sticky, not even finished as the younger boy gave up, giving in to what he wanted; this sick revenge against himself in anger, and to his former lover for reasons he knew weren't his fault.
This was his own undoing, he had destroyed his relationship with the person he loved most, the person that would never forgive him and would never want him back. He gave up, and cried out as two fingers entered him, stretching him and trying to make it easier on him.
He hadn't said a word to the older that could indicate he was still a virgin, though not for much longer as fingers removed themselves and the dark eyed boy kissed him deeply, moving to bite his collar to distract him, entering him slowly and causing the boy below him to cry out it in pain, though he knew it was coming.
It hurt, a lot; even as he was adjusting he could tell he was leaving marks on the silver haired boys back, holding so tightly through pain. Then he moved.
He gasped at the contact the strange feeling of pain turning into pleasure, the older boy leaning down to hiss in his ear how disappointed he was. Angered that this lithe boy would break himself to the point of giving up his virginity to anyone.
He couldn't reply though, his body's ecstasy against his minds despair, tears rolling down his cheeks as he held back the noises in his throat. He didn't care, he didn't.