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You’re not gay,　Dae-ho.

You can ignore these thoughts for as long as they dance atop your head,　weaving their way in,　gradually made inextricable from your true feelings.　It’s intrusive,　really.　They spring to mind and you shake them loose,　dislodging where they have taken root in your skull.　Light a fucking bad movie scene,　some overdramatized retelling of how unfortunate protagonist cannot so much as traverse half the gym without an inundation.　Sweat,　so much sweat.　Implication of muscle peeking out through a tank or swath of fabric.　A grunt,　monument of physical exertion rewarded by whorl of effort.　Fantasy　⸻　even that of despicable,　licentious,　sexual nature　⸻　needs not find any basis in reality.　So why do the thoughts stress you so?　Guilt that clings to you like the tangled cotton of your tee.　It’s a direct opposition to your model of masculinity:　tough and unfeeling,　devoid of desire and any other milk-sweet sensation fluttering inside your chest’s center.　Grime beneath your fingernails,　already cropped short for the overbearing demands of your physical labor.　You are a man whose gaze lingers on the frames of other men　⸻　or an in between,　a something or other,　very basis of what Hae-ju would twist your ear back regarding if you’d passed a scathing judgment.　And how does it manifest?　Your eyes,　wide and heavy and a little too animalistic,　looming exactly where you’d hoped and wished for the direct opposition of.

Fucking Light.　You don’t even have any real justification for it,　for any of it.　They shouldn’t even tick the pulses of your attention.　You should be thinking anywhere else,　permitting cognizance to rest only upon the music you’re here in deliberate pursuit of.

(A bonding ritual,　originally,　with Hae-ju.　She’d scoff and turn up her nose at the lack of rock culture back home.　Super underground,　it all was,　and it satiated the two of you in your coupling until it didn’t.　Fret not,　beloved siblings.　Hae-ju always has a plan for everything,　levels of resource-handling and preparedness you seldom thought possible　⸻　you try to take it on for your own creativity,　filter in every amazing part of her through affectionate osmosis　⸻　and she,　abruptly,　declares that you need to start taking time off work.　She says that you have a warm heart and a beautiful brain,　and you will completely destroy yourself,　body and soul,　if you continue grinding out your 52 hour weeks with no end nor respite in sight.　She follows this up with a solution,　something she always seems to have,　pointing out how there are plenty of rock festivals in Japan,　and the two of you can make a trip out of it.　You tell her that you can’t really afford it.　Frustratingly,　she tells you she’s been saving for a rainy day.　Fuck it,　you give in.　Take the time off and try not to think about what they’ll do without you,　even if only for a short while.　Rent places close enough to one another that still allow for individual freedoms.　It made you nervous,　at first,　but now you’re damn near grateful.)

So in comes Light,　obnoxious intrusion that she is.　She gets the fuck under your skin,　though you’d never be able to announce why.　A beckoning of that damned nausea to spin in your stomach,　and a coaxing of heat gathered below your belt.　Fucking hell,　you feel so goddamn out of place when she’s around　⸻　like that stupid smirk on her lips was something forged solely for you to wipe clean off.　But that’s not you.　You’re not cruel and aggressive,　not inherently,　and you’ll be damned if you let a relative stranger get the better of you.　The two of you talk and keep talking.　You want to strangle yourself with your hoodie strings.　

Very worst of all,　you recognize these feelings,　exactly what you try and stuff down.　You know what you are and what you crave,　even in spite of how hard you try to run from it.　Not even the terrain of another country can free you from yourself;　it seems it has exacerbated it.　At least you can say you’ve tried.　You give Light the surface of your animosity,　an abrasive exterior designed to deter her touch.　It doesn’t work,　and it might have been fucking counterintuitive.　Before you know it,　you’re caving to your impulses,　making an on-a-whim decision to invite her over to where you’re staying.　Her confidence rattles you,　pissing you off all the same.　

It’s not long before you’re together,　reunited.　Lord fucking forgive you for ever casting doubt on a need to buy lube and condoms in another country.　But the bag was rapidly abandoned onto bedside table long before the two of you were on each other like animals,　clash of lips against the other.　It’s not as though you think yourself a bad kisser,　but even then,　it’s easy to obfuscate how you’re out of practice with enough passion and force.　You grab onto him,　wondering what the actual fuck people are meant to do with their hands.　A girl makes it easy,　delicate and fragile,　and you’d softly thread your fingers into their hair,　cup their jaw in your oversized hold.　This feels like it should be different,　though.　Far less gentle.　You kiss Light as though you may expel all your bad feelings in doing so:　blame it on being something temporary,　feelings that are not your own.　An egregious exploration that you can forget about by the time the night’s over.　Never mind the fact that he’s wrapped up all of your thoughts since the very moment you’ve met,　and never mind that this fact irritates you like nothing else.　He’s pushed against the wall before you know it,　and you despise how the slight height differential is made especially apparent like this.　Even more,　you hate that he’s pretty.　You hate that he forces you to evaluate and question things about yourself.　And,　most of all,　you hate that you love this.　You fucking hate that you want to touch him,　that you want to rip off your stupid hoodie that makes you feel so insanely out of place compared to everything and everyone around you,　here.　Your residence is simple,　plain-white everywhere the eye can see.　You’ve brought little for luggage,　figuring you’d occupy yourself with sightseeing between shows and events more so than any dedicated socialization.　Does Light notice this?　Does he care?　Does he judge?　Do you want him to?　You pull back,　heavy flush plastered across your cheeks,　and you’re fucking panting.　The weight of your inexperience smashes against you,　now,　as he looks down to you with a look that simply must be heavy scorn.

❛❛　I’m not—　❜❜　You want to say a virgin,　which is the truth.　Light does not inherently deserve your honesty,　and here you are,　dispensing it regardless.　Barely.　You might as well be,　with how unsatisfactory each time had gone for you.　And you’ve only ever been with women,　so it’s not as though your shreds of experience have any relevance here.　Still,　you feel the urge to say it anyways.　Like you’re trying to convince yourself.　❛❛　I mean,　I’ve—　❜❜　Only ever been with women.　No fucking idea what you’re doing.　Can Light tell?　Surely they can.　They’re probably feeding off it,　judging by that stupid goddamn fucking look on their face.

Fuck,　does that piss you off.　It’s enough to swallow down your apprehension,　at least for now.　So your lips are back on theirs,　swollen into a kiss,　and you’re borderline pulling their face onto yours with how harsh your curled fingers are prying at their jawline.　Before long,　you’re dragging them down onto the bed,　bodies adjusting against each other,　Light snaking around until they’re on your lap,　straddling you.　Fuuuuuuuuuck.　Maybe you’re getting ahead of yourself,　but you want to grind up into them,　through your sweatpants,　their denim.　Their weight atop you shifts,　and,　try as you might,　you can’t bite down the whimper it pulls loose from you.　How embarrassing.　Your lips twist into a frown.　Light,　conversely,　is smiling down to you,　caressing the side of your face,　dragging their thumb over your bottom lip.

Maybe you want to utter that you’re not gay,　just loud enough for you to believe it.　But nothing in your life,　your goddamn gay stupid life,　has ever made you feel this excited,　not once before.　It makes you hyperaware,　over-conscious,　as though you have a heightened awareness of each moment’s passing.　Embarrassed by your own inexperience,　you grab at her hips,　try and pull her down onto you like you could hungrily rut into her through the fabric.　You want to be a man,　whatever the fuck that’s even supposed to mean right now.　You want to feel her hands on you,　glance briefly at the black designs adorning her nails,　focus more heavily on how those hands could adorn your body.　All it comes down to is getting that stupid,　stupid hoodie off,　and you shift beneath her,　wrestling with the opening and the stupid excess of the sleeves,　struggling to free the bulk of your arms until you’re certain you’re making a fool of yourself.　Veins of your biceps,　like cords of barbed wire,　sit just below the skin;　you could flex hard enough,　show them off.　Would it entice her?　Moreover,　would it have more or less to do with how you’ve been staring at her like an idiot for the better part of a minute and a half.　Fucking hell.　You discard your hoodie onto the floor,　trying to fumble back some,　any control of the situation with the size of your strength.

You’re just trying so hard not to want this.　It ripples through you unstoppably,　and there go his pants,　yours,　his shirt,　until there are only thin cloth barriers separating you.　Roll of your body weight reverses your positioning,　and now you’re on top of him,　looking him over,　pinning him in place with your thighs.　Adoring gaze feasts upon him,　only a short while before you’ve folded over,　lips latching onto the skin just shy of his collarbone.　This　⸻　it’s all temporary,　sure,　something to escape you once you touch down back on home turf,　but you selfishly want to give him something to remember you by.　You’ll part ways come the morning,　him scuttling off to whatever fashion district he crawled out of,　you poking around Shibuya Parco,　stuffing down the tangible evidence that you are someone you don’t want to be.　You suck another bruise into his chest,　then another,　then another,　and maybe you want to be something worth remembering.　Someone,　even.　When you’ve satisfied yourself with your work　⸻　a few more hickeys dotting his neck for posterity　⸻　you lean your weight forward until your chests are touching,　until you can almost entertain the delusion that you could crush him if you wanted to.　You don’t.　You’re kissing,　again,　and you never want it to end.

❛❛　I—　❜❜　And you’re about to say something,　sure,　but your head’s a jumbled mess,　and the words refuse to come out right.　Maybe you’re the jumbled mess,　and this,　already,　is bringing you to fall apart,　rapidly unwound until you are mere sum of your parts for Light to toy with.　They just keep fucking touching you:　your mind buzzes loud with static,　your thoughts fuzzy,　lechery wrestling its way to the forefront.　You shift your weight up again,　grabbing at their wrists in some pitiful semblance of pinning them in place.　To,　somehow,　masquerade as though you have the upper hand in any facet of this　⸻　you bring the bulk of your frame,　palms that radiate with urge to move and act and feel,　and still you are thoroughly unprepared.　Really,　you just can’t take it anymore.

It’s why your fingers ghost stupid lace waistband that rests upon their hip and rides up their waist.　Stupid,　you think of it,　stupid and self-congratulatory.　And still your fingerpads tentatively stroke,　traveling the path laid out for you in intricate detailing,　all until you summon the courage to slip underneath.　Eyes shift to them,　just for a moment,　as if you anticipated them suddenly looking to you with disgust,　and you pull their stupid fucking underwear down.　Your own turn follows,　and the lack of restriction could make you shiver.　A spark shot through the top of your spine.　You’re leaking precum.　It’s hazy,　then,　thick fog of ardor serving to obfuscate only where your inexperience shines most vividly:　you know yourself,　know your impulses,　know you’ve dismounted only long enough to root around in frivolous,　thin-plastic bag,　retrieving only the lube.

It’s on you,　on her,　re-capped and fumbled back onto the tabletop.　The nervousness takes shape again,　ugly and unwitting,　and onus is yours to shoulder in shoving past it.　You breath in a heavy breath,　holding it as you look her over,　micro-adjustments whirring in your brain of how best to go about this.　Smooth skin of your wrist glides under her thigh as you hook her leg onto your forearm,　spreading her wider for your usage.　Your lips twitch upwards into what is almost a smile.　You’re a dog,　undeserving of his pluck and this vivacity.　Take and take and take,　until you have sated your gluttony　(which feels like it will never happen,　not for as long as you are a man with your perpetual shroud of audacity and entitlement).　Steady heartbeat echoes unwavering,　reverberating all the way up into your throat.　You want to ask if she’s ready,　but you figure the way she looks at you to speak for itself.　Adorable,　in a sense,　even if only fueling the undercurrent of cuteness aggression that takes hold of you with each glance you steal.　You smile at her instead,　more warmly this time.　For a moment,　you sit with the reality that this is company and closeness with each other that you’re enjoying so much.　That realization almost ignites your ire from no kindling,　and,　just as rapidly,　you’ve shifted the ideology,　that this is a conquest,　pleasure that you’re taking and only taking.

You’re a fucking headcase,　Dae-ho.

You push in.

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