He would call himself shameful, filthy even, for this, but even as he lay in bed, legs spread wide like the grand canyon, and hot like the desert, he didnt have time for shame. Sometimes, when he was alone in the house, h would wear one of the detectives discarded shirts, still fresh with the musk of the older's cologne and the smell of hard work. It kept him sane some days, lying there, with that work shirt on, staring into his own oblivion.
Sooner or later, Dojima would roll into his him and into his bedroom, and would be greeted with the sight of a teenager almost as tall as he, sprawled out like a primetime presentation along the thick cotton sheets of the futon.
If it was any old time, he would feel the calloused hands that he knew so well along his lanky hips and on the inside of his thighs as he made him fell like a real man. But now, he was met with a rough push to the left as the man pushed him from the side of the bed.