Work Header


Work Text:

Shiro likes the way he feels inside Kei.

It’s some deep-down satisfaction, instinctive, like coming back to a childhood haunt or remembering the rhythm of some long-forgotten nursery rhyme. Shiro has spent all his life apart from Kei, has grown from childhood to adolescence through to maturity in the span of his own body, within the narrow confines of his solitary life; he’s discovered pleasure both psychological and physical, has satisfied the demands of his body with the vivid clarity of fantasies or in the press of someone else’s desperate hold. But it’s different, with Kei, more satisfying, more real; as if it’s something beyond simple satisfaction, something more than the idle rutting of two animals seeking out brief relief in each other’s bodies. This is more immediate, more overwhelming, more immersive; as if Kei is bleeding into him, as if they’re fitting back into the same entity, coming together to occupy the same space as they did in the first moments of their inception. Shiro can press Kei down against the sheets beneath him, and fuck hard against the moans in Kei’s throat and the fluttering resistance of Kei’s body, and he can feel his own existence spreading out, spilling past the boundaries of his own physical form and into Kei’s, as if he’s laying claim to the other’s soul as thoroughly as he is his body.

There’s never any question of dominance. Kei has always been the weak one of the two of them; he never had the mental strength to be the leader he was chosen to be, never had the backbone to stand steady in his own convictions. That was Shiro’s role when they were children, and as they grew apart; and he finds it for himself again, now, as if Kei has been keeping his surrender waiting for his brother to claim. Shiro grabs at Kei’s shoulder, and twists Kei’s arm against the small of his back, and Kei capitulates without fighting, without giving voice to even token protest. He’s breathing hard before Shiro even touches him, before Shiro unfastens the fly of his pants and pushes Kei’s robes up to bare his body, and whatever Kei may tell himself whenever he comes to these interludes Shiro can feel the way Kei opens for him on contact, can see the straining heat of Kei’s arousal the moment he steps into the hotel room. It’s Kei who moans when Shiro first pushes into him, Kei who clenches hard around his brother’s cock as if he’s coming from the first thrust forward; and it’s always Kei, inevitably, who cries out with the force of his orgasm long minutes before Shiro feels his own building at the base of his spine and in the depths of his stomach. He always goes slack after that, quivering and panting against the sheets while Shiro rides out his brother’s aftershocks; and if Shiro keeps his hold on Kei’s arm and keeps bracing the other in place, the gesture is more for his own satisfaction in his control than out of any need to subdue nonexistent resistance in the other.

It never lasts long enough. Shiro can lose himself to the rhythm of it, to the give of Kei surrendering to him and the warmth of friction purring up his spine and tensing in his limbs; but in the end the lingering satisfaction crests high in spite of his attempts to draw it long, and he finds his fingers tightening, finds his breath catching. Kei quivers beneath him, whimpering over panting inhales as if he can’t find air for his lungs, as if he’s struggling to remember how to breathe; and Shiro stares at the tangle of Kei’s robes, and the dark weight of his brother’s hair, and he feels himself sliding from one to the other, like he’s wandering the space between their bodies as a single domain within his grasp. He’s bent close over his brother’s hunched shoulders, thrusting deep into Kei’s body with short, sharp strokes that drive the other down against the sheets; and he’s Kei, too, gasping and shaking against the mattress beneath them as his cock twitches hard against sheets still sticky with the evidence of his first orgasm. Shiro can feel Kei capitulating to him, is Kei surrendering to the demands of greater strength, greater power, greater certainty; and he’s coming, as Kei’s coming, both of them jolting into heat in a single, shared rush of pleasure. Shiro can feel the vibration of a groan in the back of his throat, can hear the pleading wail of Kei’s echoing in the air; and for a long, endless moment, they are unified even in the unthinking heat of their mutual pleasure.

Coming back to himself is always a loss, for Shiro. It’s nearly an ache, to feel his consciousness slipping back into its usual restraints; almost painful, to have his fingers tighten at Kei’s wrist and not feel a shadow of answering pressure bearing against his own skin. Shiro blinks, and sees only Kei before him; swallows, and tastes only the sound of his own breath at his lips. His cock is softening, his arousal giving way with the unavoidable disappointment that comes with resigning himself to his own single existence, and Shiro braces himself and pulls back at once, severing the link between his body and Kei’s in a single decisive motion. It’s Kei who quivers, who whimpers to give voice to the loss for them both; but Shiro presses his lips together, and sets his jaw, and holds their strength in his shoulders as he pushes back and over the edge of the bed to get to his feet again and move towards the bathroom.

“I’ll bring you a towel,” he says without looking back to frame his words to Kei; there’s no one else he can be talking to, after all, and it’s too strange to see the mirror image of his own gaze in someone else’s face, too painful to see proof of himself disjointed into two bodies with no better way of communicating now than what meager words can do. Shiro moves into the bathroom and turns on the light and the fan with the motion of a single switch before he collects one of the washcloths and begins to clean himself up. There’s a square of a mirror set over the sink; Shiro lifts his head to watch his reflection instead of his hands, fixes his gaze on his mirror image as he wipes the wet of lube and come off his spent cock. If he doesn’t look at the boundary of the mirror he can imagine it’s truly his twin before him, that they really are moving in perfect sync in answer to the demands of his own mind; the idea is heady, dizzy with enough pleasure that Shiro’s cock stirs towards the edge of arousal again, swelling half-hard under his touch as he watches his reflection draw up over it. Shiro considers jerking himself off again like this, watching the movement of his hand duplicated in the mirror before him; but in the end his too-pale shirt gives the illusion away after all, and even the range of his imagination can’t make his reflection the reality of Kei before him. He stands a better chance of persuading Kei into another round before he leaves to return to the demands the village makes of him; and so Shiro pulls his pants back into place, and considers himself with distant attention in the mirror, and turns to return to the other room where he left his brother.

Kei is lying at the end of the bed where Shiro finished with him, his position all but unchanged but for the drawn-up angle of his knees and the way he’s turned over on his side instead of face-down at the sheets. His gaze is hazy, his attention visibly abstracted; he doesn’t look up as Shiro returns to the room, doesn’t react when Shiro shuts off the light in the bathroom. He doesn’t actually move at all until Shiro is stepping in close and reaching out to offer the promised cloth, and then it’s with a start, blinking hard as if Shiro’s reappearance is a surprise to whatever distracted state he was lingering in.

“Do you want me to clean you up?” Shiro asks. Kei looks startled, like he’s not completely sure what to do with the towel Shiro is offering him; and Shiro wouldn’t mind the excuse to turn Kei back over on the bed, to press his fingers against his twin’s skin and feel his own body purr with aftershocks of heat as if it’s borrowing sensation from Kei’s once more. But Kei blinks, and shakes his head, and Shiro can see the rejection in the set of his jaw even before he lifts a hand to take the cloth from Shiro himself.

“No,” he says, “I’ll do it.” Shiro lets Kei take the towel and turns aside, leaving the other to work through the process of getting himself back to something like presentable from the sweat-warm and pleasure-sticky mess they have made of him; he goes to the window instead, standing just at the edge of the carefully-drawn blinds so he can look out at the shadows of night on the other side. There’s no one there and nothing to see, with the evening fading rapidly into the proper weight of night; but Shiro isn’t really paying attention to what he’s seeing as much as he is listening to the sound of Kei’s breathing steadying and feeling his own heartbeat slowing to match. Shiro feels heavy with pleasure, like all the strength of his body has gone limp and languid with the satisfaction of having Kei beneath him, of that brief moment of unity still near enough to remember with perfect clarity; and then Kei takes a breath as if he’s bracing himself, and speaks with the sharp, brittle edge of command on his tone.

“Don’t tell anyone.”

Shiro can feel his skin go cold, can feel his heart stutter on something icy and brutal in his chest. He stares out at the night for a moment, feeling the chill settle itself into his blood like it’s freezing him in place; and then he turns his head, and he looks at Kei.

Kei isn’t looking at him. Kei is sitting at the far edge of the bed, with his back to Shiro and his head turned away; his clothes are back in place, the full weight of those dark robes are smoothed over his shoulders. There’s no visible sign of their recent tryst on him; he might as well be a visitor rather than a participant, wholly detached from the wet of his own pleasure still sticky on the sheets of the bed behind him. Shiro stares at him, at the set of Kei’s shoulders and the deliberate, assumed tilt of his head; and he watches Kei’s spine dip in under the weight of his stare, watches Kei’s head duck forward as if in capitulation to his attention.

“Please,” he says; and his voice is far smaller now, pleading and terrified, a child begging to be saved from some impending doom. “Please, Shiro.”

Shiro stares at Kei. His chest is tight, his shoulders are stiff; at his sides his hands are curling into fists, his fingernails driving hard against his palms to draw blood in their wake. He doesn’t know what is more responsible for this surge of rage, for this bitter taste of hatred on his tongue; doesn’t know if he’s more offended by Kei’s attempt at dominance or more repulsed by the other’s immediate slide into cringing subservience. Is it that Kei thought the words needed to be said at all, as if Shiro doesn’t understand the situation as clearly as he? Is it that Shiro can taste Kei’s shame in the air, as if Shiro’s touch has infected him, as if they have done anything other than seek out the connection they both crave with some part of their bipartite soul? Shiro doesn’t have answers; all he has is the anger, the raw edge of rage spilling up from his core to strip rationality away from him, to roar for a need for absolution from the insult of those words.

His gaze drops to the cloth dropped on the bed behind Kei, the white of it draped over the stain on the sheets as if it’s enough to cover the evidence, and for a brief, insane moment Shiro imagines stepping forward over the distance, imagines seizing the ends of the fabric between both hands and swinging it up and over Kei’s head where he’s sitting at the edge of the bed. It would be easy to jerk him back, would be easy to pull the cloth tight against Kei’s throat; Kei wouldn’t even realize what was happening until he was falling backwards to land hard against Shiro’s chest, until his windpipe was closed shut against a proof of future air. He would struggle, certainly, would kick and scratch and claw for freedom; but Shiro has always been the strong one, and in the end Kei’s strength would fade with his consciousness, his struggles would give way to the convulsive tremors of suffocation. Shiro imagines holding him there, bearing the weight of his brother’s limp body against the line of the cloth wet with their shared pleasure; imagines the feel of Kei twitching as he dies, as Shiro lays claim to the life that used to be his, that should have been his all this time. He stares at the towel, and he thinks about moving, about seizing Kei’s life from him with their bodies still warm with the feel of the other; and then he turns his head, and he fixes his gaze out the window once more.

“Of course,” he says, and his voice is as cool as his blood, as dark as the night outside. “You should go before someone comes looking for you.”

Shiro doesn’t turn around again until long after he’s watched Kei’s dark robes disappear against the shadows of the falling night.