あらま求愛性 孤独ドク 流るルル
See, being together, being lonely flows through
so give me more love
say, this passion hurts, hurts so much.
存在感 血 ドクドク 零るルル
High-quality blood, gushing down and spilling out
Don't I have it? More,
愛 愛 哀 哀
Love, love, sorrow, sorrow.
“The bell rang.”
Ouma looked down at his wrist, the repeated dropping of the blood that welled up from it severing the silence as it hit the tile floor. A drip, drip, drip.
“Sorry, I didn’t hear.”
“It’s okay, you should probably stop now though,” Saihara turned his head so his ear was pressed up against the bathroom stall door, wondering if the other was still cutting as he spoke, but he heard nothing. “You still have to bandage up, right?”
“I-I have to-“ Ouma stuttered as the blood wouldn’t stop bubbling, and then dripping, and making the same noise over and over. His head hurt. “I have to clean up the floor-“
“Just let whoever got stuck with cleanup duty today do it.”
“I’m sure they’ll just think someone got a bloody nose, it’ll be fine.” Saihara made way too much sense in the most perverted situations, like nothing fazed his unyielding logic or his ability to just not care.
“…Okay.” The blood kept falling as the boy was still paralyzed. Who knew blood could be so loud.
After Ouma managed to bandage himself in his typical fashion, gauze secured tightly by an entrapment of circling athletic tape, he unlocked the stall door with jittery hands. Saihara had been leaning up against it, and he heard him shuffle as he took his weight off to move away.
As if he were a ghostly figure, one of the Seven Mysteries of the School, he emerged with his head bowed and his eyes lowered. His arms were hidden by the swallowing length of his sleeves, but Saihara knew what was there without having to see. Everyone knew what was there.
That was why everyone avoided him, his bandaged wounds infected with a disease that repulsed them by the pure instinct of self-preservation. If you got to close you would catch the plague of crazy. And that made Ouma even more crazy, because all he wanted was to not be alone.
Well, he wasn’t exactly alone. When he lifted his head Saihara was looking down at him beneath the brim of his hat without a hint of repulsion in his eyes. For whatever reason, Saihara didn’t care about catching his incurable sicknesses, whether they were transmittable in truth or not, and he always stood just a bit too close. Closer than anyone ever had before, at least, so Ouma had no idea if it was weird or not. But it made him jump out of the slits in his skin.
Saihara couldn’t catch the crazy because he already had it.
“Feel better?” He asked, like it ever fixed anything or made anyone feel better. In fact, Ouma felt shittier every time, especially right now. Immediately after was the worst, it was the time his stomach hit the floor and he lost the high with the most force. Everything was back to normal again, nothing had changed, and he was just in a now unattractive amount of burning pain across his arms.
“Yeah,” he lied.
“How does it help, in the end?” He seriously asked this every time, his head tilted inquisitively so the long strands of his bangs moved with it. Ouma didn’t have the heart to be annoyed, because the genuine curiosity was apparent in his albeit flat expression.
The short boy just shrugged, looking to the side as his mouth blocked all words like an impenetrable egress without an opening. He didn’t really want to talk about it. If he explained it, it wouldn’t make sense, because he wouldn’t explain it right. And because it didn’t make sense, at all.
“Do you like it?” That was a new addition, and it forced Ouma’s gaze upward, to the searing yellow that held it there. “I mean, does it feel good to you?”
“The noises you make sometimes though… It kind of sounds like you’re enjoying yourself, I guess.” Without anything to go off of, having never received a true answer to the pressing questions that overwhelmed his mind at night, Saihara decided it must be something else then. He had to figure it out for himself, if Ouma was never going to speak.
“Um-“ It was apparent by that statement, if Ouma had not already been aware, that the other had never been in any amount of serious pain in his life before. Past a scrape or a light burn. He didn’t know what it was like to lose your breath and vomit up uncontrollable noises as your body lost its footing on reality. The repetitive pulsing that took over your brain when you became engulfed in agony. “It does hurt…”
“That doesn’t mean anything, you can like it because it hurts.”
This was way too much right now, the halls were brimming with people that never stopped long enough to hear their conversation fully, but Ouma still couldn’t speak. Too much, these revelations, these anvils dropped onto his head like he was supposed to understand what they meant when his entire body felt like it was on fire. His head seriously hurt, so badly.
“It’s…” Baby steps, baby steps. Speak, speak. “It’s… It’s the only time I can feel anything. In the way that it’s… It’s like I’m releasing something. I’m getting something all out, for once.”
The innuendos were there, and Ouma’s stomach flipped rancidly when Saihara’s eyebrows raised, every word unfortunately not lost on him. Ouma spent so long in his head, he never spoke about things like this at least, so even he didn’t know the reason. And it was getting more uncomfortable as the truth got vivid.
“But, you still do it when you’re upset, so it can’t be just that…” He crossed his arm over his chest and cradled his chin in his fingers, like he was solving a riddle in his mind. A puzzle, a Rubik’s Cube, a maze that only ended in the same pit of razors and thorns.
Upset was a way to put it, and Ouma was just glad he didn’t say ‘sad’. Sad was the word he hated more than anything, because it was the word of choice for those who had no idea what they were talking about.
“We understand you’re sad, but have faith.” “I know some of you are sad but keep your head up!” “Sadness is only temporary, don’t miss out on the joys of life over it.”
If Ouma were just sad, he would do things that made him happy, things other than slicing his body to a jumbled mess. But that wasn’t the case. Even the word depression was becoming more commonly used in the place of that adjective, and while he was glad for those that helped, it did nothing for him either. He wasn’t sad, and he wasn’t depressed. Happiness and mania were lost on him, too. His psyche lacked the ability to feel one thing, it screamed all of them into a painful whir that overtook his mind in an inescapable blur. He was insane, painfully so, and it lacked a dictionary term.
It was just painful, that was all he felt. And the only way to stop it was to feel pain somewhere else, if even just for a second.
“I tried to do it myself too, after the first time I caught you doing it.” That had been an interesting day, the forgetful lapse of not locking the stall door and a rushing Saihara had led to this situation, and Ouma’s first friendship, but he didn’t have time to reminisce. Hearing those words hurt so much, he felt the cuts on his wrists begin to throb in response, revolting at the idea of him ever being in pain, and punishing the cause of it. “I wasn’t sad or anything, I just wanted to see what it felt like. But it hurt too much, so I couldn’t do it.”
“I did think it was pretty though, afterward. Even though it was only a little blood,” he spoke over Ouma, which wasn’t a hard thing to do as his voice never punctured above the octave only he could hear. His eyes moved from their contemplative, upturned position, to look back down at the blubbering boy, icy in their detachedness. “I bet yours look even prettier, since you do so much. I bet they’re deep too.”
How could he deny he was right? It was so pretty, the physical manifestation of everything he deserved to feel was so beautiful. Even if it wasn’t on him, he just loved the sight of blood, but the added sting of it all was the true gratification. It was perfect, it was everything Ouma had ever needed to feel at peace, at least at the time of doing it, and it was something he knew he was never going to get rid of. He was positive even addiction therapy couldn’t help him.
How do you help someone that drug their tongue over the open wounds they caused themselves until the blood poured down their chin?
“I have an idea, only if you’re okay with it.”
“Wh-What is it?” Ouma’s breath was bated, but his heart rate was skyrocketing. Higher than it had ever been, past the point it did when he hurt himself. It was pounding in his head at an ever-increasing rate that made him feel like he was losing his mind. What was it what was it what was it? Say it. Say it. Say it.
“I could do it for you, whenever you want to,” as if he needed to say it clearer, speak it louder, Saihara clarified, “I could cut you. That way you wouldn’t do it when you’re not with me, and maybe it’d help you feel better.”
Ouma swallowed the spit in his mouth.
The next time he wanted to do it came immediately the next day. He would have suggested it right then, on the decrepit floor of the school bathroom, but he didn’t want to freak Saihara out any more than he already had. Like he was blind to who had suggested it in the first place.
Besides, he didn’t have any space on his arms, after what he had just done. But it wasn’t as if his arms had healed miraculously overnight, they were still a wreck like they always were. He just couldn’t wait any longer. He felt bad for putting Saihara in an impossible position, but he couldn’t help himself.
Luckily, his arms weren’t what the other had in mind at all.
Ouma was still in complete shock he was half-naked with his thin thighs spread, Saihara between them on his knees. When he had never mentioned his arms, there was a perverted sinking inside of him that he had changed his mind. But when he plainly stated Ouma should take his pants off, so he could get to his thighs, an inexplicable ball of warmth replaced it. Something hot and cramped, it sat below the tight waistband of his underwear as he leaned back on the rickety couch in his room.
Was this sexual? It was definitely sexual. If Saihara weren’t holding an unsheathed razor in one hand it would have been pornography material, wedged between Ouma’s legs with an eager coil wound up his body. While looking down his naked thighs at the boy seated there was something Ouma had thought about often, it wasn’t anything he ever thought he would get to experience. Normal people like Saihara, with a heart kind enough to watch after a self-destructive mental case like Ouma, didn’t date the school nut job.
Saihara ran his finger down the flat back of the razor with a concentrated gaze, and Ouma began to realize he wasn’t normal at all.
“How deep should I go?” The sudden question shook him from his contemplation, and he jolted, seeing Saihara look up at him with genuine inquest. Swallowing, Ouma shook his head, the strands of his hair bouncing along with him.
“I-I don’t really know…” They were at a stalemate, something expected but still awkward. They really hadn’t talked about this enough beforehand, they hadn’t talked about it at all, and it showed now.
“I can-“ But Ouma didn’t want to lose it, if the warmth of Saihara’s presence between his legs left now he would implode, so he grasped that to give him strength. And the hand that Saihara was using to hold the weapon. “I can show you at first, what would work, I guess…”
The boy actually smiled up at him, like he had the brain of an untapped genius, making Ouma blush. His hand was burning hot compared to his own corpse fingers, and he pulled that warmth in shaky jerks toward the space above his knee. Was there okay?
Settling the blade against his skin, Ouma felt nothing. It was cold, he thought it should be, but he didn’t feel it. His skin was overwhelmed by the wave of heat Saihara’s was giving off, and his legs were trembling so hard it caused the first trickle of blood to come from no other movement. A small bead of blood began to well up around the edges of the razor, and he exhaled shakily, keeping his eyes on the pure white skin as he began to move.
He didn’t go very deep, he wasn’t familiar with the density of the skin there at all, but it split in two easier than he expected. The recognizable line began to grow as the razor slid, and Saihara didn’t seem to be breathing at all the entire time, his focus trained solely on the surprising lack of blood that accompanied the bright red line.
Letting out a loud breath, Ouma pulled their joined hands away when there was no more space and his leg met the fabric of the couch. The numbness his nervousness caused had made him utterly impervious to any pain it would have caused, but he was shaking too hard to focus on being disappointed. Besides, with his own hand guiding it, it didn’t really feel much like Saihara was the one doing it at all. He didn’t seem to be alone in his sentiment, though.
“There’s barely anything coming out…” Saihara sounded… disconcerted. Unhappy at the measly trail of circular blobs that began to emerge, seeing no more than what he already had seen on himself. That hurt, Ouma begged his body to erupt in a spray of blood just to cheer him up, but a pair of hands beat him to it.
“Sometimes you have to-“
Strongly gripping his waifish thigh, Saihara used his thumbs to spread the wound, a clear trickle pouring out at the torture. It didn’t hurt, and Ouma felt his eyes go wide at the beautiful red that tickled in its drips.
‘Sometimes you have to do that.’
Ouma was glad as he felt the sting of Saihara’s breath blanket the cut, so glad.
“I think I get it now,” he sounded confident, something Ouma was grateful for. At least one of them was. He removed his hands and returned to facing forward, no longer angled toward his knee and instead focused intently on the spaces closest to where his underwear ended.
“I’ll do it here.”
He wasn’t asking, and Ouma’s thighs twitched in response, one swift hand pressing it down ending that suddenly. He was forcing his leg down, so Ouma couldn’t pull it away, even if he wanted to. He was so weak, and while Saihara wasn’t strong, there was no way he could overpower his decided restraint.
“Wait, Saihara-k-“ There was a major artery there, one that meant lots more blood than either of them planned on. At least, what he had thought they planned on, but Saihara’s movements were unstoppable. He didn’t think the other would go that deep, but he didn’t know, he felt scared. He felt scared of the person he liked more than anyone else as he pressed the tip of the razor to the sensitive skin of his inner thigh.
How much did he really know about Saihara? He thought he knew everything. But in reality, he didn’t know anything about what went on in his head, they spent most of their time talking about why Ouma was the way he was. Which didn’t amount to much talking, just a lot of shrugs and stuttering. It was never about Saihara, or if he had problems, or if he had anything fucked up he was dealing with. Ouma had so easily accepted his invitation to cut him because he had always thought Saihara was straightforward, someone that said what they thought and meant what they said. But maybe he wasn’t, maybe he was just biding his time until he could kill Ouma at his weakest moment, maybe he was-
“Khh-!” Ouma squeaked out a wheeze as he sliced into him, going much deeper than the trial cut, but not deep enough to cause any deadly harm (he assumed). All of his jumping fears and racing thoughts ended abruptly in a familiar burst, the pain electrocuting everything and silencing it at the same time. He felt his heart jump in his throat as his hands grappled uselessly at the fabric next to him, unable to ground himself as Saihara placed another extensive line below the previous one.
‘W-Wait, Saihara-kun, not so fast, you’re doing too much-‘ Ouma couldn’t speak his thoughts as he cried out again at another cut, the blood dribbling out in vivid lines against the pasty backdrop of his skin. It was indescribable, to feel something so familiar, yet have it be foreign. It couldn’t even be called the same thing; the feeling was utterly different. Ouma wasn’t cutting himself, Saihara was. A separate hand, a separate entity, a separate type of pain.
He felt like he was going to pass out.
There was more blood than the previous one, but it didn’t seem to be enough, as Saihara paused with one final cut, eyebrows pulled together. He looked just as troubled, like he had before, to which Ouma could only pant and watch as if his body was not his own.
He thought he was going to spread the wounds again, but when he dug his long nails (honestly manicured better than most high school boy’s) into the wound, Ouma lost the ability to expect anything anymore. His whole body spasmed in a shriek of pain, more pain than he had ever physically felt before, his chest expanding as he lifted it in the air. They kept going inside, the sharp tips ripping more skin open as the blood begin to pour freely now, clearly exciting the other.
“Wow,” his voice was hushed but heard, not trying to hide himself, “It’s so warm inside of you, Ouma-kun. It’s like I can feel all the way in.”
“Ow!” Ouma screamed finally, his limbs thrashing but restrained. Saihara lifted his head at the exclamation, seeing the other’s eyes bead with tears as he looked down at him with horror on his face. Horror, fear, something else too… Something weirdly familiar, but opposite to what he was feeling himself.
When he pulled his nails out, Ouma leaned forward and panted, his wounds gushing and his face slick wet. He couldn’t stop convulsing, letting out small, guttural noises each time his body pulsed, and more blood slid between his sticky legs. He felt violated on a level he never had before, by no one he ever had been before. He had been touched somewhere no one else had ever touched.
“That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you do that.”
“H-Huh?” Ouma managed to collect himself enough that he could look up, still heaving out heavy breaths. The unbridled awe in Saihara’s eyes was enough to unsettle him again, unsure what he did to receive such a bright reaction.
“Say ‘ow’, I’ve never heard you say anything hurt.” Oh, it was that? Well, that was true. Ouma couldn’t remember the last time he had said ‘ow’ about something involving a razor. Hurting wasn’t the right word, so he couldn’t act like it did.
“I-I-“ A mute idiot, Ouma had nothing to say, still shaking at the memory of Saihara forcing his way inside of his body.
“I like it.” It took skill to be that honest, or just sheer stupidity, uncaring of what others thought in the end. Saihara licked at the blood caking his fingernails, his tongue trailing the traces of Ouma left all over him. “It suits you, the blood, the cuts, all of it. Especially when you say it hurts, pain suits you really well.”
‘Suits me…? Being in pain suits me? That means- he likes it, he actually likes it?’ Ouma felt his mind spiraling as he watched his tongue consume pieces of his own body. ‘I’m so happy, I’m so happy, I’m so happy-‘
“And for a while now too… I’ve seen something else new,” A firm hand on the front of his underwear jolted Ouma back into his body, letting out a stutter of shock as something definitely new flooded his body. A feeling he had never experienced. “You’re getting hard.”
He wasn’t lying, Ouma hadn’t noticed right away because of the other overwhelming rushes his body was riddled with, but as the palm teased his tender reaction he was painfully aware now. This was the point of no return.
“I’ve never seen you get like this after you do it to yourself, or maybe you just hide it…” Saihara was rambling in his perplexity, his sight trained on the bump his hand was massaging into an even greater state. He had never felt someone else like this before, first inside and now out, and he was entranced. “It would be hard to walk around like this, though, so I don’t think so. Is it really that different to have someone else do it? …Is it because it’s me doing it?”
“Yo-You’re wrong,” Ouma’s mind was moving so quickly it was missing the other things Saihara was asking, his hips lifting against his will into his hold. “I’ve never- I haven’t felt like this before.”
He left out a harsh gasp when that hold pushed in a bit too hard, a dull ache making his body twitch uncontrollably. An ache that hurt, it was too much to squeeze that area so brutally, but it felt good. It hurt, but it felt good.
“Really?” Saihara dug his palm in harder and practically melted when he heard Ouma squeal. “You’ve never touched yourself when you cut your arms?”
“No!” The writhing boy slammed his eyes shut, something vicious building up in his throat until he thought he might vomit. Puke it all up all over Saihara between his legs, coat him in the venomous liquid that sloshed around his body and ate away at his brittle bones. The acid he carried inside of him would burn him to the core, it would rot his body away, and Ouma didn’t want that. He held it in as long as he could, but with another slow stroke, he warbled out a moan and it spilled over.
“It only feels good when you do it.”
Saihara’s lips cracked open in a dazed smile, the own acrid infection in his breath wafting out as he actually laughed in delight at Ouma’s words.
“Hah, I’ve been thinking about that for a long time now…” One hand fondling Ouma’s erection, and the other bringing the razor down on his other unmarked thigh, he began to carve into him once again. “The way it looked, I always wanted to see it, but it wasn’t right. You were in pain, I thought. Mentally, at least. It wasn’t right for me to try and watch you through the cracks in the door, but I couldn’t stop it.”
Ouma’s skin split and he was torn in two, between the blistering pain in his legs and the irresistible pleasure that sat in abnormal conjunction with what was happening lower. Nothing about it was normal, but he had never felt such a rush, so much lust he thought it might beat out of his chest with his weak heart.
Saihara had watched him? Or at least, tried to? His perverted curiosity was understandable, anyone else would have likely done the same thing… Maybe. He didn’t know, Ouma didn’t know anything. All he knew was what he thought, and how he felt, nothing about other people. And he felt flattered.
“I never saw though, not like this… I’m glad I never saw,” a third cut done, he lowered his head closer to Ouma’s quivering thighs and the slowly building blood there, seeming to inhale to see if there was any sort of scent the primal wounds gave off. “I only want to see the cuts I give you.”
Ouma slammed his eyes shut at the words, uncontrollable yet familiar tears beading in them as he made a desperate attempt to wrangle them inside. His heart felt like it was going to burst, his legs were on fire but weirdly empty as if they needed more, his cock was throbbing, his mind was a gutter of the most vile, disgusting things he had ever thought, but more than anything he felt happy. He felt happy it was Saihara cutting him.
Before he could grasp onto what exactly that meant, a sting accompanied by a nasty, slimy sensation shocked his eyes back open. He cried wordlessly as Saihara’s mouth covered the wounds he had caused on one of his thighs, one tear falling in silent disbelief as the blood coated the round curve of his cheek.
“O-Ow Stop! Saihara-kun, stop!” Ouma’s hands involuntarily flew forward and fisted into his silky hair, tugging on the strands fruitlessly as the other remained cemented to his leg. The lack of support from his arms sent him tittering backward, slamming against the backrest of the couch. He kept ripping at his hair, but it never tore from his head or convinced him to pull away, the vampiric boy letting out an animalistic groan of pleasure at the sharp pain.
It hurt, it hurt so much, the saliva stung more than his nails had because it never left. It just kept coming, it was blanketing the wounds and dripping into them, infecting them as his teeth began to gnaw on the tortured skin. It was begging him to stop, weeping more and more blood into his mouth that did the opposite of dissuade him to. It poured down his throat and over his chin, his tongue dragging across the twitching skin as it screamed in protest.
“G-Gross, it feels so gross, stop it-“ Ouma was wriggling like the liar he was, his body thrashing around as Saihara’s spit dribbled down his leg and fell to the floor in pinkish blobs. “Gro-oss, haah, it feels so gross- Stop going inside-“
“You taste so good, Ouma-kun,” Saihara muffled against his leg and Ouma whined, his body full of a weird pride at the twisted compliment. “I’ll tear you open until no one else can. I’ll go so deep inside so no one else can touch you there.”
It was like he was reading Ouma’s mind, responding to his faltering thoughts with the perfect words as his sanity whittled away. His tongue forced itself as deep as it could until he could feel the pulsing flesh around it, and Ouma’s head fell against the back of the couch with a loud crack.
Razor balanced thoughtlessly in his fingers, Saihara dug his nails once again in the other leg. Ouma’s chest lifted up as his vision went white, blanking completely until the feeling of Saihara invading his body was all he could feel.
“C-Cumming, I’m really cumming, Saihara-kun, stop, I’ll die, I’m gonna die, I’m-“ Ouma shut up with a loud wail, his hands forcing the mouth maiming him as close as he could, tongue flat against the wound while it pulsed. His cum spread inside of his underwear with a warmth that almost mimicked the consistency of the blood that balanced in a precarious string from Saihara’s mouth as he pulled away, but not quite.
Shaking violently, Ouma’s tongue hung out of his mouth as he saw the entire lower-half of Saihara’s face stained red.
The cutting and the fucking happened often, more often with each instance and each week that passed. While it meant they spent more time together outside of school, it slimmed their school day interactions down to nothing, because Ouma no longer needed to call on Saihara to keep watch. He sort of missed that.
It wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about it, often when he looked in the mirror or things got so loud he covered his ears and there was still screaming he begged himself for it. He picked up the blade, he positioned it over his skin, and he just started crying. Big, globular tears of disappointment, and regret, and of nostalgia. Because when he got that far, he was overrun with the realization he didn’t want to do it anymore. He didn’t want to do it to himself anymore, he didn’t want to be the one to cut himself. He would be betraying Saihara, and more than that, he would feel nothing. Nothing compared to the release he felt when it was the person he loved. He missed it, there was nothing to distract him from his thoughts now. Just Saihara.
And he needed him then, he needed that distraction. He had written the words ‘Fuck you’ in his journal 156 times, tearing out each page he filled until they littered the floor by his feet in a big pile before he decided to pick up his phone. His hands were shaking with pent up whatever, anger, sadness, fear, guilt, every single emotion humanly possible sung out in his body as he typed out quickly but sloppily,
Are you busy right now?
Classic Ouma, classic being consumed by an unspeakable madness that left him clawing others down into the pits of hell with him. He needed to get it out, cut it out of him so it would shut up, shut up, shut up. Fuck you.
He hated having to do this, asking for help. But if he didn’t have Saihara, he had no one. No one other than himself. As if he didn’t realize Saihara liked it just as much.
Just got to the arcade, what’s up?
He hadn’t been realizing he was holding his breath until he responded, his mind fading back into full usage as the air was sucked back into his body. Regaining moderate control of his limbs and brain, he responded,
Can we meet up?
The lies and the implications were there, what else could Ouma want other than what was the defining portion of his psyche? Pain.
I was going to meet up with a mutual at the DR café after this. Can I come over after?
Why did that make Ouma angry? Not angry, infuriated, irrationally furious to the point he curled his toes into the paper beneath his feet so hard they crinkled. The café with someone else, with someone other than Ouma? No no, not now, not when Ouma needed him. Didn’t he know how much Ouma needed him? He needed him here, he needed him now. He hated that he couldn’t be the person that went to the café with him, he hated that he existed solely in a dark space full of blood and gore, and that that wasn’t healthy for anyone. Saihara needed to go outside for his own health, he needed to be the human he was, not the hodge podge of papier-mâché held together with cheap glue that Ouma used to pretend to be human.
So why did it hurt so much?
I could really use some help right now…
Normally people went, ‘Come over and fuck me, big boy.’ At least, that was what porn had taught Ouma. But he lacked the skills for anything like that, the skill to not care about everything he said and how it related to others at all times. So, he just sounded pathetic, slamming his fist against his head repeatedly until Saihara responded.
Gimme a bit.
It was such a cryptic, plain message, Ouma found millions of hidden subtexts in it. Meaning upon meaning of how he was alone again, that Saihara didn’t want him anymore and was bored. This ‘mutual’, whatever the fuck that meant, was probably someone better than him, someone that let Saihara do more. They probably were gonna let him dismember them limb from limb, rip open their stomach and wear their entrails like a fall scarf.
But Ouma would let him do that, he didn’t care. He didn’t care what happened to his body, he stopped caring about that so long ago it was never something that held him back when they were together. In fact, he wanted Saihara to do that. He wanted to make him happy, more than anything, and in his own selfishness, he wanted to feel his hands inside of him as deep as they could go. He wouldn’t be satisfied until his unyielding grip was around his heart, he realized with a deadly chill.
Just let me know soon.
Are you really busy?
Can you still come over?
Please come over.
You need to come over.
You need to come over right now
Ouma was rocking back and forth on his heels with his palms pressed flat against his eyeballs to the point they shot white sparks through his brain. No sound filtered through, no light other than the sick spew from his brain, no one thing could penetrate his spiral into lunacy.
‘Saihara-kun’s mine, he’s mine, he’s mine, he’s mine, he’s mine, he’s mine, he doesn’t want me, he doesn’t want me, I’m not needed anymore, I’m not needed, nuisances should just die if they’re not needed.’
He burst to his feet and took off in a sprint to the bathroom, his padded feet masking the noise of his phone buzzing.
Sorry, I was trying to get a hold of them to tell them I couldn’t make it.
I’m leaving right now.
Are you there?
I’m on the train right now, I’ll be there soon.
Don’t do anything crazy.
Wrong choice of words, Saihara Shuichi.
There was no one home when Saihara got to Ouma’s house, there was never anyone home, so he just let himself in. Manners didn’t bother him one way or another, and Ouma hadn’t answered him the entire time he had been on the train, so they were completely lost in the face of his increasing worry.
“Ouma-kun?” He announced lightly when he peaked his head from the entryway, the downtrodden house dark to the point of foreboding. A gothic mansion filled with molding futons instead of candelabras.
“Up here,” his familiar cadence called from the distance, and Saihara instantly relaxed, all concern vanishing from his limbs in a swift exhale. He was still there, he wasn’t sure why he was so uneasy in the first place. Self-harm didn’t necessarily mean suicide… Did it?
He wished he knew, like he knew anything about any of this. It still mystified him, what went on inside of Ouma’s mind. It always seemed like it was on the edge of something but was too anxious to tip over. Like it was overflowing but utterly reserved, pent up inside of himself until he exploded in those grand displays of blood and guts and crying loudly as he came violently.
Saihara had never dealt with anything like that, those… vexing emotions the other seemed to grapple with. He had tried to stop Ouma when he first found out about his cutting, at least mentally, but it never made it past his lips. He had no idea what the right thing to say was to someone like that. All he knew was that he liked the way Ouma’s blood tasted, and that he liked the way he whined with clear pleasure when his skin split, and that he liked the small smile he had given him in a blurry, post-orgasmic state after Saihara had managed to mess him up to the point of pure bliss.
He liked when he smiled, he wished he would smile more.
Turning the corner up the stairs, he took the familiar steps to Ouma’s room in utter silence. There was no greeting when he opened the door, just a cross-legged purple boy sitting on his bed, devoid of emotion.
The lack of anything unsettled him, but he spoke up to mend the frigid silence between them, “Are you okay?”
No answer, not that he expected one. There was never really a clear answer to that question, just a lot of lying and avoidance. But the silence was what really got him that time.
“…You should probably just take your clothes off.” Was all Ouma said, and Saihara shut the door behind him as he reached for his tie.
It wasn’t until they were both completely naked, and Ouma was lowering himself onto Saihara’s dick as he straddled him that he began to talk again.
“Who did you go to see today?” His voice was weak at first, but in between the panting Saihara heard him, looking up from their connected bodies to his face. Something was off about it, but he couldn’t place it, not when his body was melting from the waist down.
“Huh…? Just a friend from online.” Logic made Ouma’s head spin, locked out of his thoughts like his brain was filled with a buttress of sense-repellent. It didn’t matter what made sense, or what was logical, because that didn’t affect his mind. And he lived in his mind, he had to live with it every day.
“A-Are they more important than me?” He never lifted his eyes to see Saihara’s reaction, or lack thereof, his gaze train solely downward as his bangs barely masked his unhinged glare.
“What? I came here as soon as you asked me to.”
“Are you having… Are you having sex with them?” Saihara tried to control his reaction, but when Ouma lifted his head in a deep violet blur his body moved with him, rocking against his hips and making him inhale sharply. It was so tight inside of him.
“N-No,” he was telling the truth, but the situation was making him sound unsure. He could see Ouma latched onto that immediately.
“Am I not enough? Are they letting you do the things you do to me, but better?” Ouma’s nails dug into the sharp outline of Saihara’s collarbones as he kept him pushed down, violently jarring him as he ranted. “You realized how scary I am, right? You don’t want me anymore, right? Are they pretty? Hey, answer me. Are they pretty? Does their blood taste good like you said mine does? Does it taste better-“
“O-Ouma-kun, stop-“ Saihara reached for one of his thin wrists to cut off his rambling, and to get him to just stop moving. The constant rocking and the wet noises his body made each time they moved together wasn’t making his head any clearer, and he needed to hear what he was saying, so he could try to understand. Was there anything to understand in the first place?
When he felt a familiar, but repugnant in its foreignness, raised scab on his arm he lost his breath. It was only one, directly below his middle finger, but he felt it clearly, immediately pushing Ouma’s arms back with all of the strength he had in both arms to see it.
Ouma squeaked as he shifted slightly and Saihara scraped against the deepest part of him, an area that made his head throb and momentarily forget what he had been saying. But when he looked down and saw his eyes trained on the singular cut across his wrist, he came reeling back into his body.
It had been weeks since Ouma had last cut himself, with his own hands, in that place, so everything had pretty much healed. His once white skin, fresh like pressed cotton, was littered with flat, dark scars that curled around the entirety of his lower arms. There were a few raised ones too, from where he might have just tried to get over it and kill himself before chickening out, but they were all healed. Except the one Saihara was looking at now, so fresh in fact the blood peeled off it in crusty splotches before opening again as he rubbed his thumb over it harshly. There was no way.
Ouma hissed as the wound reopened, one eye squinting shut at the pointless pain. It didn’t feel good, because it wasn’t something Saihara had done. It wasn’t something he wanted to feel, he just wanted to dissolve. Both of his eyes shot open widely when Saihara’s dark pupils flashed to meet them, ringed with a gold that seemed to grow in an intensity that frightened him. He was scared again, he had never seen Saihara actually mad.
“Who did this?”
“I did-didn’t know you were coming, I thought-“
He tried to pull his arm away flimsily, but when the hold responded by tightening, he ripped harder. He tugged his arm toward him, letting out a small cry when it failed each time, the fingers around his wrist getting tighter and tighter and scarier and scarier.
“Tell me who did this.”
Ouma caught him by surprise and almost succeeded in freeing himself, but ultimately slipped like he always did, when Saihara let go of his other hand and fastened both tightly around the injured one. He was gripping so hard his fingers were going white, and Ouma’s were going purple, both shaking in opposite yet complimentary emotions. Anger and fear. Angry and afraid.
With his other arm now free, Ouma quickly reached for the box cutter he had placed next to him, something Saihara had overlooked as a mere part of their typical plan. When it clicked open in a flash, each notch seeming to take an eternity, he lost sight of that plan, the blade pressed flat against the pulse in his lover’s neck.
“Sh- Shut up!” Ouma screeched, hating himself, cursing himself for yelling at the only person he had ever loved. This self-hatred pushed the tip deeper into his skin, and he inhaled harshly through his mouth, tears already blocking off his lips and making each breath a wet mess. “Shut up and stop lying! Stop pretending to care when you don’t want me anymore!”
It was deathly still, Saihara no longer trembling or clenching his wrist so hard it shook, terrified if he made any move the blade may accidentally press in and it would be over. There would be so much blood, Ouma’s blood, flooding over them and caking them in its warmth. It would be too much blood, there was nothing elegant in death, just decrepit decline and degradation. There would be so much blood he couldn’t catch it all, it would be wasted, it would cover the walls and the sheets and in between the floor boards. His blood would touch something other than Saihara’s nails and tongue, and that thought paralyzed him. He would lose everything. Everything that had made his life special.
“I messed up, I messed up big time…” Ouma blubbered, beginning to sob in vicious cycles that cut off his air, the blade pressing into his Adam’s apple each time. “I messed up and you don’t like me anymore. I’ll just die, I don’t want you to bother with me anymore, so I’ll just die. You shouldn’t have to lie and pretend like I don’t scare you, or that I’m worth your time, so I’ll just die. I can’t live without you, so I’ll just die. If I can’t be what you want I just deserve to die-“
He was hyperventilating through his teeth, causing the bed to convulse each time his body was wracked with a cry between his words. In a lapse of attention, Saihara saw the muscles in his arm relax, the fingers curled around the handle of the box cutter loosening for only a split second, and it was over.
He ripped Ouma’s hand from his neck, held it in place, and pushed him onto his back.
Part of the crying boy had expected to die, so when the only pain he felt was the sharp sting of shifting positions when something big was inside of you, he let out a stuttered cry. His skin pinched, but he was useless as his arms were pinned to his side, going tingly with numbness as the larger ones restraining them pressed so hard, desperate to keep them in place, the bed indented.
Saihara hadn’t realized how much he had been panting until he was hovering over Ouma, his own shadow visible as it engulfed his small partner. He could see it tremoring, shoulders massive and heaving as they were distorted by the trick of the lighting, blowing him to massive proportions he was aware he could never reach, and never cared to.
But his breath was fanning over Ouma’s face in heavy puffs, turning the boiling tears sticky and old on his cheeks. His eyes refused to leave the vibrating twitch of Ouma’s pupils, each terrified and electrocuted movement they made another sign he was still alive. That Saihara had acted in time.
“You’re not allowed to kill yourself,” he said, like it was an order a suicidal person would obey.
“If you killed yourself, I would kill myself.”
“No!” Ouma screamed, he objected so loudly it was instinctual. The idea of Saihara dead… He couldn’t even picture his body, of how that could ever happen. He was supposed to live forever. “I’d kill anyone that hurt you. I’d kill you if you killed yourself.”
“You can’t kill me if you’re already dead.”
“I’ll do it! I’ll do it.”
The logic was nonexistent, the cyclical argument continued on as they created impossible scenarios where they were both dead, but killing each other for killing themselves, winding around and around until they were entwined closer than they ever had been before. Physically they were encroaching upon each other as well, Saihara lowering himself, and Ouma attempting to lift himself up, never quite touching each other in the end.
“Please…” Ouma finally let out a muffled sob, the frustration seizing him as he lost full feeling in his fingers and the box cutter slipped from his limp hand. “Please, just let me die.”
It was pathetic, his whimpers and scrunched up face, nothing beautiful about it. Saihara watched the red line that was left over from his previous attempt bob up and down on his neck with his weeping, a stoic reminder of what would eventually happen. Unless he intervened.
“I’ll kill you.”
Ouma froze his sputtering breaths with a small gasp, going completely still minus the small shivers that wracked him. He searched Saihara’s face, typically empty.
“I’ll kill you, Ouma-kun.”
Something pulled at his lips, a wiggling that seemed almost painful at first, before it gave way to a miniscule smile. His shiny lips gleamed pink as he sniffled, letting out a short laugh that pushed out more honest tears from his eyes, his grin widening.
“You mean it…?”
Saihara nodded immediately, and Ouma melted. Hearing him say that, it had been more pleasure than any orgasm, any cut, any food, any drink, any sweet memory had ever given him. To be killed by Saihara would be the greatest joy in the entire world.
To leave it all, to escape from the pain, but not be alone. That was all Ouma wanted, to not be alone. That was why he asked Saihara to stand by the door while he cut himself, even though he knew there was nothing the other could do to stop him or understand. Even though he knew it was selfish, and perverted, and manipulative in a way he wasn’t proud of. He had found a comfort in not being alone, but not in a way he had ever found before when being with other people regularly.
Because when he was with other people he was still on fire, all the time. His brain was still going, running, running, running until he was exhausted, so he just avoided it all together. With Saihara, he could be himself, he could shut it up for that time, and come to understand simplicity. But what if that time could be forever? What if Saihara could shut it up forever?
To die by the hands of the person you loved, Ouma could think of no greater pleasure.
“I’m so happy…” he wiggled in his unyielding grip until Saihara finally relented, the weapon having fallen to the floor and leaving him a threat no longer. With his hands free, he wrapped them around Saihara’s neck and pulled him close, holding them chest to chest until their heartbeats aligned.
Ouma’s was always just a beat faster.
“You have to promise me one thing though…” There was dead silence and Saihara swallowed, smelling the cleanness of Ouma’s hair to steady himself. “You can’t let anyone else kill you, not even yourself. I-I can be the only one.”
A pause, one Saihara knew was full of contemplation, before Ouma nodded, that same smell tickling his nose as his hair brushed up against it.
“Do it however you want… If it’s- If it’s Saihara-kun doing it, I don’t care how I die.” There was something indecent in his speech, if the last word was dropped it would be lascivious to a fault. But adding that little thing, the small factor of someone ending up dead, that made it perfect for them, and all the more salacious.
Locking his legs around Saihara’s back, he heard the other breathe out desperately in his ear, having never lost his hardness despite the horrifying situation. Ouma hadn’t, either, and it spoke volumes about where they stood mentally.
“I’ll pry open your ribcage and pull your heart out.” Ouma only made it halfway through the sentence before he moaned, squeezing around him in time. “I’ll go into the deepest part of you.”
He began to move, pulling out before slamming back inside so forcefully Ouma lost his footing on consciousness, momentarily going black as he whimpered. He was already so deep, Ouma couldn’t imagine there being anything deeper, but he already knew there was. There was a pit inside of him Saihara had yet to reach, and he knew what he’d find.
“Yo-You’ll be there,” Ouma nodded, holding on tightly as the rhythm picked up and his body bounced. “You’ll be in there, in the deepest part of me. It’s only you, ah, it’s only you, you’re all I think about, you’re all I-“
“I love you, Ouma-kun,” spoken with a perfectly timed thrust, he left Ouma wordless, carrying no ability to respond. How could he respond when he was convulsing uncontrollably? “I’ll shove myself so far inside of you, you’ll never get rid of me. You’ll, haah, never be without me. I’ll consume all of you.”
“Lo-ove you, love you, I love you, Saihara-kun.” It was so embarrassing, but if he was going to die, it didn’t matter. He could say whatever he wanted, and for once, it was the truth.
“Maybe I’ll just eat you,” it was never something Ouma had thought about before, but the plainness with which it was stated in that voice he listened to so well invaded his mind. It was twirling, spinning, reeling, his hips lifting off of the bed and into the air as he was manhandled into an even more open position. “Then… Ah, then we’ll always be together, you’ll be mine always Ouma-kun, on-only mine.”
Ouma’s eyes had rolled in the back of his head at the idea, the concept of never having to be in pain mentally ever again, with Saihara, forever. His body jarred violently each time he was torn apart by Saihara’s unrelenting thrusts, the bed squeaking and his body breaking with each harsh movement. He was really going to die this time.
“Forever, hah, together forever,” Ouma looked like a ridiculous characterization of ecstasy, but Saihara knew it was real. “Pl-lease kill me, pleashe, kill me Saihara-kun, cut me, please kill me, please.”
“Gh-!” The begging put him over the edge, his speed picking up into uneven slamming that made Ouma let out a string of vocalizations that could only be described as broken. The way he clung to him, desperately, as if it was the only thing he had ever known, was infectiously sensual. Because he felt the same way, with his repeated grinding, even though his hips hurt, even though he thought his legs would give out at any minute. He still tried, he did everything he could to show it too. Ouma was the only thing he had ever known.
“I’ll cum- I’ll cum inside of you and you’ll never be able to get rid of me,” Saihara’s repeated moans and whimpers were clear he was honest on his word, making the mess below him let out another slur of begging pleas. “I’ll mark you until everyone knows you’re mine, ehe, I’ll carve my name into you until it’s all you know.”
“Please, cum inside, please.” Ouma was uncaring of the consequences, if there even were any to such a thing. He knew he couldn’t get pregnant, but the thought still crossed his mind from pure conditioning. Even then, it didn’t matter, he was going to be dead soon anyway. “Ple-ase, I love you Saihara-kun. I love you, I love you, ah- hah, I love you, I-I love you, please cut me, I love you, c-cummi- Hiie!”
His cum splattered across his face as it turned him to mush, his whole body going limp but rigid at the same time as he shook violently against the sheets. Full of contradictions, all the time, and full of cum too, overflowing as Saihara pinned his body in place and released inside of him until he was gasping. It was sticky, and wet, and almost like blood, but was for the first time devoid of any liquid resembling the red puddle that kept them together.
Afterward they lay side by side on the bed, Ouma crying per usual, and Saihara completely silent.
They were holding hands, and the taller boy was tracing his thumb over the thin skin that covered Ouma’s fingers. It was so frail, he thought it would slice easily, but the blood flow had to be minimal. Something that wasn’t worth it, then.
“I’m not going to kill you,” he said honestly, and he felt the pillow shift next to him.
Ouma nodded, hand reaching up to swipe the tears from underneath the bags of his eyes, all of them quickly replaced in a second at the realization he had been avoiding since he regained reasoning capabilities. It had been something that was said to keep him from hurting himself, not an absolute guarantee that he would die this second, or that he would die at all. And he had stupidly promised to obey that agreement, and not try to kill himself. What an idiot.
“You can’t cut yourself either, because we agreed only I could do that to you…” Saihara seemed to be musing to himself, wondering aloud if Ouma would be okay as he was denied his many vices of self-destruction. “Do you even want to do it anymore?”
All he could do was shrug, back to his wordless stare at the white ceiling.
Saying no would be a lie, but saying yes would be too. He just felt like he wanted to kiss Saihara, and he wasn’t sure why.
There was a giggle next to him and he looked over, seeing Saihara laying on his side. He was smiling over at him, with unfitting innocence, the thick frame of his eyelashes turning his tired face angelic.
“I might kill you one day, though. Just not right now.”
Ouma swallowed everything else he had to say as he leaned forward, into Saihara’s arms, and disintegrated away.
Swallowing it down, in pain it comes out
Venom - Kairiki Bear