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stain all your edges on me

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Tadashi’s hiss of pain is nothing new to Ainosuke. What’s new is the defiance in his eyes. Tadashi has never looked up when he was on his knees before, he’s always been an obedient dog.

(Not always, Ainosuke’s mind provides. Not always. But the past is a foreign country. Those children are as good as dead, now.)

The air in the abandoned factory is always cold and there’s a smell of metal and paint, some new graffiti always still barely drying before being covered by something else. There’s a chill sneaking into his collar, cooling the sweat there. 

His hold on Tadashi’s hair grows more painful. He can’t feel the silky strands with his gloves on, but the action is familiar, the muscle memory close to comforting.

But still, Tadashi refuses to look scared. 

“I will show you,” Ainosuke hisses into his face.

Tadashi spits at him. Spits right into his naked face, bared from the mask.

It’s instinct that makes Ainosuke bring his fist to Tadashi’s abdomen, still holding him so he can’t duck. A pained grunt escapes the other man’s lips. That’s more like it. 

“I despise what you’ve become. Adam.

In all their years, not once has Tadashi called him with this name. 

“You snake,” Ainosuke growls, angry enough to forget to smile, angry enough to crumble into a pile of harsh rubble and broken glass, crooked and sharp, “You ungrateful bastard!”

The blue of Tadashi’s eyes swallows the shadows around them and grows into a frozen wasteland. When did his eyes stop being kind?

No. No, kindness is a lie. Only love is true, and love is not kind. Love is rust and broken nails and always pushing forward and Tadashi has never loved him, has never showed the strength it takes for his kind of love.

Tadashi raises his hand and it’s only the years of training that ensure Ainosuke doesn’t flinch. He knows what’s coming next.

He doesn’t.

The palm of Tadashi’s hand lands softly on his cheek, and the shock of it runs through him like electricity. He has never been struck by lightning, but it must feel the same. The hand travels down to his neck, grabs him gently. 

“It’s alright. You didn’t know any better. I should have stopped you before.”

It’s the pity that does it. 

Adam knees Tadashi in the groin, then pushes him back to the floor where he belongs. He slaps him, open handed, then grabs him once again by the jacket and drags him close, closer, closer, closer.

Tadashi refuses to close his eyes and Adam bites his lip until he tastes blood. The breath that comes out of Tadashi is ragged, his heartbeat rabbit-quick, and still the roar in Adam’s ears doesn’t quiet down. 

The adoration from the crowd used to quiet the monster, but nothing does anymore. He thinks of the cavernous void behind Snow’s eyes today and he wants to scream. Why does no one understand?

The roar goes on until it swallows everything else. If Tadashi is saying anything else, Adam doesn’t hear it. He only feels the warmth of his body through his gloves as he grabs his throat and squeezes. 

He gets an elbow to his arm and a punch to his chest for that, Tadashi stumbling back with a purpling bruise on his neck, lip bleeding, hair in disarray, looking wild. They are both sitting on the cold, dirty concrete.

Tadashi drags himself to him, and pushes him down, gets a knee on his chest. “I will stop you.”

Adam grabs his ankle and flips him. They grapple, hitting the ground and each other, tearing themselves apart.

Tadashi was Ainosuke’s first kiss. Ainosuke had pushed him off, after, wide eyed and almost angry that he liked it so much. “What is this? Why did you do it?” He asked, and Tadashi just tilted his head and gave him a small smile. 

They haven’t kissed much after that.

Tadashi gets a knee between Adam’s legs, pins his wrists to the ground and drops his forehead to Adam’s. Their lips are almost touching as he says: “I’m sorry.”

It’s not quite a kiss. It’s not not a kiss. It’s far too tender for them and even Tadashi must realise, because he tightens his grip, his nails digging into the pale, delicate skin of Adam’s wrists, pushing painfully between bones and tendons and making him squirm. 

“Are you going to behave?” Tadashi asks, “Can I take you home?”

Adam kicks out from underneath him ignoring the pain in his arms and the weight on his chest, dislodging him and sending him sprawling, back hitting a railing. But Tadashi gets back up in a moment, a boxer’s stance, catlike readiness of reflexes, and lunges.

His fist connects to Adam’s cheekbone with a crack. 

“You bastard! It’s going to bruise!” He yells. Visible wounds are unacceptable.

“Good,” Tadashi spits out. His shoulders heave with each laboured breath. “Do it.”

And he doesn’t even blink when Adam punches back. He takes it, moving one foot back to keep his balance, just like on a board. Then he grabs Adam.

Only then he kisses him, really kiss him.

Tadashi had been Ainosuke’s many firsts. Some they’ve repeated often, some less so. First kiss, first skateboard, first fall, first punch, first and last person who’s seen him cry. First person he’s fucked and been fucked by. And last.

They’ve been teenagers together, once. Adam finds it hard to remember that time. His past comes in flashes, vivd cinematic memories interspersed into months and years of black fog. The sense memory of the skateboard’s grip tape like sandpaper under his palm with Tadashi’s gentle expression. The crack of a bone and the wind in his hair as he flies past another failure, another disappointment. Endless identical days spent with identical paper men so empty inside he could tear them apart with a letter opener. 

If he tries, he can’t remember his aunts’ eyes. Are they red, like his? He doesn’t look up. 

Tadashi grabs his hair and Adam pushes his hands under his jacket, fingers around his hips, grabbing at the waistband of his jeans and pulling. He hates those cheap clothes, he hates everything about Snake, but he can’t help rutting against him, chasing the smell of sweat and fear in the crook of Tadashi's neck. 

The unravelling begins like the pulling of a thread, Adam’s bright clothes getting dirty on the ground, Tadashi pulling at the pauldron until it rips away, red fabric tearing after it like blood pouring out of Adam. He earns another slap for that, but bites Adam’s hand immediately after, teeth sinking in past the now filthy glove. He spits out dirt and blood and years of bitter venom.

Adam rips the glove off with his own teeth, the other hand busy between their bodies. There is a line of neat red marks on his skin from the bite. It’s a mark he’ll wear proudly. It’s fitting, when he finally unzips and unbuttons and brings the marred hand down to their cocks, grabbing both without so much as spitting on his palm. They can hurt together. 

Tadashi succeeds in making him slow down only with a forearm to his throat cutting off his air for a moment, the he spits again and adds his own hand, rougher than Adam’s own but slower in its movements, less intent on inflicting pain and chasing something resembling pleasure. 

Both of their bodies arch one against the other, pressing and pushing back. A muscle protests in Adam’s back, a pebble poking at his flesh. Yet there is a warmth in his lower abdomen, a fire that fills the cavernous space around them. He doesn’t make a sound, never has, but has the unpleasant suspicion that  Tadashi can read him despite that, that he knows when Adam is about to come and his pace quickens until he spills and crumples on Tadashi’s chest. 

Tadashi says nothing and keeps pulling on his own cock. He does allow himself the barest ghost of a moan. It’s not a happy sound, and it dies out in a series of breaths, slow and regular. Adam knows Tadashi is counting in and out and categorising both their injuries. 

After a few moments of this, he gets up, cleans his hand on his dark trousers and scoffs, looking at both of them. “The interiors of the car are a lost cause anyway.”

They leave.