For tin's "subvert your OTP" challenge. LOVELESS (continues to be the intellectual property of Kouga Yun)
Wordcount: Around 800
Summary: Soubi takes Ritsuka shopping
Note: Challenge is here
Sometimes Soubi doesn't remember to keep their games inside the bedroom.
They're shopping for furniture for Ritsuka's dormitory room. Ritsuka thinks this is unnecessary. He's only going to high school, not moving into his own apartment; meals and a very basic set of desk, chair, bookshelf, bed and mattress will be provided. It won't be a bad set either. The last time he'd seen Soubi he'd pointed out, reasonably he thought, that his social worker had succeeded in convincing his mother to enroll him at St. Michael's precisely because
of the academy's reputation for spoiling its students rotten. He won't need to cook his own food. He won't need to clean his own room. He won't even need to do his own laundry. In Misaki's universe, Ritsuka is still eleven and incapable of caring for himself.
But Soubi, the hedonist, had insisted that wasn't good enough. He'd wanted deep, comfortable rugs to cover the grey tiled floor and bright, patterned fabric to cover the plain white walls. He'd talked about throw pillows and end tables and ornamental lamps. Ritsuka had accused him of wanting to turn his room into a bordello.
"You'd look sexy in a dressing gown," Soubi had agreed. "You could draw the curtains closed, bolt the door, order me down on the carpet and take me hard from behind without even taking it off."
Ritsuka hates it when Soubi does this. The constant insinuations, the way every conversation seems to circle around to sex, the unrelenting perversion
of Soubi's fantasies make him uncomfortable. He's tired of being the owner, the bad cop, the immoral teacher, or even just the one in control. He longs for what they had in elementary school, when Soubi's awareness of their age difference, his bottomless reserve of self-control, had held him back.
Ritsuka is sixteen, and there's nothing holding Soubi back now.
"Look," he says, taking one of Ritsuka's hands in his own -- they are nearly the same size -- and guiding it to the carved headboard of the bed they are examining. Ritsuka revels in the simple contact but dreads what's going to come next. "You could tie me to this."
"With your school tie," Soubi says, staring into his eyes like there's nothing else. His gaze is heavy-lidded and penetrating, and Ritsuka is already off-balance because Soubi's arms are still longer, and he's holding Ritsuka's hand so far over the bed, it's all Ritsuka can do to keep from falling onto it and taking Soubi with him. His face is burning and if he still had his ears, they'd be all the way back. Soubi is so close, he can feel himself reacting, and he knew this would happen. It always does.
"Soubi," he manages to get out.
"We're not buying it. And we're in public! Let go of me."
Soubi complies instantly -- he always does that too -- and smiles at him like they're sharing a secret. Something small and precious in Ritsuka's chest warms to that smile. It's a fluttery feeling, delicate as a butterfly's wing.
But he isn't deaf or insensible to his surroundings, and he can hear what the other shoppers are saying. He's so embarrassed he could die; he wants to melt into the floor and disappear. The butterfly struggles valiantly to free itself from the oozing black tar of scandalized disapproval, then with a final spasm dies, is covered over, might as well have never existed at all.
Once upon a time, when Ritsuka had been young and innocent -- or at least innocent enough not to know that "role-play" didn't just mean video games -- he'd thought things would be better if he overcame his nervousness and did the things Soubi wanted but would never, ever ask of him. They'd be closer. Their purity of their bond would increase.
But there's nothing "pure" about Soubi's desires. Worse than the physical abuse is what it implies -- about him, about Soubi. Ritsuka tries to tell himself it doesn't matter, it's only pretend, but the bloodstains are real and lately he feels like they'll never wash off.
The worst thing of all is that they don't turn him on.
But he loves Soubi, so he pretends. It's all pretend anyway, right? That's why when Soubi says something mortifying -- like he'd done over the phone, or like he's doing right now -- Ritsuka pretends that he's aroused and only a little embarrassed, and hides the degradation.
There's a black chasm at the edges of his mind. On the nights when he's alone, he can feel his sanity unraveling like an ornamental rug.
I DO SHIP RITSUKA/SOUBI I SWEAR. Just, er, not in this fic.