#Shadow Naoto apparently still hits on a personal level ;-; | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

chroniccombustion · 6 years

Text

Caught in the Grey (ch 4)

Genre: Trans!AU, hurt/comfort, romance, angst with a happy ending Rated: T Characters: Souji Seta (Yu Narukami), Yosuke Hanamura, Naoto Shirogane, Kanji Tatsumi, Investigation Team, Izanagi/Shadow!Souji Warnings: depression, dysphoria, disassociation, self-hatred, implied suicide attempt, suicidal thoughts, mentions of homophobia, implied past child abuse and transphobia, canon-typical violence, mild sexual content Status: multi-chapter, incomplete

Playlist: Spotify | Youtube <- previous chapter | next chapter ->

It’s not fair; Souji is already one of the best looking guys in Inaba. Yosuke knows it, can admit it now, because there really isn’t any way he couldn’t, what with the sheer number of admirers his partner has amassed, which also isn’t fair. To be forced to admit that Souji also makes one of the best looking girls Yosuke has ever seen is just downright cruel. He’s gorgeous.

Chapter 4: Dream About That Casual Touch

“I over communicate and feel too much, I just complicate it when I say too much. I laugh about it, dream about that casual touch. Sex is fire, I’m sick and tired of acting all tough.”

- (“Feelings”, Hayley Kiyoko)

October

The noise level backstage is weird. Yosuke can hear the muffled sounds of the students out in the auditorium, the volume masking just how many people are actually there, waiting to see a bunch of guys forced into dresses against their will. Everything is just… bullshit. (He hates the girls so much right now; even if he does kind of deserve it after getting them all trapped in a similar boat.)

He scratches nervously at the sweater… vest… thing that Chie had given him to wear. It’s itchy. How come girls’ clothes are so uncomfortable? Are all girls’ clothes like this? He really hopes not. That would suck.

Speaking of suck, the backstage area is not a place Yosuke has ever been before but has quickly decided is not a place he ever wants to be again. It’s hot, it’s dark, and the only thing keeping any of them from tripping over shit and falling on their faces is the dull glow of the muted florescent bulbs spaced widely throughout the area, which really doesn’t do much of anything at all. Yosuke is pretty sure he’s going to run into something and break his nose. How the hell do the drama club kids do this on a regular basis?

For as narrow of a space as it is there are also way too many people in it for Yosuke to feel comfortable. Not that he’s exactly relaxed anyway, what with the itchy sweater thing and the skirt and the people waiting to see him in the sweater thing and the skirt. There’re a handful of theatre kids off to the side, wandering to and fro upon occasion, doing whatever it is theatre kids do behind the scenes. There’s also someone that looks like they might be a teacher over near the entrance (Yosuke admittedly didn’t look too hard), probably acting as some kind of half-assed supervisor.

Chie, Yukiko, and Rise were back here, too, some time ago, but Yosuke hasn’t seen them for a little while, so he thinks they may have gone off to do girl things or help set up. Either way, Yosuke is kind of glad they aren’t around right now. He thinks he might have also seen Naoto earlier for a scant few minutes, hovering near where a duffle bag now rests by the wall. They’d disappeared pretty quickly, though, so it could very well have been someone else.

And then of course there are the poor bastards about to be paraded out on stage for the rest of the school to gawk at. Yosuke sighs. He really hates everything right now; he’s stuffed into the most humiliating outfit he’s ever worn and the smells of the hair spray and fruity, nasty lipgloss Chie slathered all over his mouth are combining in his nose to give him the headache of the century. He feels sticky, jittery, and uncomfortable in not only every way physically possible, but also mentally. Fuck.

Off to the side, Kanji doesn’t look like he’s doing a whole hell of a lot better. Sure, he keeps pulling at his dress, holding the lower half of it out in front of him to stare at, turning it this way and that apparently just to watch it move, but Kanji is also the son of a seamstress, so that just makes sense. The dress aside, however, Kanji’s wig is cheap and he is clearly too tall for his outfit – too much leg and too unsteady in the ungodly-high heels he’s been forced to wear. Yosuke actually feels just the tiniest bit worse for Kanji than he does for himself; at least Yosuke’s shoes are flat.

Teddie, the runt, has apparently run off to parts unknown, spouting some excuse about keeping his look a “surprise.” Damn bear, Yosuke thinks. Teddie isn’t even a student here, there’s no punishment waiting for him should he decide to bail on them and he knows it. The only reason he’d even been signed up in the first place was because Teddie had begged and pleaded and whined until Yosuke finally put his name on the list with the rest of them. (The girls evidently did think about it but since the teachers wouldn’t even know who Teddie was, they’d figured it was impossible to make it stick if they did.)

But now the loud little mascot has vanished, leaving only the trio of Yosuke, Kanji, and Souji to face the proverbial guillotine.

Souji.

For what has to be the hundredth time in the last half hour, Yosuke glances over at where his partner stands silently in the darkest, farthest corner of the room.

Souji looks utterly lifeless. He stares at nothing, eyes dark and vacant in the crappy backstage lighting, standing stock-still and completely soundless. It’s almost like he’s not even there. Yosuke can’t blame him, really; he himself would be gone in a heartbeat if he thought he could manage to pull it off. Sadly, he hasn’t yet mastered whatever technique it is that has Souji so focused all the time – like, all the time – so Yosuke has no mental tricks of his own to help him escape his current situation.

Still though, the more Yosuke looks at him (and Yosuke has been catching himself looking a lot during these past 30 minutes,) the more he seems to notice about his best friend. He notices the way Souji’s long silver wig frames his face and makes it softer, more regal, (though Souji has always had a kind of imperial look to his features.) He notices how Souji seems to almost glow in the dim yellow light – washed out, wraith-like, monochromatic. He notices the way the deep charcoal of Souji’s uniform makes every tiny bit of visible skin stand out sharply in contrast.

He notices how it makes Souji looks like some kind of wandering apparition, moon-kissed and ethereal.

Yosuke looks away, shaking his head until he makes himself dizzy.

He’s gorgeous.

Yosuke shakes himself again and focuses on the way it makes his headache throb so he doesn’t have to wonder why his stomach is swooping like he’s in free-fall.

It’s so un-fucking-fair.

Everything just fits Souji better, too, seems to sit on his body like it was made to compliment him. The outfit, the wig, the swipe of color across his lips, it all looks almost uncannily natural on him in a way that Yosuke just can’t figure out. For a moment, if Yosuke didn’t know any better, he could almost imagine that the person in front of him is actually a girl.

And ohhh fuck, what a damn good looking girl he makes, too – the exact kind of girl Yosuke would be tripping over himself to hit on, and Yosuke curses his own damn brain for the confusion crackling through him right now. His hormones keep niggling at him, poking him, reminding him that he’s a teenaged boy and that he finds girls attractive, that he’s been sexually frustrated his entire high school life. Girlfriend? they whisper.

No! he hastily tries to correct them. Souji! Partner! BOY!!

Souji is a boy and his best friend and Yosuke shouldn’t be starting at him like he used to (used to? Past-tense?) stare at Rise and Yukiko and every other girl he ever thought was hot. He shouldn’t keep having to remind his breathing not to quicken or his face not to burn and what is happening here?

He bows his back and hunches over, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes until little sparks of light start to form behind his eyelids. He groans.

The thing is, Souji isn’t even doing anything, just keeping to himself like a mannequin in a shop window. It’s almost creepy.

Actually, it’s… kind of concerning. Souji is a pretty quiet person in general, yeah, but usually he’s not this quiet, this still, this detached. Yosuke peeks out between his fingers and back over at his best friend, wondering suddenly if maybe something is wrong. Well, more wrong that everything already is.

Souji hasn’t moved so much as an inch since Yosuke looked at him last; his prop bokken is still slung over his shoulder like his katana in the TV world, his fingers clutching it so tightly they’re turning white beneath the shitty lamps. The only sign of life is the way he blinks every few seconds – something his body does without him telling it to, like breathing or pumping blood. If Souji is in there he’s somewhere very, very far away.

Yosuke wonders if he should go over there and check on him. He’d been so preoccupied feeling sorry for himself in his damn miniskirt that it hadn’t really occurred to him before now that his partner seems…

Yosuke glances at Kanji. His kohai is frowning down at the hunk of dress he’s got pinched between his fingers, apparently scrutinizing the quality of the fabric. He doesn’t look happy about cross-dressing, but he also doesn’t look like he’s left his body and faded into nothingness. Kanji looks similar to how Yosuke feels, pissed and uncomfortable with a “can we please get this over with?” kind of vibe around the set of his mouth. Souji, on the other hand, is a soulless doll.

Standing back up from his crouch, Yosuke allows himself to look over at Souji once more, this time staring deliberately to see if he can pick out anything that might give him a clue as to whether he should be worried or not. He flicks his eyes across Souji’s expressionless face, looks to the bone-colored fingers around the bokken, watches the (convincing) swell of Souji’s chest to make sure it still rises and falls with breath the way it should. His gaze drops then, to the gentle curve at Souji’s waist, accentuated by the cut of his uniform top. It travels downwards, past his partner’s hips, which seem fuller now, more prominent, thanks to how the waistband of the skirt cinches right above the jut of his hipbones. They look perfect, like they would be just the right shape to fit in Yosuke’s hands, just the right place to rest his palms, to gently pull and bring the two of them closer together until they were pressed hip to hip…

Yosuke’s mouth goes dry.

He whips his head back around like he’s been stung, heart suddenly pounding inside his chest so hard it nearly knocks him over. Guilt and something hot, tight, tingling settles low in his gut, mixing together into a wave of breathlessness that leaves him feeling like he’s just been caught doing something wrong.

What the hell, what the hell, what the hell?!

This is Souji – he’d just been ogling Souji, had just been fantasizing about putting his hands on Souji. His best friend in the whole world, his partner. Yosuke sucks in air through his nose and tries to regulate his breathing, wiping his suddenly clammy hands down the sides of his skirt.

It has to be a fluke; they’re all dressed like girls and Yosuke has never so much as kissed a girl and his libido is confused because Souji’s costume looks way too real and oh my GOD. This is so stupid, he’s going to throttle whomever picked out their outfits.

“Hey uh, Yosuke-senpai? You don’t look so good.”

Yosuke is broken out of his thoughts with a sharp exhale. Looking over, he sees Kanji watching him with a curious expression, one thinned-down eyebrow quirked high. It takes Yosuke a second to react, to run Kanji’s words through his mind and actually understand them. Eventually though, he nods.

“Y-yeah,” he squeaks. He swallows against the dryness seeping down his throat, runs his tongue across his lips to wet them. “Yeah, I’m not really feelin’ too great right now.” He tries to give his kohai a weak laugh but it comes out instead as a wheeze. Kanji’s other brow goes up to join the first. Yosuke clears his throat and looks away. “It’s nothing, it’s just nerves.”

Kanji makes a sound of agreement. “I feel ya, Senpai, the waitin’s the worst. I kinda wish they’d just get started already.”

Yosuke tilts his head back and groans. “Or never start at all,” he says. “Just cancel it, let us go home. That’d be even better.” He lolls his head over – grimacing at the way the damn strawberry hair clip tugs at his scalp – just in time to see Kanji running the hem of his dress through his fingers again, a slight frown on his face.

“It’d almost be a waste’a time at this point, wouldn’t it?” Kanji asks, still staring at the white fabric in his hands. “Think they’d miss this?”

Confused, (but hey, textile shop, so whatever,) Yosuke is about to open his mouth and form a reply when suddenly there is the crackle of a microphone overhead, the speakers up above them humming to life. The lights backstage seem to dim even further until everything around them becomes nothing more than fuzzy outlines and indiscernible shapes. Great.

A voice Yosuke doesn’t recognize comes over the line, calling out a final sound check. There are more words, something that sounds like a greeting, but Yosuke doesn’t pay them any attention; he’s too busy suppressing the urge to flee and never look back. He springs upright, body locked into a stance of pure dread by his live-wire nerves. Beside him, in what remains of the light, he can see Kanji making a face that can only be summed up as, ‘oh for fuck’s sake’. Yosuke doesn’t think he’s ever felt a bigger connection to his teammate than in this one excruciating moment.

The announcer says more words through the speakers and Yosuke can feel himself start to vibrate with nervous energy. Yeah, he thinks, it would have been so much better if they had just canceled the whole damn thing. He’s so jittery, so absolutely fucking nervous, that he almost doesn’t notice someone stepping up beside him. Granted, the lights backstage are almost completely off right now, and the person that just apparently blinks into existence next to him is wearing really dark colors, but it still takes longer than it probably should for Yosuke to realize he now has someone on his left.

He startles when he does notice, though, and nearly jumps sideways into Kanji before he manages to stop himself. He’s got a pretty good handle on controlling the way his body moves by now – at least, he’d like to think he does – thanks to all the time spent fighting and training inside the TV. It’s kept him safe, kept him from doing stupid shit like knocking over his kohai, and it’s also what prevents him from instinctively slashing out at the figure beside him with a kunai that isn’t there.

It still takes him a stupid amount of time to recognize the shape of Souji standing beside him in the darkness.

“Shit, Partner,” he breathes, feeling his heart hammering away inside his ribs. “You scared the hell out of me.”

Souji doesn’t respond.

Yosuke fixes his center of gravity and leans in a little closer to his friend. ”Partner?” he calls, squinting against the lack of light. “Earth to Souji?” He reaches out a hand and waves it by Souji’s face.

No reaction.

That is… concerning. Yosuke gnaws at a part of his lower lip, teeth scraping the sticky, sickly-sweet lipgloss into his mouth where he winces at the taste. It doesn’t matter though; his friend is quite clearly not himself and with a limited amount of time and no privacy, Yosuke isn’t sure what to do here. Souji has never seemed to need anything from him before, always being the one to listen and help and console, but right now Yosuke’s partner is a million miles away and, not for the first time, Yosuke wishes he could be the helping friend for a change. Souji has always been there for him, even when he didn’t have to be; the least Yosuke could do in return is make sure his best friend isn’t silently having a stroke.

He just… doesn’t really know what he’s doing. Having real friends is hard.

Yosuke glances around, making sure there’s no one watching them (Kanji doesn’t count, he’s part of the team), before taking a hesitant step into Souji’s space and leaning in to try and see his face through the gloom. His partner stares straight ahead, eyes so dark in the low light that it almost looks like they aren’t there at all. Lifeless pools of empty blackness, holes in a featureless mask.

“Dude,” Yosuke whispers, growing more and more on-edge as the seconds pass and Souji still doesn’t return from wherever he is. “Partner, come on, you’re creeping me out here.”

Cacophony. The din of the audience comes two-fold back to them, both from the crowd itself and also its echo through the speakers. It grates at Yosuke’s ears. He grimaces, turning his attention away from his friend for just a few seconds to focus back in on what’s happening. Over on his right, Kanji makes an unhappy sound and clacks his way over to the curtain. In the marginally better lighter filtering in from the stage, Yosuke sees Kanji take a deep breath, square his shoulders, and stomp out into the sea of noise and people. Yosuke feels his stomach drop out.

There is a soft inhale from beside him. It sounds wet, like a gasp that nearly became a choke, quiet and unsteady. Yosuke turns towards it just in time to see Souji blinking like he’s just woken up from a particularly bad dream. Souji inhales again, just a shallow, just as shaky, and for a moment, in the dark, Yosuke thinks his partner might be trembling.

The MC is talking again, gearing up to call the next one of them out, and Yosuke knows that no matter which of them is called he only has a few more seconds to try and help his friend.

But he doesn’t know what to do. His options are severely limited due to space and dark and their rapidly dwindling time. All he can think of as the announcer calls his name over the speakers is to shoot his partner a worried look he isn’t sure Souji can even see. “Bro, Souji, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Souji whispers, and Yosuke doesn’t have time to decide if he believes him or not before someone – probably a drama kid – comes up behind him and practically shoves him out onto the stage.

Souji disappears the moment the pageant is over and the four of them are released from their torment.

Well, three, technically, since Teddie still looks like he’s having the time of his life.

Yosuke tries to spot his partner backstage, to check on how he’s doing, but Souji must have something with Garudyne equipped because Yosuke swears he doesn’t even get a chance to blink before Souji is straight up gone. Their leader breezes from the stage wings, over to the wall, pulling off his wig as he goes and tossing it to a startled techie off to the side. In one seamless motion, Souji scoops up the duffle bag that maybe-Naoto left there earlier and strides out into the back hallway. Yosuke is left to weakly call out after him to no avail, all the while unable to follow because an exuberant Teddie decides right at that moment to bodily fling himself at Yosuke and latch on like a limpet. Yosuke contemplates prying the shoujo-anime-reject off him and tracking his partner down, but with as fast as Souji was walking, Yosuke knows it’s likely a lost cause at this point. He doesn’t feel like scouring the entire school.

Besides, he tells himself only barely convincingly, Souji must be fine now if he’s actually moving again. He’d been… better? possibly? while on stage – at least when Yosuke got a chance to sneak a look at him in between the humiliation and the public speaking. Souji had said his lines when his turn with the microphone came up and swung the bokken down like it was an extension of his arm, as fierce and fluid as he was with his sword. But… it had been… off, somehow. Just a little. Enough that Yosuke, who was so used to watching Souji, so used to studying him (out of awe and envy and very minor idolization, but hell if Yosuke would ever say that out loud,) had managed to pick up on it in the handful of seconds he’d had to work with.

Souji had moved with practiced ease – something Yosuke is sure took no real mental effort to accomplish. His words had been low, monotone, spoken like a robot, and as much as Yosuke is certain a lot of that is just how his partner is, he also hadn’t been able to stop his mind from conjuring up the image of a string-controlled puppet. An automated marionette with a database full of preprogrammed responses, picture-perfect in its humanity but cold and empty behind the eyes.

Yosuke shivers at the memory.

With no way of knowing just where Souji has run off to and with his costume starting to get more than a little claustrophobic, Yosuke finally just extracts himself from Teddie’s grip and starts off for the dressing rooms. He’ll go back, change his clothes, get the fucking makeup off his face, and wait until Souji decides he’s ready to rejoin them. Who knows? Maybe he’ll be fine after putting his normal clothes back on and Yosuke won’t even have to worry anymore.

Yeah, he thinks as he gathers up his (boy’s) uniform and starts tugging the hair tie from his head. His partner is probably fine, just eager to put the whole traumatizing pageant behind him like Yosuke is.

He lets the thought settle while he starts to change, repeating it over and over again to himself until he actually starts to believe it.

Everything’s fine.

Everything is not fine.

Yosuke stares down at his phone screen, his brows furrowing so hard that it’s starting to hurt.

0 unread messages, it reads. Fuck.

He sighs heavily, the sound quickly turning into something long and drawn out, gravelly in the back of his throat. He rolls over onto his back on the bed and brings his hands up to cover his eyes, the phone face down and discarded on his chest. Souji hasn’t texted him back yet.

His partner had reappeared somewhere between the first time Yosuke had gone back to the classroom (after he finished changing), and the second time (after he’d been told by Rise that none of the girls had anything to take the makeup off with and he’d had to run back to the theatre students and ask them.) When Yosuke had finally made it back – albeit empty handed – he’d found Souji seated in one of the desks shoved up against the wall by the door, looking blotchy and drained.

He’d wanted to talk to Souji then, since at the time it had looked like his friend was mostly back to normal despite the clear exhaustion. In his exuberance over Souji magically producing a pack of makeup wipes from his bag, however, Yosuke had evidently lost his only remaining chance, as by the time he and Kanji were making their way back to the room (again), Souji had been leaving.

Well, no, that wasn’t quite right; Souji had been running. He’d come tearing out of the classroom as Yosuke and Kanji were coming up the hallway, hugging the doorframe as he exited and nearly slamming into the wall beside the door. Yosuke had nearly shouted in surprise, battle-born instinct kicking in and immediately trying to check for damage he’d been too far away to actually see. But before either he or Kanji could properly react beyond that, Souji had pushed off the wall and gone sprinting towards them, past them, away from them and down the hall to the stairwell, moving like the Reaper was two steps behind.

Yosuke slides his hands up into his hair and tugs until it stings. The sensation is sharp, grounding, it puts him back in the present, back in his bedroom at home with the sound of Teddie downstairs, pestering Yosuke’s mom to let him help with dinner. It keeps him from thinking about how absolutely shattered his partner’s expression had been for the brief second Yosuke had been able to see it as Souji dashed past. Brow furrowed as if in pain, eyes bright and frantic like dying stars, with deep-set lines around them, tight with tension. Yosuke didn’t even know Souji was capable of making that face.

He doesn’t like that Souji is.

It’s unsettling, first of all, to see their normally unshakable leader so visibly distressed. Souji is stoic at the best of times, even outside of combat, with expressions that don’t seem to change much but can make you warm and fluttery or pin you in place when they do. He’s like one of those optical illusion puzzles – twist one line around his mouth, make one minute shift in detail, and Souji goes from soft and kind to stone and fury. It’s what makes him the perfect Commander in the TV world, the best kind of Best Friend outside it, and to see him so drastically different leaves Yosuke reeling.

But on a more personal level, looking past just the obvious physical change, it’s terrifying. For something to have messed with Souji so badly as to warp his carefully controlled expression into that…

Yosuke feels the curling self-doubt start to take root in his mind. Something had clearly been bothering Souji for most of the day, and Yosuke – who is supposed to be Souji’s friend, his equal, his partner – wasn’t able to do anything about it. He’d missed his chance, taken too long to act, and whatever Souji had been dealing with had escalated to the point of boiling over, leaving Yosuke to gawk stupidly while the best friend he’d ever had tore through the stairwell door like he was dying.

Yosuke is faced with two very heavy realizations because of this. First, that Souji is, in fact, shakable. And second, that Yosuke was genuinely stunned to learn this first fact, which implies a lot about his mindset that Yosuke doesn’t like. Maybe he’s just as guilty as the rest of the town about putting Souji up on a pedestal. He thought he wasn’t; he doesn’t like knowing he might have been wrong.

He lets out another sigh and stares up at his ceiling. He feels so useless right now; his friend was hurting, might still be hurting, and no one knows where Souji is or what happened to make him bolt. Yosuke checks his phone again. Still nothing.

GOD!

With a noise of frustration, Yosuke heaves himself upright and tosses his phone to the end of the bed. He hates this so much! To be stuck here not able to do anything or even know where to begin – if only Souji would answer him, answer somebody! Yosuke keeps checking with the others, every thirty minutes or so, and he’d forced himself to wait that long, even, as he figured no one would like him much if he just kept badgering them. Not that checking every five seconds would change anything. Besides, he has to keep reminding himself to trust his friends, to trust that they’ll spread the news as soon as someone hears from him, gets word, spots him, anything.

(The thought that Souji might contact one of the others first leaves an odd sort of clenching feeling in Yosuke’s chest that he doesn’t really want to think about right now.)

I should have gone after him.

For the millionth time that evening, Yosuke mentally kicks himself for all the things he should have done differently – knowing full well the hindsight won’t help, but being unable to do anything productive leaves him with nothing else. He should have run after Souji when his partner had sped by him, should have followed, should have tried to catch him. Instead, Yosuke had stared after him in shock, only spurring his feet to move long after Souji had vanished through the stairwell door. By the time Yosuke had finally reacted, Souji had seemingly evaporated, leaving behind only a visibly rattled Naoto near the middle of the stairs.

“I-I don’t know where he went.” Naoto had said when Yosuke had frantically asked if they’d seen his partner. They’d been trembling, just slightly, bracing their weight on the stair rail with one arm and holding themself with the other, tight and close like they could hold in the minute tremors if they squeezed hard enough.

Yosuke doesn’t think he’s seen them that distressed since they’d faced their own shadow. For both Souji and Naoto to be so freaked at the same time is nearly incomprehensible to Yosuke. It scares him.

There had been almost no time to search after all of that, either, only about fifteen precious minutes to run through the halls in a vain attempt at spotting the familiar silver of Souji’s hair before the girls (and Naoto) were called away to get ready for their own pageant hell. Kanji and Naoto had split up to help him search before Naoto had had to leave them; Yosuke hadn’t wanted to frighten the others. Instead, he’d stamped down his jitters as best he could and asked them if they knew where Souji had gone, had they seen him, had he come back to the room at all? All anyone had known was that Souji had apparently stood up, very quickly, mumbled an “excuse me”, and strode from the room like the rapids in a river, gathering speed as he went until he’d swung himself around the doorframe without so much as pausing. Polite to the end, even while moments away from slamming into a wall and taking off down the hallway like a shot.

They’d all been worried, obviously, especially Teddie, who’d apparently been clinging to him at the time, but it was only after the second pageant was over that the concern about Souji’s absence and failure to return really started to show on everyone’s faces. They’d all talked, voices hushed and heads together like they were plotting back at the Junes food court, about going to search for their leader, their friend, but the rooms had to be cleaned up, the last of the decorations packed away, and by the time they could all leave the sun had begun to set.

Which left Yosuke back at the present point, hands empty and head too full.

He wondered if he could possibly sneak out, go check the Dojima residence before his parents even knew—but no. No, it would take too long and Teddie would notice first and whine and tell Yosuke’s mom, and even if Yosuke managed to get there what would he do if Souji wasn’t at home? He’d risk scaring Nanako, risk running into Dojima-san. The whole thing would have the potential to go so horribly, horribly sideways and blow up into something messy and tangled. He doesn’t want to get Souji in trouble, doesn’t want to frighten Nanako, doesn’t want to get grounded for sneaking out when he’s supposed to be home because his mom wants to have a rare family dinner together while no one is on shift.

Sending a silent ‘pleasepleaseplease’ to anyone, anything that might be listening, Yosuke fishes his phone back out from the covers at the foot of his bed and checks the screen.

0 unread messages.

Yosuke thinks he might be going insane.

Opening his contact list, Yosuke pulls up Souji’s number at stares at it. He’s called so many times, left so many messages – each one left unanswered, unread. It would be one thing if Souji were seeing them and just not responding. (It would be a bad, hurtful, worrying thing, but one thing on its own.) It’s a completely different thing for Souji to not be reading them at all.

Maybe he lost his phone or it ran out of battery, maybe he’ll call back after it’s finished charging. Or maybe something happened and Souji’s lying unconscious in an alley somewhere, unable to move let alone check his texts.

Yosuke shakes himself. No, he can’t think that. He’s not ready to think about that, despite how much his mounting anxiety might want him to. He needs to trust Souji, have faith that Souji will be alright, that he can handle himself like he does in the TV if anything happens. But Souji is human, just like the rest of them, and no amount of power, no army of personae will help outside in the real world. Car accidents can happen, kidnappings can happen – do happen, were happening – and all of it possible without a warning or chance to fight back.

He’s already hit the call button by the time he breaks that chain of thought.

The line rings and rings and rings, the sound like a failing heartbeat in Yosuke’s ear. There is a click, a pause, a familiar robotic voice telling him he’s reached the voicemail box of “Seta Souij” and to leave a message after the tone.

Yosuke’s stomach drops. He didn’t think it could get any lower.

“Partner, hey,” he says into the phone, not even bothering to keep the waver from his voice. He’d done so well the first couple of times; he’s stretched too thinly to do it now. “It’s me. Again….” Something wet trickles down his cheek; he makes no move to wipe it away. This is dumb, he’s being dumb, but he doesn’t know what to do right now. Souji has always been the stronger one, the Leader, the rock that holds everything in place when shit keeps going wrong. For all Yosuke tries to match him stride for stride, he knows, in the dark, dusty place where he keeps the rest of his insecurities, that he’s too different from Souji to ever be like him.

He can’t find Souji, can’t get hold of him, can’t help him, and it’s a blow that Yosuke isn’t sure he can recover from any time soon. Souji would know what to do but that’s the problem: Souji isn’t here. Yosuke is left to try and navigate this foreign situation all on his own. He’s used to being second-in-command, even if he’s never really needed to play the “command” role; taking over as default leader while Souji is missing isn’t something Yosuke was ready to do. Even if there’s no longer an investigation to head, even if his partner’s disappearance wasn’t a kidnapping (he hopes), if Souji doesn’t show up soon it will fall on Yosuke’s shoulders to lead the team to find him. Especially if it turns out Souji is nowhere to be found outside the TV.

He chides himself for being so utterly unprepared.

Yosuke licks at his lower lip, sucking it between his teeth to chew at for a second as he thinks of something else to say that he hasn’t already said before. “Listen… it’s been hours. Where are you?” He pauses, sucks in a watery breath. “I’m really freaked right now, okay? I swear to god, if you just forgot to turn your phone on or something…” His voice catches as a tide of something hot and suffocating washes over him, up his chest, his throat, into the back of his mouth where it chokes him and traps his words behind his teeth He pauses again to swallow it down. “Souji, please. Please call me back, let me know you’re okay. You’re my best fucking friend, let me help—“

“Your message could not be recorded because this mailbox is now full. Please try your call again later.”

With a desperate, angry growl, Yosuke yanks his phone away from his ear and throws it viciously down against the mattress. It bounces off the comforter, falling and landing with a muted ‘thunk’ somewhere out of sight in the dark below the bed. He doesn’t go looking for it; he just lets it lay wherever it’s fallen and turns to bury his face in his pillow, fighting back the molten surge of tears until Teddie’s voice shouts up at him that it’s time for dinner.

He barely says a thing the rest of the night.

---

Yosuke sleeps poorly, waking with a knotted stomach and a tight feeling gripping at the inside of his skull.

The house is quiet, eerily so, and in his blearily state it takes Yosuke a few groggy minutes to piece together the reason why. Teddie is still asleep; Yosuke can hear the bear’s thin, wheezy snoring from inside his closet, which is strange because usually Teddie is a bundle of energy from the moment Yosuke’s alarm goes off. Half the time, Teddie acts as his second alarm after Yosuke tries hitting the snooze for the third time in a row, jumping onto Yosuke’s bed and tackling him in a “good morning hug.” Today, though, it seems that Yosuke has woken up well before his alarm is set to wake him. He doesn’t really know how that’s possible, considering he hadn’t managed to fall asleep until well after midnight, but somehow he’s awake before the rest of the household (provided his parents haven’t already gone in to work), and he doesn’t think he could get back to sleep even if he tried.

There are no new messages on his phone. Yosuke already hates today.

Still half in a daze, he turns off his alarm and makes his way quietly around the room to gather up the pieces of his uniform. He changes in the bathroom where he can see and the light won’t reach the slumbering bear back in his room. Were it another day he would wake Teddie up or just leave the alarm set for him, but Yosuke is painfully aware that Teddie has the after-school shift with him tonight and doesn’t even need to be awake until later in the afternoon.

He wanders downstairs and halfheartedly makes the quickest, most basic breakfast he can possibly make – which honestly isn’t any different than any other breakfast he makes for himself. There’s a little bit of the leftovers from last night’s dinner still tucked away in the fridge, but he leaves it be. Yosuke may know next to nothing about cooking but Teddie knows even less, and while he’d never admit it aloud, Yosuke is not so annoyed with Teddie’s existence that he wants the poor guy to go hungry. He also knows that Teddie gets lonely without him around and likely won’t be happy that Yosuke didn’t wake him up to say goodbye before leaving. He’s already prepared for the pouty earful the bear will have in store for him at work, but for the moment, Yosuke is willing to settle for an egg and toast for himself in order to leave his pseudo-brother with an edible peace offering. Maybe he’ll give Ted a call at lunch to make him feel better. (If only to save himself from being clung to by a living carnival prize later on.)

He sits at the counter and stares at his phone while he eats without tasting. No new messages. He dumps the uneaten half of his toast into the trash.

Time passes at a crawl, and while Yosuke is too frazzled to try and nap on the couch until he needs to leave, he also can’t seem to wake up any further. The exhaustion from yesterday still sticks to him, weighs him down like a thick blanket of dread. The feeling of uselessness, of not knowing what to do with himself or how to help still sits deep within his bones. The longer he stays idle, the more anxious his mind grows, despite the way his eyes itch like he hasn’t slept in a month. The runny egg and half slice of burnt bread sit weirdly in his stomach.

He’s debating on whether he wants to just leave a little early and possibly stake out Souji’s house – because hey, might as well – when his phone finally, finally buzzes. Yosuke nearly drops it in his haste to get it out of his pocket, catching his fingernail on the seam of his jeans and bending it far enough to make it sting. All the while the phone continues to buzz, vibrating every couple of seconds as each new notification comes through. It takes him a minute, but he manages to extract the device from his pocket, ignoring the way his finger is throbbing.

He doesn’t even bother checking the notifications flashing up at him from the screen, he just goes straight to his messages and desperately hopes that at least one of them is from Souji.

None of them are.

Instead, there are a handful of texts from Naoto, all sent to the entire Investigation Team like the big-ass group chat they never got around to making.

Detc Prince: JUST SPOKE 2 SOUJI-SENPAI

Dect Prince: HE IS SAFE AT HOME & HAS BEEN THERE SINCE LAST NIGHT

Detc Prince: EVIDENTLY HE PASSED OUT & SLEPT 12 HOURS. JUST NOW WOKE UP.

Detc Prince: HE SAYS HE IS SORRY 4 SCARING US. HE ALSO WONT B AT SCHOOL 2DAY

Detc Prince: VIOLENTLY ILL YESTERDAY BUT BETTER NOW. LEFT AFTER GETTING SICK

Yosuke stares down at his phone in confusion.

No, that’s… wrong.

He stands dumbly in the kitchen, in the quiet, morning-dark house, with his phone in his hands and a furrowed brow and tries to piece together this story with his own from the day before. He’s foggy-headed still, sleepy and jacked all at the same time, but even if he were wide-awake he knows that something would be off.

Souji had been running down the hall like he was terrified. He’d blown past Yosuke and Kanji with the speed of someone deeply afraid (which Yosuke recognizes from their first few adventures into the TV world, back when everything was still new to them all), not of someone about to throw up. His partner had rocketed away from him almost too quickly to catch his expression, but Yosuke knows how to look at Souji, knows how to check for tells, how to read his commander, his best friend, and pick up on Souji’s signals. It’s how they fight side-by-side in the dungeons, when Yosuke has his headphones blaring and their soft-spoken leader needs to guide them all through battle. Yosuke knows Souji – and those weren’t the eyes of “let me by, I have to hurl.”

Souji’s eyes had been wide and frightened, laced with sorrow and the same kind of desperate mania that so many of their friends had worn as they faced down their shadows.

Yosuke feels the breakfast in his stomach turn over on itself. He doesn’t like this. Yosuke had watched Souji disappear through the door to the stairs, not towards the bathroom like anyone feeling nauseas would do, so unless Souji had been heading for another floor to go throw up then he would have had to have gotten sick before even coming back to the classroom. Which would mean his sprint down the hall was something else entirely. Not only that, but Yosuke knows for a fact that Souji passed Naoto on the stairs, which meant he’d been heading downward and well away from any of the closest or even second closest toilets. If he’d left right after he’d thrown up, then Souji should have either not been running like Chie had offered to make lunch and instead been dragging himself out the door, or he should have been running to a bathroom and then leaving.

Nothing in the time frame adds up, and the resulting implications leave Yosuke floundering. His head goes around and around in circles, wanting to believe Naoto’s texts that Souji is okay, that he just got really, really sick and had to go home. But Yosuke has spent literal months now learning to think critically, to look at inconsistencies and pick them apart, and while he’s no Naoto when it comes to mysteries he would like to think he could spot when something is clearly not right when it comes to his best friend.

He’s aware that Naoto could have just given them the absolute minimum information and that there is a longer explanation waiting for them all when they get to school. However, Naoto had been just as visibly rattled as Yosuke had felt when he’d found them in the stairwell, which is hard for Yosuke to explain away with his current lack of insight. The fact that they’d had no clue where Souji had gone, and had even helped Yosuke look for him leaves another gap in their short span of time where everything could have happened.

He doesn’t want to think that Naoto is lying. He absolutely doesn’t want to think that Souji is.

But there’s nothing Yosuke can do without more information, and he isn’t going to get that just standing around. Gritting his teeth, he stamps down on the rising tide of dark thoughts and nebulous feelings. He doesn’t want to face any of it, doesn’t want to think about what some of his theories might imply. He also doesn’t want to look too deeply at his own reactions to this, because it means he’s either wildly overacting or that something is genuinely amiss. A lapse back into his old clingy, annoying, friendless self, or his best friend potentially being hurt or hiding something. Neither option is comforting.

The clock above the counter tells him he needs to leave now to get to school without a rush. He stuffs the phone back into his pocket and grabs his bag and forcibly tries to keep his mind from reaching further and further into the place where his anxiety dwells. His thoughts are carefully blank as he shuffles his way over to the door and opens it on the dull light of the morning sky. He blinks against the brightness, standing still in the entryway for a moment until he can make his vision settle and his nervous pulse subside.

Outside his house is like a different world; the broken dawn is pink and burnt gold and it casts everything in its wake in a weirdly yellow glow. There are birds somewhere in the distance, chirping sporadically like they, too, have no idea how to be awake at this hour. It’s a stark contract to the quiet, sleepy dark back inside Yosuke’s kitchen.

As he finally works up the will to start his trek, Yosuke takes a second to glance at his reflection in the mirror his mother had insisted on hanging in the entryway when they’d moved in, to “make sure everyone looks their best before facing the day”. What stares back at him is a pale, jittery-looking version of himself, with deep blue circles beneath his eyes and hair that clearly hasn’t seen a comb in far too long. He grimaces at how wan he looks, at the exhaustion etched into his skin along with the worry lines now marring his forehead.

He leaves the house quickly, not wanting to look at himself anymore or give his brain a long enough pause to start thinking again. As he closes the door behind him he tells himself that the shiver he got from his reflection’s sightless stare is just the lack of sleep, and that it was only the light from the sun along the horizon that tinted the world and made his eyes look a sickly shade of gold.

Naoto does not, in fact, give them any new information once everyone is gathered at school. Yosuke talks to Yukiko and Chie for a minute or so before classes start to see if they know or have heard anything he might have missed. They don’t, and after Chie tells him he looks like shit (to which he only gives a half-hearted retort because honestly, she’s right) they confirm that they didn’t get a chance to catch Naoto in person that morning, either.

The school day begins and Yosuke barely pays attention. He keeps glancing forlornly at Souji’s empty desk, sneaking peeks at his phone under his own. There are a few extra texts from the others in the group text, mostly reactionary exclamations, a flurry of sad emojis from Rise to go with her “Oh no! Poor Senpai!” but no one seems inclined to press Naoto for more details. He gets it to some degree; no one else but Kanji saw Souji’s escape down the hallway and only Naoto passed him on the stairs, so the only other person that might ask besides Yosuke would be Kanji, and Kanji didn’t seem to notice what Yosuke did. So no one asks.

Yosuke sends a mass text of his own, asking for everyone to meet up during lunch. He words it as well as he can, trying to hide behind the reasoning that they had all been worried about Souji and playing off the fact that Souji apparently hasn’t contacted anyone else so could Naoto fill them in on what all Souji said to them, please? Everyone agrees, though some take longer to respond than others due to classes and Naoto takes their time replying until they’re the last one to do so. Yosuke tries not to make anything of it.

He can’t tell if he succeeds.

Teddie messages him around late morning, sending Yosuke a string of whiny texts and a few teary emojis, just as Yosuke had predicted he would. Yosuke responds with a short “srry ted I was letting u sleep” and “leftovers r urs”, which earns him a few more pout emojis before Teddie evidently forgives him. It’s a minor distraction, but one that Yosuke is grateful for nonetheless. His interaction with Teddie feel normal, routine, like Yosuke’s entire world hasn’t been a total mess for the past 24 hours. He makes a mental note to buy the bear a box of his favorite topsicles – both as a way to cheer him up after waking to an empty house and also as a thank you so that Yosuke doesn’t have to do it out loud and get stuck explaining his mental state.

When lunch finally hits, Yosuke and Chie and Yukiko all head off to the roof together to meet up with the rest of the team – minus their leader and living plush-doll of a mascot. Naoto is already there by the time the rest of them arrive. They look tired; there is a thinness to their mouth, a glassiness to their eyes that speaks of a night spent just as sleepless as Yosuke. He remembers how scared they’d looked the day before after Souji had disappeared, the deep, quiet fear that had lit them from within and made Yosuke think of an animal cornered at night, eyeshine bright and unnerving.

Nothing about any of this makes sense.

Naoto greets them; they all settle in. It takes up a good chunk of the lunch period for Naoto to basically rehash everything they’d said via text: that Souji had suddenly gotten violently ill in between the pageants, that they suspected it might be either food poisoning or “an acute bout of nerves”, that Souji had run off to go get sick and then gone straight home. That Souji had passed out and slept until that morning right before school and had called Naoto back after they’d messaged him again. That Souji was feeling better but not 100% still.

And the whole time they’re telling the story, Yosuke bites at his lips and feels his frown growing deeper and deeper.

He still doesn’t like the way the timeline of events just doesn’t seem to match up in a way that doesn’t have holes, no matter how he tries to fit the pieces together. The larger picture is fine, sure, but it’s the little things, the snags in time, the long stretch of silence and sudden explanation. There are just too many of them and Yosuke collects them in his head one after another and moves them around trying to find a way to match them up. His head is starting to hurt by the time Naoto finishes.

Everyone goes around and offers their sentiments as if Souji is there to hear them. They talk about going over to check on him after school but Naoto seems to think it won’t be necessary.

“Souji-senpai is most likely resting,” Naoto says. “Too many people all at once without warning could be detrimental.” They awkwardly shift their weight, tugging on their cap the way they do when they want to hide their face but also don’t want to be perceived as weak for showing their nervousness. Yosuke notes how they don’t look directly at anyone when they continue speaking.

“However, seeing as Senpai is – or was – awake and aware this morning of our attempts to contact him, I would say we should message him if we do plan on visiting. I’m certain he would appreciate the heads up, especially if he still isn’t feeling well.”

Everybody voices their agreement (and in the case of Rise, their obviously crush-tinted disappointment,) and even Yosuke has to admit that Naoto makes a good point. It still sits oddly in his chest, though. He curses his work schedule; he would absolutely be visiting Souji at home after school if he didn’t have to go in for a long night of stocking shelves. No matter how good a point Naoto may have made, Souji is missing a day of classes and no one could begrudge Souji’s best friend for taking him some notes, right?

Yosuke sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose when no one is looking.

After that is a whole lot of nothing. There is eating, some more discussion, (mostly about Souji but still nothing relevant to Yosuke’s mess of questions) and a bunch of texts all sent out to wish Souji a speedy recovery. None of them receives a reply, but it’s also entirely possible that Souji is doing exactly as Naoto said and resting. Yosuke hopes so.

Sadly, and to his understandable irritation, he doesn’t get a chance to ask Naoto any of the more in-depth questions he’d wanted to ask before the end of lunch sneaks up on them. The group begins to split up then, with Naoto somehow being the first one through the door back inside, robbing Yosuke of what is probably his final chance of the day.

Truth be told, Yosuke knows it’s partially his own fault. Rather than just squaring up and asking what he wanted to, he’d been stalling, waiting for a turn in the conversation to give him the answers he’d wanted without actually asking. He admits it to himself – albeit begrudgingly – because he’s seen first hand what happens when he doesn’t, and acknowledges that he’s afraid. Afraid of being proven wrong and thus having overreacted like the clingy idiot he knows he’s capable of being. Or worse, being proven right and having to deal with the knowledge that either his teammate or his leader or both are keeping him in the dark. It would be a chain reaction at that point, one fear being affirmed leading to another one – one that Yosuke only lets himself think about when he absolutely has to, at his lowest and wide awake at 2:00am with his mind way too loud and full, to keep it from spawning another shadow.

Do I matter?

Chie kicks him gently (“gently”) in the butt to get him moving since he’s apparently just been standing there staring after Naoto. He lets her and Yukiko drag him back to the classroom and ignores the silent conversation that seems to pass between the two of them behind his back. He also ignores the strange way that Rise follows him with her eyes, a funny, down-turned expression settling on her features that he’s never seen before.

The day continues, the teachers drone, and Yosuke sits staring inconspicuously as possible down at his phone screen. A response to his previous slew of worried texts never comes, and no matter how he tries, Yosuke feels too many things too deeply and at once to be able to send any new ones just yet. He types and deletes what has to be a dozen aborted questions, shallow-seeming “get well soon”s, and by the time the day is over he’s still stuck at square one, eyes strained from staring at the glare of his screen for so long.

He trudges down to the shoe lockers, head still hurting, when the final bell sounds and resigns himself to waiting until after his shift to think of something to say to his partner that doesn’t sound stupid or needy or paranoid.

In the end his anxiety silences him completely, stilling his fingers and leaving the “how ru feelin prtnr? u comin 2 school 2mrrw?” hovering in the text bar on his screen unsent.

---

“Yosuke…”

Warm hands, fingers ghosting over skin, over planes of muscle, dipping into the line where waist meets hips. Breath catching, stuttering in a flat, toned chest, a hot exhale against his cheek as blunted nails dig into his shoulders, holding him in place. The taste of salt, of skin beneath his tongue, fresh like rain and sharp like ozone. A pulse like distant thunder under his mouth. He presses forward, closer, tighter, shifts his knee to press it between shaking legs, holds them steady with his hands and feels the flex of thighs under his palms.

Hips grind against him. Lips catch at his, kissing, parting, giving him room to slide his tongue inside. He pulls back and nips at them, drawing the bottom one, plush and sweet, between his teeth before pressing back in and licking them apart.

Hands glide lower, inward, touching, teasing, tugging at fabric and pulling it open, down, fingertips running hot across a band of elastic before slipping inside. A trail of kisses across a sharp jaw. Teeth grazing skin, sucking, biting, leaving little marks of purple in their wake. A gasp, a groan, a throaty sound of need and pleasure as he laves his tongue back over the pulse point, sending vibrations through another chest and into his own. Heat beneath his fingers, a tightness deep below his hips.

"Yosuke please…”

He pushes his knee in further, scratches his nails along soft thighs, taut like velvet over steel. Hips roll to meet his hand; his palm meets warm flesh, brushes over it, presses the heel of his hand down to elicit another halted breath, another ragged whisper of his name. A body clinging to his own, hot and slick and trembling, fingers fisting in his hair, skin on skin on skin on skin, moving to a rhythm he sets, slow and wicked. He bites a collarbone and the arms around him tighten, the long line of a pale throat exposed as lips fall open in a moan and a head tilts back, hands pulling him closer, clutching, panting, shaking.

“Partner!”

Yosuke sits bolt upright in bed, heart pounding against the inside of his ribs like it’s trying to break free.

For a moment he doesn’t know where he is; his bedroom is dark and unfamiliar in its witching-hour silence with only the quiet snoring from his closet to break it. The faint glow of his phone charging beside the bed becomes his grounding point and he stares at it until his mind clears enough to refocus on his surroundings. Alone. He’s alone, there’s no one in his bed but him. He’s in his room and he’s alone in his bed – no hips beneath his hands, no skin against his lips. No breathy voice in his ear whispering how good his touch feels, murmuring his name, spurring him on.

Oh god.

Yosuke shivers at the memory, at the phantom image of someone warm and solid arcing against him. Something aches low in his gut and he realizes with a burning face just how painfully hard he is. He feels it throbbing between his legs like a bruise and bites his lip to stamp down a desperate whine.

Alone, I’m alone, it was just a dream, I’m alone…

But Yosuke can still feel he pressure of another body against his own. He can still feel everything: the fingers in his hair, the legs around his hips, the stretch of an elastic waistband across the back of his wrist as if he’s delved his hand below someone’s boxers. He feels all of it. He can still taste another tongue when he swipes his across his lips, still tingling like he’s just been kissed, is still leaving hickies on his best friend’s throat—

Yosuke slaps a hand over his mouth to mask the heavy, raspy sound of his own too-thin breathing. It burns in his lungs, breaths too deep but air too dry and it feels like he isn’t getting any oxygen at all. Sweat beads along his hairline, at the nape of his neck, and when he parts his lips to try and breathe through his mouth he can taste the telltale salt of it across his clammy palm.

Souji. He’d just had a sex dream about Souji.

His best friend, his partner, their goddamn leader. Yosuke feels the rush of adrenaline as it washes through him in a wave, leaving his limbs cold and trembling like he’s just been dunked in ice water. The slow creep of panic itches at his nerves. He doesn’t know what to do; what is he supposed to do? How in the ever-loving fuck is he meant to process the fact that he’s just had the single most intense sex dream of his entire life and it was about another guy?

And not just any guy – he’s just had a sex dream about his best. Fucking. Friend.

There is a twitch and throb between his thighs and Yosuke thinks he might actually start crying.

He swallows, weak and useless against the dryness in his throat, and bites at his tongue until he tastes the coppery tang of his own blood. He’s dizzy. Dizzy and confused and scared to death and back, but…

But.

But he can’t ignore how hard he is. He can’t ignore that everything in his dream was amazing, that it left him aching and needy and wishing he could slow his speeding heart and go back to sleep, just so he could return to the feeling of dream-Souji pulling him closer as he came over Yosuke’s hand.

“…Fuck.”

The sound of his own voice – while barely a whisper – still startles Yosuke in the near-perfect quiet of the room. It’s high and desperate, absolutely wrecked like it hasn’t been since he faced his shadow. Expect this time it isn’t fear lacing the single word that’s slipped from his mouth. It’s desire.

Without really thinking, Yosuke throws off the covers as quietly as he can and disentangles himself from the bed. He stares at the closet door like a feral, frightened cat, watching for any sign that Teddie has heard him. When nothing happens, Yosuke moves.

He creeps over to the door, pausing only to grab a pair of underwear from the floor as he goes. He doesn’t even know if they’re clean, doesn’t even care; right now he just needs something to take with him that isn’t what he’s wearing right now. He can feel the sweat sinking in to his shirt, the waist of his sleep pants – which is bad enough – but worst of all is how he can feel the sticky-slick patch of precum starting to seep into his boxers.

On shaky legs, Yosuke makes his way out the door and down the hall towards the bathroom. He goes as silently as he can, taking care to avoid the spots in the floor that he knows are prone to creaking, reaching out to steady himself against the wall whenever his knees start to buckle. It’s slow going. His erection makes it hard to walk without hissing through his teeth, and with every passing second he can hear the way his heart hammers inside his chest – so loud he thinks that Teddie must have been deaf not to hear it.

He reaches the bathroom after what feels like eons, thankful it’s been left open so the tiny nightlight in the hall can lead sleep-foggy people to it in the middle of the night. (Or in this case, a jittery teenager.) He slides inside like he’s afraid someone will be waiting for him just past where the light reaches and shuts the door behind him with a muffled click, locking it the moment that it’s closed.

He passes by the mirror on his way to the shower and pointedly does not look.

Cranking the cold water up as high as it will go, not even touching the hot, Yosuke stares at the frigid cascade like it can possibly save him. Sometimes, when his dreams turn dirty with short skirts and breathy panting straight from the porn he keeps hidden in a special folder on his computer, Yosuke is able to will the resulting arousal away. He’s lucky – he hasn’t woken up to an unexpected mess in his boxers since before his family moved. He still gets hard in his sleep though, sometimes; usually he’s able to just think of the shadows in the TV world and roll over onto his stomach to flush the images from his mind. He wakes slightly irritable, but at least he’s able to sleep.

Tonight though, he knows there’s no hope. With all the slowness of a man facing his execution, Yosuke peels off the sweat-covered t-shirt and sweatpants, tossing them into the corner to retrieve later. He sets the second pair of underwear over to the side and gingerly begins the process of slipping off the ones he’s wearing.

It’s a nightmare. Each drag of fabric over his electrified skin is like torture, leaving him off-kilter and gritting his teeth against the over stimulation. He nearly falls over as he tries to maneuver them past his dick, which is still so abysmally hard that it’s a miracle he made it from his bedroom without passing out due to poor circulation. He stifles a pained noise as the chilly air outside his boxers hits his overheated flesh, clamping his lips together and biting down until it hurts. The cold water is going to suck.

He steps into the shower and immediately hates everything.

Fighting back another sound of dismay, Yosuke lets the icy stream pour over him, jolting him to full wakefulness and sending an instant, violent shiver through his entire body. He stands there with his arms crossed futilely over his chest, instinctively trying to hold in what little body heat he can, even as he wills the water to just freeze his burning blood and make it so he can go back to bed before his alarm goes off for school.

This sucks. Everything sucks. He’s awake at stupid-o-clock in the morning with a boner that won’t go away and the sound of his best friend’s moaning playing over and over again in his ears like a looping, skipping record. He hates the way it makes his stomach swoop like he’s flying, makes his skin prickle like he swell of lightning before it strikes; it scares him, he shouldn’t be feeling this. Instead of desperate and turned on, secretly wishing the dream had been longer, he should be sick, put off, angry. He should be disgusted about the way the dream has made his heart race and his fingers itch to touch, to feel, the way he keeps licking at his lower lip as if hoping the taste of Souji’s kiss still lingers in the waking world. But he’s not. The only disgust he feels is at himself and the way he cannot lie away the fact that he liked it. He’s more afraid of how wrong it didn’t feel than by how right it did.

Yosuke shakes his head and fists a hand through his wet hair, trying to pull the feel of Souji from his memory.

Minutes pass and his arousal doesn’t flag. The cold digs into his skin like needles, numbing everything it touches and leaving him shuddering in the absence of warmth. The contrast of the chill against the heat of his body is almost painful – like a gust of winter wind over a feverish throat – and even the numbness the water brings isn’t enough to completely drown out the feeling. Yet still his erection persists.

With a groan of defeat, Yosuke reaches over and twists the knob for the hot water, turning the cold down a little as he does, and then wisely steps back out of the spray. He waits, shivering, holding his hand under the showerhead until his body can tolerate the change in temperature without feeling like he’s being scalded, although at this point he’s almost desperate enough to consider it. Maybe if he turns it up to boiling he can strip the image of dream-Souji pinned beneath him from his mind.

He steps back under the water, wincing slightly at the feel of heat on his frozen skin. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck, goddamnit! He leans forward and rests his head against the wall just under the showerhead, feeling the rush of water trickle across his shoulders as he lets the frustrated burn behind his eyes crest and fade. He can’t do this. He can’t. Vision blurring in the droplets running down his face, Yosuke reaches a shaking hand down and curling his still-numb fingers around himself. He hisses at the contact, knees almost giving out at the rush of feeling just that simple action elicits.

FUCK.

Giving in, Yosuke takes a second to reach for the bottle of conditioner just off to the side and takes two pumps into his hand. He slides his fingers through it, smearing it across his palm as best he’s able, before wrapping his hand back around himself. He takes a deep breath and starts to stroke.

He forgoes all preamble, any technique he would normally employ, any trick he’d use to draw it out, he tosses them all to the back of his mind. It’s not even about pleasure right now; it’s about relief. He’s so agonizingly turned on that he just wants this over, just wants it to go away so he can go back to sleep and pretend this never happened. He doesn’t think about how he’s going to act around his partner whenever Souji shows back up at school – he tries not to think at all.

He brings his other arm up to brace him against the tiled shower wall above his head, spreading his legs a little to widen his stance and keep from falling. He closes his eyes against the stark white of the tile, too bright in the overhead lighting and too close to his face. He tightens his grip.

It works to take the edge off – the slow slide of his fist over his length, helped by the conditioner – but it’s not enough. He quickens his pace, rubs the pad of his thumb under the head. It helps, but it’s not enough.

Gritting his teeth, Yosuke delves deep into his memory and tries to conjure up images from some of his favorite porno: Busty women with tiny waists and long legs, panting as they rode dick like it was their favorite thing in the world. He tries to picture what they sound like when they moan, tries to remember which girls he finds the hottest, which set of breasts got him off the fastest the last time he watched.

Something feels sour in the back of his mouth.

He switches tactics, thinks of some of the girls from school that he’d fantasized about in the past. Faceless figures in their cute uniform skirts, summer outfits with no tights or jackets to obscure their flawless skin. He’d picked out his favorite attributes long ago, even with the girls he’s never met, never spoken to – he keeps a mental list of whose asses he likes the best, which ones he thought would look cutest on their backs with their thighs wrapped around him. It doesn’t work.

With a choked whine through clenched teeth, Yosuke twists his wrist at the end of his stroke, pleading with anyone listening that it makes him feel something. The motion is there, the pressure, the heat of his palm, but it just not what he needs. Something isn’t right, isn’t letting him reach any closer.

Desperate and impulsive, he goes to the one surefire thing that’s always worked for him before, no matter how pent up or over stimulated he’d been: he pictures Risette in her latest swimsuit photos.

Guilt immediately burns though his veins and rises to the back of his throat like acid. He shoves off the wall, letting go of his dick and nearly stumbling backwards, gasping in shock at the way his mind recoils. That’s Rise! his own brain shrieks at him. That’s your teammate, how could you?!

Yosuke leans back against the far wall of the shower and runs his cleaner hand across his face. He lets it rest there, over his eyes, as he sucks in breath after deep, horrified breath and waits for the roll of bile and sickening shame to subside. He stays there for countless minutes, gnawing at his lip while he breathes, until the utter mortification of what he’d just tried to do finally begins to ebb and leave him be. All the while his dick still aches with unspent arousal, tension tight and ruthless along his shoulders and hips.

“Fuck.”

Slowly Yosuke pulls his hand away from his face and lets it fall to the side. He stares upward with dull eyes, barely focusing on anything but the hazy texture of the ceiling above him. “Fuck…”

He’s screwed. He doesn’t know what else to do; he’s done the cold shower method, switched to hot to shock his system, tried to let his body wait it out, all to no avail. Thinking about porn doesn’t work, thinking about girls doesn’t work, hell, even thinking about nothing still leaves him hard and unsatisfied. Speed doesn’t seem to make a difference, nor does pressure or movement. The stimulation is good in the way that any kind of touch against his erection is, but it’s hollow. There’s nothing – he feels nothing and it’s killing him.

Yosuke weighs his options. He can give up now and go back to bed, hope that maybe if he lays there long enough he’ll be able to go to sleep and his hard on will be gone in the morning. He grimaces; no, what will probably end up happening is he’ll either be wide awake and rock solid for the rest of the night, leaving him to be uncomfortable in an entirely different way when the alarm goes off and Teddie wakes up, (and his parents if they happen to be home,) or he’ll sleep, but he’ll dream.

His dick twitches at that, sending a trickle of fire through his groin, his thighs, his abdomen. It knocks what’s left of his exhalation from his lips.

Would it… really be so bad?

He thinks about the way dream-Souji’s body had fit so perfectly against his own – the scrape of fingernails down his back, a tongue across the seam of his lips. He thinks about the image of messy silver hair, damp with sweat and sticking up in places where Yosuke’s fingers had curled and tugged; he pictures glazed, rain-puddle eyes, half-lidded and looking at him as if Yosuke is the only thing his partner could ever need again.

There’s another twitch, a pulse, and slowly his hand begins to slide between his thighs.

He’s familiar enough his own body by now that he knows there’s a chance the dream will come back and that he’ll just have the same problem all over again, if it ever actually even goes away to begin with. Any relief he might get from finally passing out will likely be short-lived at best. Again, that’s if he manages to fall asleep at all.

No matter what he does, the feel of Souji’s heartbeat under his lips is going to be etched into Yosuke’s mind for hours. Would it be horrible if he just…?

His hand wraps back around his length and tentatively, tentatively begins to stroke. It feels incredible.

Yosuke lets out a long, shuddering exhale as every nerve ending that’s been lying dormant since he fist climbed into the shower jolts to life as if electrified. He slides his hand up again and tightens his fingers, strokes all the way down and glides his palm over the head. It’s like the first time he’d ever summoned Jirya – a buzzing, tingling sensation that had started somewhere at the base of his skull and spread to every limb in his body, leaving him warm and giddy with his newfound rush of power. Now, though, instead of the surge of a hurricane releasing from his mind he feels the low, simmering heat pooling in his gut and trickling outward, further and further with every pass of his hand. He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall behind him, finally letting the pictures on the backs of his eyelids out into view.

Souji underneath him, pressed into the mattress with Yosuke’s knee between his thighs, breath hitching as he watches Yosuke with eyes like frosted rain. Souji’s lips – capable of summoning lightning and calling out commands in the midst of battle – parting in a gasp that sinks into a moan. Souji’s stormy eyes sliding shut. Souji panting, begging, whispering Yosuke’s name with the same kind of reverence Yosuke has used before in awe of Souji’s power. Yosuke’s fingers in Souji’s mouth, his hand in Souji’s pants; tongue and teeth and a trail of bites and kisses against Souji’s rabbiting pulse.

Souji’s hips bucking up against him, a whimper, a keen – what would he sound like? Would he be quiet like he is in real life? Or would he scream and tremble as Yosuke took him apart? High-pitched and breathy? Or a growl, low and dark and gravelly; a single sign of his god-like patience finally snapping before he dug his nails into Yosuke’s shoulders and flipped them over to ride him instead?

Yosuke’s body jerks. Heat and lighting crackle through his skin, setting his nerves on fire, causing him to gasp in shock at just how much it is. Somewhere in the back of is mind he thinks he hears Jirya purr.

He licks at his lips, bites them to hold back the quiet whimper he can feel building in his throat. He squeezes his eyes shut tighter and replays the image against the stars now flickering in and out of his sight.

Souji in his lap. Yosuke’s grip on his hips, his thighs, guiding him up and down as Souji grinds against him; sweat-slick, hot. His lips, his teeth, his tongue on Souji’s neck, gentle kisses pressed to darkening bites, claiming, marking. Souji’s hands grasping, scrabbling, leaving claw marks on Yosuke’s shoulders. Souji has such graceful hands; Yosuke wants to pin them above his head, to find out what kinds of sounds Souji makes; wants to drive him to the point of desperation so that he begs and pleads for Yosuke to let him come. He wants to run his fingers across the expanse of Souji’s body, feel Souji’s hipbones under his hands, lave his tongue and sink his teeth into the soft, strong flesh of Souji’s thighs.

Souji in his bed, in his arms. Souji crying out as Yosuke rolls his hips and drives himself deeper. Souji, Souji, Souji…

“Souji…”

The name falls from Yosuke’s lips and he feels the stings coiled deep inside him start to pull, taut and sharp. The sound of it spears through him; it settles in his fingertips, in the balls of his feet, wraps around the base of his spine and stretches upwards like ivy and Yosuke barely has time to slap his free hand over his mouth before his whole body lights up brighter than an aurora. He clamps his teeth down on his middle finger, so hard he can feel the press of bone between his teeth.

And then Yosuke is coming. Hard and intense and without any warning – with his partner’s name on his tongue like a prayer.

Sound is the first thing that returns to him; the quiet spray of water, his own ragged breathing. Slowly he opens his eyes, blinking against the sharpness of the light and the glossy tile it’s reflecting off of. Blank eyed, he stares at the rivulets of water running down the wall beside him. His lungs take in a deep, long breath and he centers on the way his chest expands.

By the time he’s fully back in his own body, back in his soundless house in a tiny little town in the middle of the night, the shower water has started to grow cold again. He watches as it circles the drain, spiraling, mixing with the remnants of what he’s just done and washing it away out of sight. He leans his full weight back against the wall and carefully sinks to the floor.

What did he just do?

Oh god, what did he just do?

Yosuke brings his legs up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them and burying his face into his knees. He digs his forehead, his nose, his mouth into his skin as hard as he can, as if he can somehow smother the knowledge of his actions if he just presses hard enough.

What the fuck am I supposed to do now?

He stays under the ever-colder spray of water as his mind begins to devour itself, sitting hunched and shaking until all traces of heat are completely gone.

#fanfic #fanfiction #persona 4 #p4 #souji seta #yu narukami #souyo #yosuke hanamura #investigation team #transgender #trans souji seta #trans!au #scars on my sleeve #caught in the grey #tw homophobia #LIME #BEWARE OF MILD ADULT THEMES

1 note · View note