Chapter 16: Soundproof Confession
The silence after Kurosawa’s praise was a living thing in the dressing room they still, absurdly, shared. Taichi scrubbed at his face with a towel, the rough fabric scraping away the sweat and powder, but it did nothing to cleanse the feeling of exposure. He could feel Yamato’s presence at the other vanity like a static charge. The words You were all I ever saw hung between them, a ghost in the mirror.
“Don’t,” Yamato said, his voice low. He wasn’t looking at Taichi’s reflection. He was staring at his own hands, unlacing the leather vambrace from his forearm. The movement was deliberate, tense.
“Don’t what?” Taichi’s own voice came out ragged.
“Don’t… dissect it. It was a mistake. A line reading. It meant nothing.”
“It didn’t sound like nothing.”
Yamato’s hands stilled. He finally looked up, their eyes meeting in the glass. His blue gaze was a storm front. “What do you want from me, Taichi? Hmm? You want me to script this, too? You want your lines?” He stood abruptly, the chair scraping harshly on the concrete floor. “Forget it.”
He turned to leave, to flee back into the safety of his aloof performance. A hot, irrational panic flared in Taichi’s chest. Before he could think, he was on his feet, his hand shooting out to clamp around Yamato’s wrist. The skin was warm, the pulse beneath his thumb frantic.
“I can’t,” Taichi breathed. The confession was ripped from him. “I can’t forget it.”
For a suspended second, Yamato just stared at their joined hands, his expression unreadable. Then something in him shattered. He moved fast, reversing their positions in one fluid motion, spinning Taichi and pinning him against the door of the dressing room with a soft thud. His body was a hard line of heat against Taichi’s back.
“Is this what you can’t forget?” Yamato’s voice was a raw whisper against his ear, his breath hot. His knee pressed between Taichi’s thighs. “This?”
Taichi’s mind went blank, white noise roaring in his ears. All he could do was nod, a shallow, desperate movement.
Yamato’s hand fisted in his hair, yanking his head back just enough to expose his throat. Then Yamato’s mouth was on his, not like before, not tentative or questioning. This was a conquest. It was fierce and consuming, all teeth and bruising pressure and searching tongue. Taichi moaned into it, his hands coming up to clutch at Yamato’s shirt, the fine costume linen tearing under his grip.
They stumbled out of the dressing room, a tangle of limbs and hungry mouths, moving blindly down the dim, deserted corridor. A door yielded to Yamato’s shoulder—the tech storage room, a place of shadows and discarded equipment. He shoved Taichi inside and kicked the door shut behind them, plunging them into near-darkness broken only by the erratic flicker of a dying LED panel.
Yamato pushed him back against the cold concrete wall, kissing him again, deeper, filthier, one hand already working at the buckle of Taichi’s belt. The metal clinked loudly in the humming silence.
“Yamato,” Taichi gasped, breaking the kiss, his chest heaving.
“Shut up,” Yamato murmured, but it wasn’t cruel. It was a plea. He dropped to his knees on the grimy linoleum, his eyes gleaming up at Taichi in the stuttering blue light. He made quick, efficient work of the button and zip, yanking Taichi’s trousers and briefs down to his thighs in one rough pull. The cool air hit Taichi’s flushed skin, making him shudder.
Yamato didn’t hesitate. He took Taichi into his mouth, all the way, his tongue swirling around the head before sinking deep. Taichi cried out, his head thudding back against the wall. It was wet, too hot, too much. Yamato’s lips stretched tight around him, his hand working the base in a tight, twisting rhythm. He sucked like he was starving for it, taking him to the back of his throat again and again with a rough, gagging sound that sent lightning down Taichi’s spine. He was savage, relentless, his free hand digging into Taichi’s hip hard enough to bruise.
“Fuck, wait—I’m gonna—” Taichi choked out, his fingers tangling in Yamato’s blond hair.
Yamato pulled off with a wet pop, his lips slick and swollen. “Not yet.” His voice was gravel. He stood, spinning Taichi around to face the room. He bent him over a stack of heavy-duty flight cases, the metal edge biting into Taichi’s stomach. Yamato’s palm smoothed over the curve of his ass, a possessive, admiring stroke that felt more intimate than the blowjob. Then he spat into his hand, the sound obscenely loud, and pressed two fingers against him, circling the tight ring of muscle.
Taichi tensed, a spike of fear cutting through the haze of lust. “Yamato—”
“I know,” Yamato said, and for a second, his voice was almost gentle. Then he pushed one finger in, past the resistance, burying it to the knuckle. Taichi hissed, his knuckles white where he gripped the case. It burned, a sharp, unfamiliar stretch. Yamato worked it slowly, crooking it, until the burn began to melt into a deeper, aching pressure. He added a second finger, scissoring them, stretching him open. The friction was rough, almost painful, but it was Yamato’s fingers inside him, and that knowledge alone was more dizzying than any pleasure.
“You’re so fucking tight,” Yamato rasped, his own breathing ragged behind him. He pushed in a third, and Taichi grunted, pushing back against the intrusion, his body learning, accepting. Yamato pumped his fingers fast and deep, searching, until he brushed over a spot that made Taichi see stars. A broken shout tore from his throat.
Yamato withdrew his fingers. Taichi heard the rip of a foil packet, the slick sound of lube. He’d come prepared. The thought should have been shocking, but it just felt inevitable.
The broad, blunt head of Yamato’s cock pressed against him, wet and insistent. Yamato’s body draped over his back, his mouth at Taichi’s ear. “I need to be inside you. Now.”
He pushed.
The stretch was immense, shocking. Taichi choked, tears springing to his eyes. It was a burning, splitting fullness that felt impossible. Yamato didn’t stop. He fed himself in with a ruthless, gradual pressure, inch by agonizing inch, until he was fully sheathed, his hips flush against Taichi’s ass. They were both trembling, stuck in that searing moment of joining.
“Breathe,” Yamato commanded, his own breath hitching.
Taichi let out a shuddering exhale, and the pain began to recede, transforming into a staggering, overwhelming fullness. He felt impaled, owned, completely filled.
Yamato moved. A slow, experimental drag out, then a push back in. The friction was exquisite, a rough velvet burn that lit up every nerve. He set a deep, punishing rhythm, each thrust jarring Taichi against the cold metal cases. The sound of skin slapping skin, of Yamato’s ragged groans, filled the cramped space.
One of Yamato’s hands snaked around his hip, finding Taichi’s cock, hard and leaking. He jerked him in time with his thrusts, his grip tight and perfect. His other hand slid up Taichi’s chest, over his pounding heart, to wrap around his throat. He didn’t squeeze, just held him there, a collar of heat and possession.
“You feel it,” Yamato growled into his shoulder, his thrusts becoming faster, harder, losing all finesse. “You feel how deep I am? This is what you wanted. This is what you couldn’t forget.”
It was. It was everything—the humiliation, the rivalry, the years of sideways glances, the blurring of every line—all sharpened to this single, carnal point. Taichi was unmoored, nothing but a vessel for sensation, for Yamato’s driving need.
“Come for me,” Yamato ordered, his voice guttural, his thumb swiping over the weeping head of Taichi’s cock.
It was the command, the possession in it, that undid him. Pleasure detonated at the base of his spine, white-hot and blinding. He came with a shattered cry, his release striping the dusty flight cases in hot pulses, his body clamping down violently around Yamato’s cock.
The convulsive tightness tipped Yamato over the edge. He drove in one last, brutal time, burying himself to the hilt, and groaned—a raw, broken sound that was nothing like his usual controlled voice. Taichi felt the hot rush of him filling the condom deep inside, the rhythmic pulse of his orgasm, the full, final claiming.
They collapsed together against the cases, a mess of sweat and spent breath. Yamato’s forehead came to rest heavily on Taichi’s shoulder, his body still lightly trembling. He stayed buried inside him for a long minute, both of them trapped in the aftershock. The flickering light painted their stillness in jagged, blue strokes.
Slowly, carefully, Yamato pulled out. The loss was physical, a sudden hollow chill. He disposed of the condim in a shadowy corner and quietly helped Taichi pull his clothes back up, his hands surprisingly steady now, almost tender.
They didn’t speak. They couldn’t. The act had been its own violent language. Taichi turned, leaning back against the cases, his legs watery. Yamato stood before him, his costume disheveled, his expression utterly shattered, the mask gone completely. He looked terrified.
He reached out, his thumb wiping away a track of sweat—or maybe a tear—from Taichi’s cheekbone. The gesture was so unexpectedly soft it made Taichi’s throat ache.
Then Yamato turned and left, the door closing with a soft, definitive click, leaving Taichi alone in the humming dark with the smell of sex and ozone, and the irrevocable knowledge that nothing would ever be the same.