Chapter 21: Hidden Heat
The dressing room door clicked shut, muffling the distant thump of the next act’s bassline. The space was a disaster of sparkling sequins and abandoned water bottles, the air thick with hairspray and the sharp, metallic scent of adrenaline.
Taichi was halfway to the vanity, reaching for a makeup wipe, when Yamato’s hand closed around his wrist.
The pull was decisive, a sharp revolution that spun Taichi around. His back hit the wall beside a rack of glittering jackets, the impact a soft thud against the plaster. Before he could gasp, Yamato’s mouth was on his.
It wasn’t like this morning. That had been slow, exploratory, a secret in the dark. This was a claim. Yamato kissed him with a desperate, bruising intensity, his tongue sweeping into Taichi’s mouth, hot and demanding. Taichi’s body arched into it on instinct, his hands flying up to fist in the damp fabric of Yamato’s stage shirt. The deconstructed jacket dug into his shoulders, the mesh of his own shirt suddenly felt like a cage.
Yamato’s hands slid down from his shoulders, over the planes of his chest, his ribs, coming to rest on his hips. Then they gripped. Hard. The pressure was bordering on pain, fingers pressing into the muscle and bone beneath the costume’s leather pants. Yamato yanked him forward, grinding their bodies together in one ruthless motion.
A ragged moan tore from Taichi’s throat, swallowed by Yamato’s kiss. The friction was incredible, a direct line of fire that short-circuited every thought in his head. He could feel Yamato, hard and insistent against his own arousal, and it made his knees weaken.
Yamato broke the kiss, his breathing harsh. He buried his face in the junction of Taichi’s neck and shoulder, his teeth scraping the sensitive skin there. Taichi’s head fell back against the wall with a dull thunk.
“You have no idea,” Yamato growled, the words vibrating against his throat, “what you did to me out there.”
His voice was raw, stripped of all its usual cool control. It was the voice from the morning, the one that had whispered perfect. It hit Taichi lower and deeper than any touch.
“Yama—” Taichi choked out, but Yamato cut him off with another searing kiss, one hand coming up to cradle his jaw, holding him in place.
When he pulled back again, his blue eyes were wildfire. “Every time you smiled. Every time you looked at me like that. Like you saw me. They were all screaming for you, and you were just… giving it to me.” He punctuated the last word by rolling his hips, a slow, deliberate grind that made Taichi cry out.
“I liked it,” Taichi gasped, the confession tumbling out. “I liked you looking at me like that.”
A sharp, almost pained sound escaped Yamato. His hand slid from Taichi’s jaw, down his chest, over the frantic beat of his heart, and palmed him firmly through the tight leather. Taichi jolted, a spark shooting straight up his spine.
“Yeah?” Yamato whispered, his lips grazing Taichi’s ear. He squeezed, just enough pressure to make Taichi’s vision blur. “You like this? Knowing you’re all I see?”
The praise, filthy and specific, wrapped around the physical sensation. It wasn’t a generic you did good. It was you are everything. Taichi felt a surge of heat so intense it was dizzying. His hips bucked involuntarily into Yamato’s hand.
“God, yes,” he breathed.
Yamato’s mouth found his again, swallowing his sounds. He worked him through the leather with a rough, rhythmless urgency, his other hand still a vice on Taichi’s hip, holding him pinned to the wall. Taichi was dissolving, every nerve ending alight. The clutter of the room, the neon sign flickering outside the window, the faint echo of music—all of it bled away until there was only the heat of Yamato’s body, the scent of his sweat, the punishing grip of his hands, and the low, wrecked stream of words against his skin.
“So good for me. Taichi. Fuck. You ruin me.”
Each phrase was a strike of lightning. Taichi felt his control shatter. He was close, too close, hurtling toward the edge with a speed that was terrifying.
The sudden, unmistakable scuff of a shoe on linoleum right outside the door froze them both.
Yamato’s hand stilled. They didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Taichi’s heart was a frantic drum against his ribs, loud enough he was sure it could be heard in the hall.
“—just grab the spare mic pack from Starlight’s room,” a technician’s voice said, fading as they walked past.
The moment hung, suspended. Then Yamato slowly, carefully, removed his hand. He didn’t step back. He kept Taichi caged against the wall, their foreheads resting together, their breath mingling in ragged, syncopated bursts.
Taichi’s entire body was trembling. He could feel the damp patch on the front of his pants, the desperate, unfinished ache. Yamato’s eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, fixed on his. The promise in them was absolute, and it made Taichi’s stomach swoop.
Neither of them spoke. The silence was thicker than any sound.
Finally, Yamato leaned in, brushing his lips once, softly, against Taichi’s. A gentleness that felt more shocking than the violence that preceded it.
“We should…” Yamato’s voice was gravel. “We should get changed. The van’s waiting.”
Taichi just nodded, his throat too tight for words. As Yamato finally stepped back, the cool air of the room rushed in against Taichi’s overheated skin, a shocking reminder of the world outside this corner.
He watched Yamato turn toward his own wardrobe, his golden hair disheveled, the back of his shirt wrinkled from Taichi’s grip. Taichi pushed himself off the wall, his legs unsteady. He looked down at himself, at the obvious evidence of what they’d been doing, and a slow, dazed realization bloomed in his chest, warm and unsettling.
It wasn’t just the touch. It was the words. Yamato’s approval, his want, spoken aloud—that was what had unmoored him completely. He had never needed anyone’s praise before. Not like this.
He wanted to hear it again.