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More than anything else, Haruka can’t stand how fucking touchy Kanata is.
There’s a lot about Kanata that annoys him. His stupid piercings that he always leaves lying around the share house, his gaudy green hair—”look at the highlights, Aniki! We match!” —how loud he is, how he always announces his presence in the room with a cheery greeting and a blinding smile as if he still believes Haruka would ever buy into his sociable façade—that lying piece of crap.
But more than that, and more than the bullshit Kanata tells to others in order to cut off all of Haruka’s relationships, and more than the gleeful reminders of his own inferiority that are whispered around corridors and under school stairwells, it’s the clinginess that bothers him the most.
Kanata’s always grabbing onto him. Playing with his hair, poking his cheek, wrapping a painfully tight hand around his wrist and tugging him whichever way he pleases. Haruka hates it, hates the way he can feel the other’s touch even through the thick layer of his sweater, hates the way each gesture is just a bit too aggressive, lingers a bit too much for it to be passed off as simply casual contact—as if anything could ever be as normal as that with Kanata.
He can deal with Kanata’s harsh words, his taunting smiles. He can even bite his tongue when Kanata looks at him in that crazed way of his, refrain from yelling because it’ll only make everything worse. It’s easy to shut all of that out, replace it with white noise, static in his ears and his heart—even if it’s not healthy, it works, and that’s more than Haruka can say for all the other ways he’s tried to get Kanata to leave him alone.
But physical contact—the seeping of warmth through a sleeve or the feel of Kanata’s breath on the back of his neck or, once, right behind his ear—
No static allows him to ignore it.
He thought it would get better when they moved out to Tokyo, to the share house. Thought that perhaps sharing a place with others around his age would make Kanata more conscious of what he was doing, and maybe even less intrusive.
It’s almost laughable now, how hopeful he had been. Would be laughable if the consequence of his naivety wasn’t so revolting.
Kanata only started harassing him more, once they moved. Shu finds it amusing. Tadaomi finds it curious. Reiji finds it annoying, and Haruka’s sure there’s some semblance of disgust hidden within that irritation, but he seems content enough to leave them be as long as they don't disrupt band activities too much. Never mind that Haruka’s never been a willing recipient of Kanata’s behavior.
How could he?
He feels filthy, every time Kanata so much as brushes against him.
Haruka’s not dumb. He’s not young anymore, either, at least not in the way that would render him unaware of the way Kanata looks at him. At what exactly those lingering touches and panted breaths meant.
The first time he fully realized it—waking up after falling asleep in the living room watching Tokusatsu on the TV and finding Kanata half on his lap, feeling something pressing against his thigh—he’d barely made it to the bathroom before throwing up. Even the thunderous rumble of the toilet flushing couldn’t cover the roaring in his ears. And even that failed to hide the sound of Kanata’s laughter.
So Haruka’s not surprised when Kanata throws himself besides him and snakes an arm around his shoulders, one of his legs practically draped over his own. He’s not surprised, but even years of Kanata’s antics haven't yet smothered his instinctual aversion. Shu had called them all together for a briefing on their opponents in the LR Fes, but Haruka can barely concentrate on what he was saying, too busy trying to bat Kanata’s hand off him and put some distance between the two of them.
“Get. Off,” he whispers out of the corner of his mouth. Reiji’s certainly invested in the meeting, and Shu prefers his twisted performances to go uninterrupted. He can’t cause a huge ruckus right now without making an even bigger mess. He knows this.
He knows Kanata knows this, too.
Kanata doesn’t reply, face twisted away from Haruka and eyes trained with rapt attention on whatever the hell Shu is holding in his hands, but the arm around his shoulder suddenly moves. It trails back along over his shoulder blades, and for a moment it almost seems like Kanata’s actually listening to Haruka’s demands—but then it snakes back around. Lower. Further, too, until Kanata’s hand is wrapped squarely around his waist.
He’s pressed flush against Kanata’s side now, and the feeling of being trapped within his hold is suffocating . He can feel the hard lines of the other’s body through the thin layers of clothing and winces when the hand on his waist gives a hard squeeze.
Endure it. Endure it. Just until we’re done with this stupid meeting and I can go back to my room quietly, peacefully—
Kanata’s fingers slide down to his hip bone.
He jabs his elbow into the other’s side. Hard. Kanata doesn’t so much as flinch, but Haruka swears he can see a smile on the little creep’s face.
“Kanata-kun, Haruka-kun.” Shu’s drawling voice snaps his attention to the front of the room.
“Is somethin’ the matter over there?”
Haruka bites his lip and turns away.
“Nothing, Shu-kun! Aniki’s just a bit tense from all this serious talk, so I’m helping him relax!”
The lie is so absurd that Haruka would laugh if he could; as it is, he feels his throat constrict and his ears burn up at the knowledge that there’s no way anyone in the room believes Kanata’s words—not with his arm wrapped around Haruka like that and him practically being in the other’s lap at this point—there’s no way, but Shu merely gives a huff of amusement before returning to his spiel and the others barely spare them a glance.
It feels like an eternity until Shu finally dismisses them. Everyone immediately retreats to their respective rooms, and Haruka practically jumps out of his seat—except he doesn’t, because Kanata still hasn’t loosened his grip, and this time his leg is pressing down on Haruka’s as well, preventing him from getting up. He opens his mouth to yell, since Shu and the others shouldn’t care too much about the noise since the meeting is over, but is stopped by Kanata’s other hand, pressed firmly against his mouth.
“Say, Aniki...”
The familiar endearment drags out in Kanata’s signature lilt, before dipping into something deeper.
“How quickly do you think I could unbutton both our shirts?”
Haruka stills.
“The others are still in the share house right now—if you’re too loud and make a ruckus, and they come out to the sight of us, all wrapped up in each other, with your face all red like earlier…”
Kanata moves his hand across his face to trace the edge of his ear. Haruka shuts his eyes and forces himself to breathe.
“They’d probably draw some pretty interesting conclusions, don’t you think?”
He fucked up. He shouldn’t have let Kanata take a seat next to him, shouldn’t have fallen into such a simple trap—all the other times he’s been alone in the living room, the others had been out, but even so, Kanata must know that—
“You’ll just tell them the truth?”
Kanata laughs, sharp, grating.
“You think they would care?”
His back slams into the couch cushion, eyes flying open at the impact. When he sees Kanata looming above him, encased in shadow by the glaring overhead lights, instinct overtakes rationality and he swings.
But Kanata’s always had the upper hand in everything, and so he’s stronger, too.
His hand is grabbed and forced above him, pinned with his other wrist by a solid forearm. It’s painful, the bones of his wrists being pushed down together and into the hard armrest. He grits his teeth.
“They wouldn’t care, Aniki, face it. No one ever cares about you.”
Haruka tries to turn his head away, but Kanata’s everywhere—fingers in his hair, legs tangled up with his, a whisper right up against his lips.
“Not these bandmates, not your old ones—not even mom and dad…”
This close, Haruka can see the dilation of Kanata’s eyes, his flushed face; parted lips curved into a smile. The rise and fall of Kanata’s ragged breaths push down against his own.
His skin feels coated with a layer of grime wherever Kanata touches. He hates it. Hates it. Hates the way his body doesn’t want to listen to his brain, because in the moments of darkness when he blinks, Kanata’s body encasing his own almost feels like a sanctuary—the suffocation could almost be mistaken for a hug.
Haruka gasps, but before he can even register the action as a mistake and cut off the sound, Kanata does it for him.
Kanata kisses him like he does everything else when it comes to Haruka—that is to say, mercilessly, with no regard for the other. It’s messy, loud, and painful. Haruka notes distantly that if any of the others came out of their rooms right now, the scene before them would be much harder to explain than anything Kanata could’ve faked.
He doesn’t even realize when Kanata moved his forearm from his wrists, but it must’ve happened at some point, because he feels the hem of his sweater being pushed up by two hands. Hands that run up his stomach, over his chest, tracing every crevice and curve. Kneading and pinching, as if he was nothing more than a lump of dough.
Kanata finally breaks the kiss, gasping for air. Haruka only now realizes just how much his own lungs were burning. A strand of saliva stretches between them, glistening in the emerging moonlight.
“Aniki’s a good kisser.”
Haruka hears the words, but he doesn’t really register them. His lips feel swollen. His skin feels like it’s burning up. Does he have a fever? He’s still trapped, pinned down still by Kanata’s weight on his lower half. With his hands freed he could probably push him off and make a run for it, but his vision is fuzzy and his breath is coming out in heated puffs and his mouth feels startling dry.
Then Kanata leans forward again, and Haruka feels something sharp latch onto the underside of his jaw.
Was he—?
“I’ve always wanted to mark you all up, Aniki. Let everyone see that you’re mine.”
Kanata licks a stripe up his neck, bites lightly at his ear. He presses kisses over every bit of exposed skin—on his collarbone, jawline, hands wrapping around to his back and tracing down his spine to right above his hips.
When Kanata comes back up to press his lips against his again, the gesture is slower. He works his way into Haruka’s mouth, licking around like it’s a tasty treat and he’s trying to get every last drop. Haruka is dimly aware of Kanata’s hips grinding against his thigh, as well as the hardness pressing up against it. He’s disgusted, just like that first time. But the heat is so much, and it’s everywhere, and his vision is blurry enough that if he squints, the person above him—the person kissing him and holding him and whispering “I love you” against his lips—doesn’t have green hair and green eyes, doesn’t tack on “Aniki” after every declaration, doesn’t share the same face as him.
This faceless person pulls back, and they’re talking again.
“I, I didn’t think I would get this far, actually—but I’m really not complaining—! I always knew you felt the same way, -----, and anyways, it's only a matter of time...”
The same way?
“—of course, I’ll try to be gentle! We do have practice tomorrow, after all, so you’ll be standing for quite a while—”
Gentle?
It’s only when Haruka feels a hand creep beneath his waistband that his vision clears.
He pushes Kanata off him, fueled by desperation in the absence of any actual plan, and for a moment the other doesn’t budge. The possibility of Kanata restraining him again and doing as he pleased lights a degree of panic in him that he didn’t even know was possible, and he nearly starts screaming, since if his bandmates didn’t care at least the neighbors might, but if he makes too much of a scene he’ll get kicked out of the band for sure and then he’ll really have nothing, not just the mentality of being useless but the reality of it as well, because Kanata is right, Kanata is a lot of things depending on the moment—a liar, a menace, a sadistic pervert—but all of the time, Kanata is right, so he’s right this time too, that Haruka doesn’t have anyone who cares.
Not his current bandmates, not his old ones, not his parents, not any friends—the only one who gives a single fuck about him is Kanata. Kanata will still be there, Kanata will always be there, so really, even if he escapes right now will he ever be free from him? From his face, his laughs, his words, his glances, his touches—
Then the moment passes and Kanata falls back and Haruka’s slamming the door to his room.
He can’t hear anything through the door. It’s quiet. And the realization that this absence of sound is new sends alarm bells blaring in his head.
Had he been making noises before?
Had he reciprocated those kisses?
“Aniki’s a good kisser.”
No, no, there’s no way. He would never—he felt nothing but disgusted and filthy—
But. Hadn’t his hands been unrestrained for a while before he pushed Kanata off?
“I always knew you felt the same way, Aniki.”
He had gasped. And then Kanata had kissed him.
Had he prompted that?
His face is still burning up. Sometime during everything, the top buttons of his shirt had popped open. When he tries to do them back up, his hands are shaking too much to even get the first one done. He drops his hand back down to his side, and drops himself to the floor. The view of his room is different from lower, and he closes his eyes to stop himself from imagining a figure looming above him.
Kanata’s room is right beside his. Haruka nearly stops breathing when he hears the door open and close. He bites his tongue hard.
Haruka never cries. The last time he cried was in middle school, after—after the whole ordeal with his old band. Even then, it was only for a minute. A muffled, shameful moment in the boy’s bathroom, where he had to bite his sleeve to stifle his sobs and splash cold water onto his face afterwards in order to ease the redness from his eyes.
He doesn’t have to even try to be quiet now. His throat feels wrecked from silent screams—or had he been making sounds? Had he been enjoying it?—and the tears come steadily and silently as they splatter on his pants and form a patchwork of scattered droplets.
There’s a lot of reasons why he might be crying. Out of frustration, out of anger. Because of how this sort of thing had occurred in a house full of other people—who must’ve heard something they had to have heard something—, because he doesn’t know if they’re the ones at fault for not caring or if—if he’s the one at fault for not being worth it—maybe he’s crying because a line has been crossed this time, he’s sure of it, and now that he’s got confirmation that Kanata’s willing to go this far, and Kanata’s knows that he knows, what else might he attempt in the future?
—how much more will he have to fucking endure, endure, endure—
—but most of all, the reason why he doesn’t try to ease the painful grip he has on his hair, the reason why he doesn’t stop biting his tongue even when he starts tasting blood, is because he doesn’t know what he’ll do next time Kanata tries something—if he’ll push him away, or—
Or if he’ll let himself fall.