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“She hurt you?”
The heels on Komaeda’s chelsea boots click down the hallway. He’s the only person making any sound.
“No, wait, let me rephrase that,” He shakes his head with a dry, exasperated chuckle, and the look in his eyes is wild in a way that’s all too familiar when they talk about Enoshima. “You let her hurt you.”
Kamukura only shrugs. “I suppose.”
Komaeda doesn’t take that for a solid answer. He pulls Kamukura’s hand closer, brows knit in worry as he inspects the heel of his palm. They continue down the hallway, Komaeda transfixed on the cut in Kamukura’s skin, and the latter digging through his pockets for their room key. He can almost feel the gears in Komaeda’s head turning, wondering how someone like himself would ever be wounded by someone like Enoshima.
“What were you two even doing?” Komaeda says over the sound of their door unlocking. “Did she try to kill you?”
“She would never.” (Or maybe she would, if she was even there.) “We were talking.”
“About what?”
He pushes the door open with his free arm, can feel how Komaeda is growing agitated with both his short answers and the aspect of him being all alone with her. “Nothing of significance. She simply decided to try and surprise me. Calm down.”
Of course, Komaeda is obedient. He opens his mouth, pauses, exhales and waits.
But as always, the silence never lasts too long. “I should get a bandaid for you.”
“It’s a scratch.”
“It could get infected.”
“An infection is easy to treat.”
Komaeda almost seems to groan. “That doesn’t mean you should risk it. Kamukura, you never take care of yourself. Just let me—”
He pushes his palm towards Komaeda’s mouth.
And his reaction is just as expected; eyes that hesitantly flicker between the hand offered to him and Kamukura himself. A vague look that tells Kamukura he’s absolutely parched, that he’s playing all the right chords with this move.
Good , he thinks. It’s all going accordingly then.
“You’re hungry, aren’t you? It would be a shame for this to go to waste.”
Komaeda nervously smiles. “Surely you’re not saying—“
“I am.” His palm stings. “You can put a bandaid on afterwards if it bothers you so much.”
“… Um, with all due respect Kamukura,” Komaeda lowers his hand, but he does not miss the way his eyes linger on the sight of crimson blood running down his tanned skin, “I’m not entirely sure I’m deserving of such an honor. Perhaps we should just clean the wound normally and wait until another time!”
He mentally sighs. At least Komaeda’s stubbornness is commendable.
“Listen to me Komaeda,” His cheek fits perfectly into the palm of his hand, icy to the touch, and Kamukura lets it rest there just to watch Komaeda struggle with what to focus on. He tucks a curl of hair behind his ear. “You’re weak, you’re hungry. You have been for months. This,” He rubs his palm against Komaeda’s cheek, “can fix that.”
The smear of his blood is striking on Komaeda’s skin. Kamukura knows he can’t miss it.
And he knows he doesn’t, because Komaeda’s breath comes heavier.
“But Kamukura, what if—”
“Go ahead.”
“But—“
He sighs aloud this time. “Just do it Komaeda.”
There’s a period of silence before he moves again, and this time it’s a hesitant push against the open plain of his palm. He seems to give up— thank god— because there’s the prod of a cold tongue against the warmth of his wound, and only then does Komaeda abandon his couth to grip at his wrist and push his face harsher against his palm. There’s the tender bite of teeth and the suction of Komaeda’s mouth against his skin, the pulse of their shared heartbeat thrumming his ears.
“Not too much now,” Kamukura reminds him quietly—because last time he drank from him, Komaeda had gotten a bit overzealous; he’d like to stay conscious this time—and Komaeda hums earnestly in response. He feels it in his skin.
He likes being bit, though, as much as it is a little painful. He likes how Komaeda succumbs to his more animalistic urges, likes analyzing the subtle changes in his features and his mannerisms. How his skin gets a paler tint, how his canines sprout ever so slightly, how Komaeda’s eyes seem awfully more green than usual. It’s a routine he can find himself getting used to, which is an embarrassing, impossible thought.
Eventually when Komaeda pulls away, his mouth barely agape, coated and wet with spit and blood that threatens to dribble down his chin. He still holds Kamukura’s forearm and hand close to his chest, cradling it with a look of astonishment.
He ruffles Komaeda’s hair with his free hand. “Good boy,” Kamukura says, and as Komaeda leans into his touch, somewhere in the recesses of his throat comes a whine, but he cannot tell what it’s meaning is exactly.
“You did this on purpose,” Komaeda murmurs when he pulls them both towards the bathroom.
“Is that what you think?”
…
“…Thank you.”
There’s a twitch in the corners of his mouth he tries to hide. Kamukura simply doesn’t respond.