Work Text:
“This is trivial to you?”
Goro sees Kurusu’s eyelashes hitting his cheek with each blink - individually, this close. The only bit of shame in his blood is the pleasurable feeling from seeing the tears well up in boy’s eyes.
“Of course it is, Kurusu. There are bigger and better things in life than this moment.” He says it with conviction, but does he truly believe it himself? Goro has never been sure in his own values and morals, and yet there’s something in Kurusu’s gaze that gives him pause.
No, he musn’t bend.
His teeth click. “You can’t let Maruki dictate your choices.” Despite the anger in Kurusu’s voice, his expression remains soft. “Can’t you see this through?”
An ugly emotion surges through him and disrupts the generally detached attitude he displays. “You can’t be serious! ‘See this through?’ This…this show is nothing to me. If Maruki is going to attempt to take over the industry, then by all means: he shall.”
The name left a lingering taste in his mouth - of sour and soot. Anyone who knew anything about dance politics knew that something of a dictator was going to be made of Taruto Maruki at some point or other, especially with his exceeding closeness with the up-and-coming group “The Phantom Thieves.” What a mess. It was entirely disgraceful, too.
“Listen, Akechi.” Kurusu leans closer, finger jutting out to Goro’s chest. His heart jumps to it, chewed nail and all. “I want to believe - I choose to - that you should understand where I’m coming from because you came from the same place, once. Despite what the tabloids spit out, I don’t think your here due to Shido’s influence. At least a small part of you cares about dance, and this group, and that is why you’re still here.”
His voice is passion and conviction, hard and strong. Goro melts, only to pull himself back solid in necessary rebuttal.
“Do not,” he snarls. “Pretend to know me.”
Kurusu’s eyes flash. “But I do. Akechi, I see you-”
Goro’s fist slams into the wall behind Kurusu’s head before he can see it, his imposing form slowly backing the other up over the last few minutes. Each of his false ideologies are visible on his face, soaked into his gray eyes; a mad infuriation to Goro.
“You can’t hide from me.”
And he finds himself un-wanting to - thinking of nothing more than Kurusu pressing his mouth onto his own, slowly and with disgusting sentiment. Goro follows his body up against the wall, one hand running to grasp sharp jaw and the other holding possessively around his waist. His tongue is velvet soft, and the noises pulled from the dancer’s throat are like silk. A hand burrows into his hair. It pulls and holds.
He has never felt more alive, besides when dancing. Though this feels the same, excepting the performance. To his true, desperate dismay, Kurusu had been right.
He really does see Goro, even with his eyes shut tightly in pleasure, Goro’s hand wandering down past the waistband of his sweatpants. No longer a blind trespasser to the situation, taking the matter up in arms as it is seems priority. Trust Kurusu to take the roses out of a thorn. Trust Goro to steal the thorns away for use.
Goro can admit to weaknesses in moments. His resolve has slowly lessened and lessened with the lengthenings of Kurusu’s vocal emissions. “Okay - oh, god - I’ll help you, please, just touch me. I’ll do anything.”
He doesn’t feel too awful about begging. Kurusu’s not above it either.