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“Fucking thank you lord above.”
Denji wasted no time in dropping his backpack on the floor and rushed to the dusty bed, hopping onto it as if he were a child who had just gathered all his friends together for a slumber party.
“Oh god,” he groaned out loud as he bounced softly on the creaky mattress and lay on it, arms sprawled over his head and legs hanging off the edge.
Yoshida had been more cautious and still scanned around, tentatively, gun in hand, checking every corner of the abandoned flat.
“You could’ve waited a minute. There’s still the toilet.”
“I could fucking die right now for all I care. May they eat me in my sleep,” he muffled against the bed, still resting in the same position.
Yoshida rolled his eyes and strolled across the room. Everything was dusty and shabby—none of the shelves and cupboards had endured the devastating pass of time, shameless looting and highly likely attacks from nearby areas. Still, there were no stains of blood nor fungi, only dirt, powder and thriving ivies all around.
As he set foot in the bathroom some tiles shattered underneath the same way they had fallen from the walls. Inside, a toilet and a sink were all which remained, yet cracked and stripped off all remnants of what once was pure white ceramic.
“Denji,” he called.
He heard a muffled groan in response.
“Don’t fall asleep yet,” he replied.
The second grunt was longer, with a subtle hint of annoyance.
Yoshida sighed and turned back. His steps sounded heavy and loud in the stillness of the room.
“Okay, so we’ll spend the night here. There’s nothing we can take advantage of besides being safe and sound enough.”
Denji hummed with delight. “And there’s a fucking bed…”
“Yes, I noticed. Is it that important?”
He finally rolled over, but he merely repositioned himself for more comfort, his legs stretched all the way down and his head nesting on the pillow.
“Do you remember the last time you slept on one? Because I sure don’t.”
Well, they had barely slept at all, if taking three-hour night shifts from scattered cars to secluded trees could be considered a proper sleep.
Yoshida stared at Denji’s figure. Clothes all rugged and washed out from all original colours, stains of blood dried on his sweater, sneakers covered in moss and mud. His golden hair had seemingly grown darker, too, but it still brought some light to Yoshida’s eyes.
They truly deserved a good night’s sleep.
“We’ll rest until dawn.”
Right now, the sun was slowly setting, as timid rays of amber snuck through the window and gave some warmth to the wasted away paint on the walls.
“Ah, fuck… even this shit bed feels like heaven. I can’t believe I’ve come to settle for so low.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” Yoshida warned, as if that statement wasn’t what he had been repeating over and over in his head for the past years. “You never know when things could take a turn for the worse.”
He placed his gun back in his belt holster and sat down.
“What are you doing?”
Yoshida looked back at him with questioning eyes, “You expect me not to rest too?”
“Idiot. Not on the floor. I don’t want the mule who’s been helping me survive to crack his back even more.”
He signaled at the bed with his open hand.
The thought of asking hadn’t even crossed Yoshida’s mind in the first place.
“So you finally admit that I’m helping you,” he replied instead, a growing smirk starting to form.
“You weren’t at the beginning,” that, Yoshida could agree, “but… yeah, I see it now.”
Yoshida grinned without pretense and stood up.
“You get the wall,” he ordered, and Denji swiftly shifted to the side a little.
“Yes, sir. You get the mushrooms when they crash the door.”
“Hmm,” Yoshida murmured in a sultry voice as he leaned over, extremely close to Denji. “Tasty.”
Now it was Denji’s turn to crack a smile.
It gave Yoshida some relief that they hadn’t lost their bickering. That they could still joke around despite the looming future. That among all the obstacles and danger and fear for death, there was still room for a break. For things to be normal, whatever that meant.
Yoshida stretched his legs and rested his back against the wooden headboard, all splintered round the edges. He glanced to his side; Denji was examining his right wrist.
The faded mark of an infection bite, bright and deeply scarred, seemed like such a blissful touch on his rough skin.
Yoshida stared at it in amazement.
“How long already?” he asked.
“Nearly three months, I think.”
Yoshida clasped his hand around Denji’s, tugged it closer for a better look. Denji flinched just slightly at the sudden touch, but his hand relaxed soon enough.
“Jesus, you’re burning,” Denji said as his eyes didn’t leave Yoshida’s gentle hold on him.
Yoshida scanned the marks, as he had done plenty of times, but never so close, so calm, so intimate. He let his thumb brush along slowly, feeling the relief of its scars on his skin. The more he looked at it, the more stunning it turned out to be. Graceful lines striving upwards, erratic, twisted. No signs of what once was swollen, torn, red skin. In time, it had become carved ivory that beautifully adorned Denji’s skin. Free of pain and doom, with the prospect of a promising future.
The sight of it was pulling some longing strings—he wanted to kiss it, to memorize its shape on his lips, to swallow it deep within. Instead, he let his arm fall gradually on his leg. Denji didn’t draw away, and allowed it to rest under his grasp.
His gaze now fell upon Denji’s head. The humid climate and environment had damped his hair so often that his ends had begun to curl unevenly.
“Your hair has grown so long too,” he pointed out, pupils widening and fondness lingering.
Now he wanted to touch it, to caress it between his fingers, to run them all over. And he wondered if he wasn’t risking fate that evening. If feeling safe for some hours and sharing a narrow bed with Denji was not enough shelter that he felt the audacity to test further.
Denji tilted his head, flashed him a curious look.
“Yours too,” he mumbled.
Yoshida smirked. “Hmm, probably. But it’s not a competition.”
“Could be. Whoever has it longer whenever we reach the Fireflies headquarters grants the other a wish.”
Yoshida raised his eyebrows, lightheartedly. “A wish? What do you think we’ll find there? Wonderland?”
“Well, I heard they’ve got quite an established town over there. Perhaps they’ve got… cake.”
Yoshida let out a drained chuckle.
“Of all the things you could ask for, you simply crave for cake.”
“Yeah, what’s wrong? A man can dream. Imagine an extremely sugar-coated strawberry cake. Or a warm toast filled with jam… some freshly brewed coffee… God, I’m salivating.”
Denji had closed his eyes, as if he were picturing that alluring meal in his mind.
Honestly, Yoshida couldn’t blame him. He also craved for impossible things.
Yet it didn’t stop him from trying, from shaping the impossible into a welcoming mirage, even for a fleeting moment, as he raised his arm, releasing Denji’s wrist, and pinched, gently, a few strands of Denji’s hair.
This time, Denji didn’t move an inch. Yoshida stroked more strands of hair, and was glad to acknowledge he’d been right all along – even in its disheveled and unruly nature, it felt smooth and glossy, and Yoshida loved the way it easily twirled and tangled around his fingers, like how roots of ivy clawed their way up the cracked buildings.
“I would treat you,” he whispered over Denji’s peaceful face, “when this is all over.”
“Over?” his eyes remained shut and his expression calm, and Yoshida dared to think that, perhaps, Denji didn’t mind how intimate he’d got. “Now you are in Wonderland.”
Yoshida stroked his bangs away from his forehead, and for the first time, he noticed a couple of tiny scars on his temple.
Denji cocked his head to his side until it bumped softly against Yoshida’s shoulder.
“Keep doing it, I liked it,” he said, his voice soft and relaxed in a way Yoshida hadn’t had the chance to witness up until that moment.
Yoshida was taken aback for a second, but his hopeful mind still remained cautious. His fingers picked thicker locks above his ear and gently coiled the ends around, playfully.
“Think you’ll fall asleep this way?”
“Oddly enough, I’m wide awake. I guess a comfy mat doesn’t work as well as a sleeping pill.”
Yoshida wondered if he was the sleeping pill.
“I’ll take your burning skin, though.”
And before Yoshida could guess what he meant by that too, Denji grabbed his hand and lowered it below his face until the base of his neck, where he pressed it, allowing the rest of Yoshida’s palm to spread open over his chest.
Yoshida tried not to display any vague hint of how his short breaths were queuing up in the back of his throat. How his chest had started to inhale faster, how his heart began to pound harder.
“Are you cold? You keep saying that,” he managed to utter, voice dry and aching.
“ ’m not. It’s just… feels good. You’re very warm,” Denji’s grip on his hand tightened, and Yoshida’s heart nearly skipped a bit. “Makes me forget we are in the verge of death out there.”
Yoshida’s hand might as well be shaking, but Denji held it so devotedly that he wouldn’t know. He could feel Denji’s calloused fingertips on the back of his hand, holding him close, while his heartbeat echoed in his palm.
Denji could say whatever he wanted about him being a heater, but he didn’t fall behind. The warmth of his neck crept upon Yoshida’s touch, and honestly, he was yearning for more. He managed to slip his hand further into the crook of his neck, as Denji’s grip unclenched and simply allowed.
Yoshida cupped his neck around until his fingertips grazed his nape, warm and moist. He held him close, so close that their faces had eventually shortened their distance as well and now were merely some inches apart.
Denji was finally looking right through him, his intense, brown eyes that could stab him without much second thought.
Yoshida would allow himself to drown even deeper.
“Denji,” he wasn’t sure if it was an observation, a warning, or a dream.
Denji’s hand clutched around his wrist, urging. Yoshida darted a quick glance at it, but swiftly met Denji’s eyes again.
“I really hope this is not because you’re cold.”
Because he didn’t want to take things for granted. Not anymore, not in this world.
Denji inhaled, and it felt as if Yoshida’s hand would absorb him whole, from lungs to throat.
“The world’s gone to shit. I don’t even know what’s going to be left of me at the end of the road.”
They truly lived in desperate times, and despair only led to missteps. But Yoshida clung to the hope that Denji had brought to his life.
“I only know you’re all I've got, Yoshida.”
So real, heartfelt, unwavering. Such confession might as well have escaped from Yoshida’s own sealed lips. He didn’t have anything left either, only this one-of-a-kind man that showed up by chance, giving him a reason to keep going forward. To save a life.
To save his own life.
He couldn’t pinpoint what was what Denji conveyed that made him take a steady hold of their grim future. Perhaps being cursed for some, blessed for others, yet tossed around, used as scapegoat but still having dreams to fulfill, had awakened a deep sense of protection in him.
An innocence and sheer devotion to life that Yoshida had seemed to have forgotten. Emotions that he thought lay dormant. A dying wish he had buried deep within.
“Can I get my wish in advance?”
Their breaths landed on each other as Yoshida leaned in closer. Their foreheads were almost touching, and Yoshida would easily catch fire if this agony didn’t come to an end soon.
“Thought you said it wasn’t a competition,” Denji’s choice of a whisper, bold and daring in such a provocative tone was the fatal match about to ignite.
“Well,” Yoshida could only but ogle at Denji’s lips, glistening, awaiting, inviting. The enticing way they implored to be captured; the inevitable way Yoshida would fall, “it is now.”
Denji’s lips were still vivid in his mind when their mouths clashed together in a famished kiss.
Yoshida heard Denji’s throat gasp for air when he pressed hard, tugging him closer with his palm around his nape, tasting his lips while memorizing his skin. Denji, however, shifted on the bed to position himself for a better angle, this way allowing Yoshida to hover him and pin him down on the bed. Denji took his weight gladly and placed his hands on his back, grasping his shirt, digging his nails in his skin. Yoshida’s head was spinning wildly because of the slick heat in Denji’s mouth and the startling, igniting brush of their bodies.
Denji tilted his head so their noses wouldn’t bump so awkwardly, since Yoshida had lost sight of everything that didn’t concern his eager lips. It was overwhelming, having him both in his hands and mouth. He dived in hungrily, deepened their kiss as if though other lips could ever claim them. And Denji complied, he sucked in all Yoshida’s devotion and lust, he embraced every touch, savored every kiss, mirrored every pant.
A drowned whine escaped his mouth as Yoshida sucked his lower lip, almost felt like a real bite, but this was one Denji would gladly receive and praise.
Yoshida noticed and gently licked the area where he had bitten, finishing with a chaste kiss near the crease.
“Come on,” Denji groaned, voice hoarse and muggy. “I’ve taken worse than that.”
It amused Yoshida that such a heartfelt gesture was able to get an irked, foolish response from Denji, only to fire him up even more.
“I might kiss you all night then.”
If Denji’s mouth wasn’t the definition of home, then Yoshida might never know what home was. He simply wouldn’t wish to settle for more. Denji had effortlessly consumed all of him, and there was no other place for Yoshida to go.
Denji smirked, visibly pleased by the suggestion. “I was going to say… we have all the time in the world, but…”
Yoshida didn’t let him finish, not when his eyes threatened to grow darker and hollow. “We do. Maybe not the way we want, but… we will.”
In a situation like this, anyone would say time had lost all sense of meaning and purpose. Days passing by, with no hope and no cure. But for Yoshida, time had just begun ticking.
“Let’s not waste it, then,” which was Denji’s moment to capture his lips and make him succumb to his final wish.
At least, for one night, Yoshida would allow himself to lose track of time.