Archive of Our Own ^beta

My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer;

Chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe

It’s good to see him smiling again.

That’s what Kei thinks as he fixes his glasses and rises on his elbows, squinting through the lenses less-than-clean into the distance. There, in the distance, Tadashi’s head reappears again above the blue of the lake, then he turns and Kei sees the tiny, blurry spot of his face, darker from over here — from the freckles blending into one with the charry tan, and from the blue reflections of the water. The lake reflects his face, and his face reflects the lake. He belongs here, in the water, in the grass, in the sand. It has always been like that, Kei thinks.

The tiny Tadashi in the distance raises his arm out of the water and waves. Kei doesn’t know if he can even see from over there, but he lazily lifts his hand in response. Tadashi’s head disappears again, and then reappears a good few seconds later, much closer.

He’s coming out, Kei thinks. Emerging.

And smiles faintly under his breath.

He traces his gaze down, along the crystal blue expanses of the water — this lake used to be a quarry, he knows, and technically, it’s forbidden to swim in it. But it’s not like a sign ‘No swimming’ could ever stop Tadashi.

At least when no one is there to see him.

And when Tadashi is unstoppable like that (and there’s no one there to see them), Kei can also be persuaded to indulge.

After all, the summer, rolling towards the end, is suffocatingly hot, and the water is so enticingly cool and clear.

Much closer to the shore now, having reached the shallows, Tadashi disappears under the water again, then his feet poke out — he does a handstand.

Kei grins slightly, shaking his head.

His gaze follows the smoothed down line where the land tumbles into the water — a little patch of grassy clearing, on the edge of the forest that creeps all the way to the water almost everywhere else.

Making the ground stable.

Keeping them both safe.

He looks across the short grasses, and to where the safe rectangle of his blanket begins, light green, purple-rimmed. He looks over his own bare feet, big and white, and his own legs, long and thin, a little bruised — looks all the way up to the still-dry swimming shorts, blue like the blue of the water.

In the opening of his unbuttoned shirt, his belly is hollow and pale. ‘Like a fish’s’, Akiteru always says. Kei smiles under his breath and looks up again, to where Tadashi steps out of the water and shakes himself, like a dog.

The droplets fly in all directions, and even though he’s still pretty far away, Kei almost feels some of them land on him, small and cold.

‘Hey,’ he calls, good-naturedly. ‘Watch it.’

‘Sorry, Tsukki!’ Tadashi grins, throwing back his wet, heavy hair.

His smile is wide, easy.

It’s good to see him smile again.

Kei moves a little over to the side as Tadashi hurries to the blanket, picks up his towel and wraps it around his shoulders.

The towel is way too small. He always has those too-small towels. Kei’s own, going largely unused, is a good, big one, that Kei can cocoon in pretty much all the way. Tadashi’s towel is barely enough to go around his shoulders, grown broader now, and it doesn’t cover his belly, taut, dotted in freckles, decorated with a thin line of hair running down from his navel into his shorts.

Tadashi dries himself quickly, fiercely, then throws the towel to hang on the nearest branch. It will be dry in no time, Kei thinks. Tadashi graces him with another wide smile before sitting down on the edge of the blanket, showing Kei his dark, densely freckled back, water still dropping and trickling from his nape, from thick dark hair, impossible to dry.

It’s good, Kei thinks.

Good that he smiles.

Then he sits up, pulling his legs in closer.

Tadashi pays him no mind. And why would he, really, — he probably feels Kei’s presence with the skin of his back, just like Kei does his. He looks away to the waters of the lake rippling in the wind. His shoulders rise and fall evenly with his breathing.

The silence is comfortable, easy between them. Kei wouldn’t have it any other way. The light dapples through leaves rustling overhead, drops in warm yellow spots over their skin, making them look like deer — especially Tadashi. It’s like nothing exists here, Kei thinks. Like time doesn’t exist. Like this place is forever locked in some made-up summer long ago, where everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.

That has never existed.

That is all that exists.

The wind ruffles the leaves overhead, then the lake offshore, then Kei’s hair, tickling the top of his head.

Kei leans on his arm and watches — as Tadashi watches the lake, as Tadashi watches the world, Kei watches Tadashi.

The sun has browned him as it always does, and the freckles on his summer skin are dark. His shoulders have already peeled twice over, and with the reddish tint to them now, Kei knows they are bound to peel again.

Kei will never get used to that, really. Never stop getting squeamish.

There are several sets of tan lines on him: on the tops of his arms and around his neck, the lines of his tee; then in the middle of his shoulders, the lines of his vest. They’re barely-there, especially with the freckles obscuring them, but Kei smirks at the gradient down Tadashi’s back: he’s the lightest right over his shorts, where even the freckles scatter and pale.

From here, Kei can’t really see his legs, but he knows they have those lines, too: slightly over his knees, from his street shorts; then higher, from his swimming shorts; and then even higher again, from the volleyball shorts.

When Kei thinks about what’s even higher, he starts getting a little short of breath. What colour is he there? He’s stolen glances, but he’s never properly looked — when his gaze moves that low, for some reason he gets all scared. And with Tadashi’s propensity for changing his skin… What colour are his upper thighs now, what colour is his lower abdomen? Kei’s pretty sure there’s dark hair on his pubis, but is it straight, like on his head, or is it curly, like Kei’s own? Is it wiry, or is it softer?

When Kei imagines touching it, he wants to die.

When he imagines never getting to touch it, he wants to die several times over.

He didn’t use to think about all of it this often, but now he does. He tries at least not to think about it in the summer, because then he feels hot, and he hates being hot.

Kei feels something ticklish and weirdly guilty pool between his thighs, and behind his ears, too.

He doesn’t know how to go about this — even thinking this.

He doesn’t know how not to think about this.

The thought, the decision, feels so embarrassing now.

If he is to ever make love with anyone in the world, it should be Tadashi.

Make love, Kei huffs. That’s what Tadashi would call it. Kei is not like this, not usually. Poetry is good, but it’s better to stick to scientific terms with their clear-cut meanings. Spares everyone so much trouble, really, to be unambiguous.

Kei would know.

He should have thought: 'if he is to have sex'. And he should have thought of how. There's plenty of ways to have sex. Kei doesn't like to think about some of them more than others. But some don’t even look too slimy (oh, if only he wasn’t a goddamn guy). And don’t even require being all that close.

And don’t even require taking their clothes off.

It’s better to think of the process like a physics problem. Mechanics. Minimisation of friction. Optimisation of motion. Potential energy turning into kinetic.

Wedges and screws. Rods and ports. Pistons and pumps. 

His body — his stupid body — doesn’t (thankfully) react to physics problems like that. 

It’s just that the more he does end up thinking about it, the more he unfortunately realises there’s more to it than terms and mechanics.

Especially where Tadashi is concerned.

And whenever he tries to think of Tadashi in scientific terms, it sounds so wrong in his head, so painfully unbefitting and unbecoming that Kei feels himself shrivel.

He looks up, to the back of Tadashi’s head, to his neck: his dark hair parts, revealing the nape, lighter than his charred shoulders; the bump of the vertebra.

If he starts touching Kei in the ways Kei’s been dreaming of — what if he hurts him?

No, much, much worse: what if he doesn’t? And if Kei’s body starts reacting in ways he can’t control, if it starts giving out sounds and textures and smells, if his face distorts and his muscles contract, trying and failing to contain what he’s feeling inside — if he turns into a writhing, oozing mess in Tadashi’s arms — what if Tadashi likes him less?

And even, even worse: what if Tadashi can’t like him at all anymore?

Tadashi is sitting with his back to Kei.

His hair smells good.

And his skin smells good.

Kei leans in just slightly, and inhales, deeply, quietly — Tadashi’s skin smells still of water, it still smells cool.

The sun dappling through the trees overhead makes him look like a deer — still a little wild when they step out of the line of sight of others, still a little wild diving into the water, still a little wild stepping barefoot in the grasses, not afraid of anything that may hurt his feet.

But he wouldn’t run away. Even when Kei’s stupid, clumsy body, and stupid, clumsy mouth do weird things — Tadashi stays.

He’s stayed so far.

Kei leans a little farther forward, and then a little farther still.

Does he dare?

If Tadashi was looking at him, he wouldn’t. But Tadashi is not looking at him. He’s looking at the lake, at the world, paying Kei no mind.

Kei closes his eyes and leaves a little, gentle kiss on Tadashi’s deer shoulder — freckled and dappled, brown and gold.

Kisses his cool skin, lingers, until it warms under his lips, under his breath.

Then leans back, slowly, slowly, and then as he opens his eyes, Tadashi is looking at him.

Looking right at him.

Kei has been trying not to look into his eyes lately. Or at least not longer than absolutely necessary. Looking into his eyes makes him feel so naked, and so small somehow.

He can never bear it.

He can’t bear it now.

But before he can look away, Tadashi turns with his whole body, — Kei glimpses his chest, the little patch of thin hair, the freckles.

And then Tadashi’s way too close way too quickly — and Kei barely has time to close his eyes, catching Tadashi’s kiss with his lips, with his mouth.

It feels like too much of everything — as usual, every time Kei thinks he’s getting used to it, Tadashi kisses him again, and he almost bursts into subatomic particles. Tadashi is only marginally more understandable as a concept — but at least as a concept he can be a scientific enigma, at least when he’s theoretical, Kei has time for contemplation and research.

The real Tadashi is something else. Undescribed, unnamed, he escapes Kei’s understanding as he kisses him, all here, all now, faster than light, everything at once.

Cool and warm.

Light and heavy.

Light as he rises, not letting Kei go, kissing him somehow even tighter, making him trail after his lips.

And then heavy as his hands land on the both sides of Kei, and Kei, on some hunch, on some instinct — humans don’t have those, aren’t supposed to have those — lets his knees dip down to the sides, wider apart.

Tadashi is heavy between his thighs. So heavy, and suddenly so close, and Kei feels his guilty— no, not guilty, no, he feels, he feels…

Tadashi breaks away, suddenly, freezes.

Kei opens his eyes and looks at him — through his glasses, dirtier now, the last little thing keeping him from facing Tadashi head on.

With a trembling hand, he fixes the glasses on the bridge of his nose.

He can’t bear to look into Tadashi’s eyes.

But when he looks down at his lips, he can bear it even less.

‘I…’ Tadashi mutters. And stops.

Hoarse.

He’s heavy between Kei’s thighs.

And warm.

And Kei knows.

Knows by his movements, the oscillation of his hips, barely started, and stopped and frozen at the lowest point.

Knows by the shape of him and the hardness — he can’t see it, but he feels it now, where they are both so sensitive.

He knows.

He can’t put it into words — doesn’t want to put it into words.

Words are all wrong.

But he feels it.

That Tadashi is thinking the same things that he does.

Tadashi probably can put them into words — Tadashi is less squeamish with words, but then, he’s also way less scientific with them. He can probably put that all into stupid words. Into lame words.

And then maybe those words fit.

Because Kei suddenly feels how much he wants this, arousal tingling like an electric charge.

And he feels how much Tadashi wants him, too, his charge right against Kei’s own, — a like charge, it’s supposed to repel, but attracts instead, — friction heating, ready for a spark.

A mechanics problem?

No, this is something else.

Electromagnetics.

Tadashi makes half a motion back, back up, his weight just barely lifts — and Kei squeezes his hips with his thighs, catching him, keeping him, not letting him go.

Tadashi lets out a barely-there gasp.

And then they’re looking right at each other again.

For just a second.

Forever.

‘I’m,’ Tadashi whispers, ‘I’m, I’m sorry, I…’

Sorry? Why would he be? It feels like a law of physics, like a force that doesn’t need to be understood to affect.

Kei lets out a breath through parted lips. The understanding is hazy, reasoning short-circuits, his mind blanks. All of his books, everything the Internet had to offer, — and he has no idea what to do.

Rods and ports.

Pistons and pumps.

Organs.

How do people do this?

And why do they do it?

All of this, all of this feels unreal.

A live wire.

Fascinating.

Terrifying.

But he’s squeezing Tadashi’s hips with his legs, not letting up, keeping him close, and whatever it is that’s about to happen now, undescribed, unnamed, he knows that it’s decided.

Two electric charges.

Universal gravitation.

‘Do it,’ Kei says.

His lips are unwieldy, his face numb.

Tadashi breathes out, shakily.

‘Are you,’ he whispers, and chokes, ‘are you sure?…’

Is he sure? Can he defy gravity? He’d love not to be subject to biology or physics — but he is, oh, he is.

Is he sure?

He nods. Once.

‘Do it,’ he exhales.

And then he can’t look at him anymore. And he screws his eyes shut.

And Tadashi moves again.

With every move, the charge of Kei’s body grows. He drops his forehead to Tadashi’s shoulder, presses it down tight, but it isn’t enough. Pushing himself up, closer, he wraps one arm around his shoulders — his deer shoulders, dappled in light — and then the other arm, and he grabs onto him for dear life, as if Tadashi, this destabilising factor, this explosive force, was the only thing able to keep his body together.

Tadashi’s kisses fall on his cheek, on his neck, on his ear, on his shoulder. Kei barely feels them over everything else he’s feeling — pumps, pistons, hips, bellies, — Tadashi pants and gasps over his ear, and it’s thunderous. Kei feels like he’s slipping out of himself. For a second, he sees them from aside: their bodies, almost naked, — Tadashi’s dark and rhythmical, arching and pressing, strange strength rippling under the speckled skin on his back; and his own, white and red, long, eager, hungry, entwining around Tadashi’s, folding into him, urging him, no, synchronising with him — their bodies, moving together, moving, moving, moving…

It’s better not to imagine them.

It’s better not to think of what they look like.

It’s better not to think of what they’re doing — and Kei doesn’t, he doesn’t, because he can’t, he just claws at Tadashi’s shoulders, pressing him closer, closer, closer, and it’s always not enough, not enough — and he wraps his legs around him, too, catching him, keeping him, never to release.

He’s thankful at least for the swimming shorts — his and Tadashi’s, two flimsy layers, he’s thankful that Tadashi didn’t (despite his fears) decide to take them off, or reach inside them, because if it wasn’t for them, if their scorching bodies touched directly, without any insulation — he doesn’t know what would be left of him.

Of his dignity.

Of his self-respect.

Of his stupid body.

‘Tsukki, I-’ Tadashi exhales, but Kei just nods, fiercely, hitting his forehead against Tadashi’s shoulder — please, please, please, keep on, keep on, do it, do it — and Tadashi keeps on, and Tadashi does.

The world fragments, and Kei’s body feels like it’s about to fragment, too, — and somehow, excruciatingly, it stays whole, overfilled, overflowing with all of this booming, crackling, panting, gasping — it doesn’t feel like he can contain a fraction of that, and yet with every motion, with every thump, of Tadashi’s hips, of Tadashi’s belly, of his own frantic heart, he’s still alive, and more alive, and more, and impossibly more.

And then Kei bites into his lip, hard, too hard, not to cry out, and then the impossible accumulated charge overloads and releases, and Kei barely hears Tadashi call his name over the ringing in his ears, — Tsukki, I’m, oh, oh god, Tsukki, Tsukki! — over the rush of electricity all through his body, to his fingertips, and his toes, the electricity pumping through, gushing out, — dissolving, dissolving, dissolving.

They freeze, pressed flush against each other, half-fused, breathless, and Kei doesn’t exist for what seems like an eternity.

Then comes Tadashi’s breath — he feels it, hot on his shoulder.

And the rustling of the leaves above them — the wind is cool against his overheated body.

The warmth of the sun spots of his skin — for a moment more, he thinks, he feels with both their bodies, he feels it warming the skin on Tadashi’s back, he feels the droning in Tadashi’s arms — one planted firmly on the ground, the other wrapped around Kei under his unbuttoned shirt, tightly, almost painfully.

And then he’s himself again.

The wind is rusting in the leaves over them.

The lake is murmuring further away.

The charge is neutral, Kei thinks.

Almost regretfully.

He opens his eyes, — and blinks, surprised. They’re wet.

Tadashi is heavy between his thighs, against his belly — heavier now. His heaving, ragged breaths are quieting down, his trembling arm gives way, and he drops to his elbow, buries his face in the crook of Kei’s neck.

His weight, pulsing, expanding and contracting, living.

Animal.

Human.

‘Tsukki,’ Tadashi whispers.

Kei doesn’t reply. A little tear drops from his lashes onto his bare belly — not even cold. Tadashi’s face is so close to his now, and his forehead is pressed tight into Tadashi’s shoulder, and Tadashi’s still-wet hair is soaking his shirt through.

‘Tsukki…’ A soft, quiet voice. ‘I gotta…’

He trails off, but Kei knows. He has to, too. The electric discharge, ecstatic and overwhelming, has turned human again — normal discharge, the kind the human body — stupid body — produces, already cold, sticky and slimy.

The oozing mess.

Awkward and silent, they untangle. Kei peels off his crumpled, damp shirt, rubs his glasses clean with the driest corner, then leaves it on the blanket in a little pathetic pile.

Together, they walk into the lake — a ways apart, not looking at each other.

Kei’s head is light. Waist-deep in the cool water, he washes out his shorts, barely even registering the goosebumps covering his skin, gaze brushing past the coarse curls on his pubis.

The water murks around him, then clears up again.

The body.

The stupid body.

Oozing its oozes, discharging its discharges.

He knows for a fact he couldn’t swallow all the sounds. They were too much to fit in his throat. At least a few escaped, he knows

Thin.

Little.

Human.

Too human.

And those tears.

Dumb, stupid tears.

He stands for a little while, staring into the water’s transparent depth: at the blue shorts, bluer now, and his own legs, long and pale, at his feet, toes sinking into the sand at the bottom.

The body.

His body.

‘Tsukki.’

Kei looks up slowly, sluggishly. What is he going to tell him? He doesn’t know.

Tadashi tilts his head to the side, studying his face.

He looks… lost?

He looks strange.

He looks…

‘Are you okay?’

Kei glances away, into the clear blue water.

His body is ringing, vibrating still. Like the charge hasn’t completely left him.

Or maybe it’s this stupid fear.

Stupid, because he doesn’t think he can even say it. Can’t articulate it in a way that doesn’t sound pathetic and lame.

He should have just never had sex. If he was gonna be like this, he should have just stayed celibate. Sex is gross anyway, and humiliating, and when people have it they’re ugly.

Isn’t that what he’s always thought?

He looks up again.

‘Yeah,’ he says, quietly.

Tadashi takes a step towards him, slowed by water — it ripples around his belly.

Then another step.

And then he gently presses his body against Kei’s, wrapping his arms carefully around him.

There are still little spots on his skin where fingers dug in.

Kei closes his eyes, lowers his head to Tadashi’s shoulder and holds him.

They stand in silence for a little while. The wind ruffles Kei’s hair. Tadashi breathes quietly, evenly, cheek resting against his shoulder.

So much of his bare skin. Kei doesn’t think he’s ever touched that much. It feels… nice. The water is cool, and Tadashi is warm. His skin is soft and pleasant.

And he smells good.

He always smells good.

Is it humiliating, to hold him, like this and like that, to want him, to want more of him? Is it humiliating to feel so much pleasure from being so close, so close to him? Is it humiliating to orgasm in his arms, and to call out, like he does, call for him, too, in response?

Is it humiliating for Kei to like him? And is it humiliating for him to like Kei? Like him enough to kiss him, to touch him, to — Tadashi would say — make love with him?

And does he like Kei less, when he wraps him in his arms like this? Does he like Kei less, when he holds his awkward, almost-naked, stupid body so gently, and so close to his own, heavy and strange and beautiful?

‘I’m cold,’ Kei says softly.

‘We gotta dry off,’ Tadashi replies. There’s a smile in his voice.

When Kei lies down on the blanket again, his huge towel hanging from the branch over them, warm contentedness settles in his body. Huffing a little, Tadashi lies down beside him and moves closer, just a bit, until their shoulders touch. Kei looks up, squinting at the sun dappling through the leaves, leaving warm spots on his too-white belly.

‘Ultra-pure water is highly electrically resistant,’ he says quietly.

‘Hm?’

‘And human skin is also a bit of a resistor.’

‘Is it?’

‘Kind of,’ Kei replies, looking at the light dancing in the leaves. ‘It's just that the insides are better conductors. But, of course, all you need is high enough voltage.’

He feels something brush against his hand. He turns his palm up and softly lets Tadashi between his fingers.

‘All I need to do what?’ Tadashi asks.

‘To get the current flowing.’

‘Through somebody’s body?’

Kei hums.

Yeah, now that the words have left his mouth, they sound so stupid.

That’s the thing with words, always, isn’t it?

‘Let’s get boba on our way back,’ he says.

Tadashi hums in reply.

‘I was gonna suggest something more filling.’

Kei thinks about it for a moment.

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Yeah, that’s a good idea.’

Tadashi softly brushes his thumb over Kei’s.

‘I found a really cool band yesterday,’ he says. ‘You remember Front Bottoms?’

‘I showed you them.’

‘That guy’s pretty similar, but somehow… rawer, I guess. He’s pretty obscure. Sounded like something you might think interesting.’

‘Hm.’ Kei looks at the towel blowing in the wind over their heads. ‘Well, then you gotta show me.’

‘Tomorrow?’

Kei rolls his head to the side for a moment, considering.

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Tomorrow.’

And smiles.