He'd grown accustomed to the empty warmth when strong arms would wrap around him from behind in the middle of changing out of his damp jersey. The downy strands of silver would tickle his cheek, and he'd tilt his head to the left -- always the left -- onto broad shoulders behind him, fingers abandoning the mundane task of buttoning his shirt just this once, in favour of heat and purpose. Just this once. But somehow that thought always fled his mind when lips would descend upon his neck, soft nips and hot breath, working their way up his jawline and down again, dull scraping against the skin of his shoulder.
And he'd conveniently forget to say that as well, because no matter how he lied to himself, he would return home at night and remember how the velvet of the couch in their clubroom felt against his back, soft and familiar as hips met thrust for thrust, slick and temporarily beautiful and so painfully simple. Dark brown would burn into his own in the shower ever so often, and fingertips would tense, the sudden burst cold water just short of freezing pouring down upon him. He'd gasp then, and the tingling shock of iciness would wash over him, teeth chattering and trembling violently beneath the numbing spray of water -- he didn't care if it snowed outside -- unsure if it was the cold, or simply the side effect of Ohtori Choutarou that was what made him so fucking weak.
Shishido Ryou was changing.
And he didn't like it.
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He didn't know why he said it this time -- it could have been bitten nails digging into his own palm, or the flare of panic and helplessness he felt when Choutarou nipped at his earlobe -- but he did, and the second year froze and backed off. Did he sound that bad? Apparently so. He never talked on any of those occasions until now.
He saw confusion in gentle eyes, and he tore his gaze from the junior's face as he back-pedaled. The wall felt a little more reassuring than usual today.
"You -- we've got to stop this."
"It's killing me."
Somewhere in his mind's eye, he saw an Ohtori Choutarou try to counter that statement, and perhaps it was too harsh, or too blunt, but Shishido never really learnt how to mince his words anyway. And there really wasn't any other way to put their situations in words, were there?
Our sexual relations bring neither of us happiness. I suggest that we terminate it as of this moment in the case of further emotional distress inflicted on both parties?
He almost found it funny.
The hard voice almost caused him to look up into what he was sure to be an accusing, hurt stare.
"Go ahead and run then."
So he did.
He never could refuse Choutarou anything, he realised.
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