Mikeyharem

Mitsukey

Mikey was in the cinema with his boyfrien Mitsuya. Mitsuya was a very famous designer. Mikey was a model for girl clothes.  After they finish watching the very boring movie the couple moves home. Mikey was sitting nicely on his king-sized  bed. Suddenly his boyfriend stormed in. In his hand he hold his phone but that was not the point. The point was that on the picture on the phone there was mikey in sex clothing posted from his work as model. Mikey felt his cheek turn red."Explain now!,,the bigger male said in a cold tone.Mikey didn't answer. He stood up and walked to the closet"get out,,the blond said shyly answered. Mitsuya angryly stormed out as fast as he came while growling. Mikey was a bit surprised that he actually went out. He took Girl underwear with stockings and wentout to face his partner. When Misutya sawikey's fingers look long, when he thinks about his height and his arms and the distance between Mitsuya's frame and his own. The air is damp and the concrete floor is cold through the fabric of his jeans as his bony knees press solidly against it.

Hah, fabric.

Even that brief thought reminds him of what he's doing, is almost done with, whose body it is writhing between his legs and under his full weight.

The skin of Mitsuya's neck is turning cold too, blushing purple under the pressure of Mikey's long fingers. He digs his thumbs in a little harder, feels Mitsuya's legs jerk underneath him. He's almost getting hard off the feeling.

Mikey feels the pleasure rise further when Mitsuya tries to speak, to breathe, thrashing harder but unable to shake Mikey's grip around his throat.

His heartbeat is growing softer too, but Mikey can still hear it. Goosebumps against fingertips and black hair brushing against black hair, a memory of gold against lilac lost to gasps for air, and Mitsuya's desperate pleas for mercy. The palor of his long-time friend's skin begins looking closer and closer to the shade of his hair back when they were in Toman together, partners in crime, playing leaders for an unfulfilled dream, a bygone era, in more ways than one, and will his sisters miss him the way Mikey will? Will they remember what he looked like at 15? Those eyes, that same light color from a forgotten dream, a lost memory, start to darken as Mitsuya's body fights for oxygen. He's fading. Slowly, and yet all too quickly, Mikey turns Mitsuya into himself. Empty, struggling to breathe.

He can feel it too, it's thrilling—the asphyxiation—as Mitsuya's hands claw at him, tugging at his wrists and pounding against his chest. But his push is weak, half-hearted, like he's given up. The Mitsuya that Mikey knows would never give up, not so easily, and it makes him angry. He squeezes tighter, sees the way his former 2nd division captain's windpipe bends under Mikey's white knuckles, between long fingers, short breaths, and then there are tears. They start falling in drops. An unexpected development, an expected reaction. Through Mikey's lashes, down to Mitsuya's, they fall like the rain that always falls when Mikey loses, even though Toman always wins. This time it stains Mitsuya in pain and desire and a regret that Mikey has yet to endure. The anticipation of it ripens between them, and it's Mitsuya who swallows around it, hands pulling Mikey down closer, tighter, choking, choking until their lips brush and Mikey thinks, how stupid. You're supposed to push me away, not pull me closer. I'm killing you, you idiot. You're dying, you fool.

He cuts off Mitsuya's final breath in a lick of anger, hotter than anything he's felt in any of these bitter cold moments, and just like a flame flickering into ash, it's over. That was the last one, he thinks, now I can leave, he smiles. And it's Mikey who pulls away, eyes fluttering open as Mitsuya's limbs go boneless beneath him, twitching into an inconceivable stillness.

Mikey has seen death up close a dozen times, but he's never quite tasted it on his lips like this. Like a bike in the split second before the engine roars to life, he wonders if Mitsuya's eyes will flutter back open too. If he'll stick his tongue out and say, in that irritatingly calm voice of his, "You can't get rid of me that easily, Mikey."

Except he can't he won't he doesn't and Mikey stares down at his own fingers, longer than he remembers, and watches them tremble with a sort of absent fascination. There are no bloodstains, just the taste of lavender chapstick and a sharp pang that starts to seize his chest as he laughs, loud and shrill, each sound punctuated by a sharp intake of air that makes him simply laugh louder. He's breathing, he's breathing so loud and so quick, and somehow he is allowed to breathe, and Mitsuya. Mitsuya is not.

Mikey brings his hands back down to wrap gingerly around his old friend's throat. There is no warmth there, no pulse. No motion no twitch and no eyes to look up at him with happy lies and empty promises.

Mitsuya is gone but at least Mikey has something, someone to blame.

His brothers, his sisters, his best friends. Again he's managed to destroy everything he ever cared about with his own hands.

Maybe now, Mikey can finally go. He has nothing left to leave behind.

So he wraps his arms around Mitsuya, cold and still Mitsuya, and pulls his corpse closer, a hand tucked into the other's short black hair. Mikey breathes in the cool air and exhales on a warm and shaky whimper, hearing his laughs turns to soft sobs that echo off the concrete floor, and slowly soak the fabric of Mitsuya's torn collar.