Work Text:
Komari doesn’t stay for the awards ceremony. He didn’t come here to win, after all. Who crossed any finish line after his own race is of no consequence to him. And he doesn’t particularly enjoy being reminded of his own failure and of the prize he had to deny himself as a result.
Ah, what a prize it would have been. He did have a chance to touch Frank, at least, but after watching the rest of Izumida in motion up close, that fleeting grasp was barely an amuse-bouche. Such a body! A well-tended meadow of muscles, a perfectly sculpted and maintained work of art. He obviously dedicates himself to its upkeep.
He’s probably standing there on the stage now, arms outstretched and on display, jersey unzipped to accommodate his well-developed pectorals. Iliopsoas flexed, perhaps, lifting one leg so he can pose on the podium. It’s shameful. All of that artisanship, going completely to waste. Nobody there truly appreciates artistry like Komari does.
Komari realizes he’s running his thumb over his fingers in a daze. His fingertips still tingle. He has no clear memory of where he’s been walking the last few minutes; he’s just been wandering, legs still restless despite a day of hard pedalling. He feels he could run up a mountain on foot and not be satisfied.
“Kishigami-kun.” The voice stops him like cold hands under his jersey. It’s him, the artisan himself, the exquisite dish. He must have just returned from the stage. Komari turns to see him, vaguely aware that the rest of Hakone Gakuen are standing with him, but it’s hard to focus on anything beyond the firm mounds of muscle visible between the parted teeth of his jersey zipper.
“Izumida-san! H-how good to see you,” Komari stammers, because one should always be polite, even when one’s nerves are rattling like a lacquer box dropped in a quiet hall. “Have you been well?”
He can feel a drop of cold sweat sliding along his trapezius. Perhaps it’s a blessing in disguise that the others here are so unskilled at discerning small movements, maybe they won’t pick up on the tension locked in his body.
Izumida does not smile, but perhaps he never does when not on his bike. Komari hasn’t really been looking at his face. Perhaps he smiles when he’s lifting? Glistening with hard-earned perspiration, muscle fibers contracting and releasing over and over, working in tandem to lift such heavy weights…
A small noise escapes from Komari’s mouth and he covers it quickly with both hands as if he could catch the sound and trap it back inside, in the box.
Izumida glances to one side, at his teammate with the chewy legs. “Yuki, go on ahead. I’ll be right behind you.”
In a moment they’re alone, or as alone as they can be with the hubbub of competitors and spectators milling about. None of those other bodies are anywhere near as interesting. Komari can’t look away.
“I made a mistake,” he blurts out as soon as he tries taking his hands away from his mouth. “Can I still…?”
Izumida smiles slightly, with a glaze of something that Komari thinks might be pity. He hasn’t often been the object of sympathy. “... Come to our hotel at nine sharp. I’ll be at the back door.”
The heat rises in Komari’s cheeks as the blood rushes to his head. The familiar shame response. Izumida walks past, barely brushing his arm, but Komari feels hot enough to leave a mark. He takes a deep breath, willing himself not to turn around to watch Izumida’s thick legs carrying him away, practicing his self-control for a moment, and goes to find the rest of his team. He needs to make sure they won’t be looking for him tonight.
*
He almost didn’t go. He’d hesitated even as the hotel came into sight. But he kept thinking of Midousuji-san taunting him for pretending to be satisfied when there was still more he wanted, and he would be unsatisfied if he passed this up again, wouldn’t he? He’s come all this way to make his desires come true; it’s too late to wrap himself up again now.
(Perhaps. It’s easier to think that way when Midousuji is promising him an endless buffet of touch, or when he’s on his bike and scenery and humanity alike become a blur. When he isn’t thinking about his mother’s eyes.)
So here he is in Izumida’s hotel room. Izumida assures him that his roommate will be out for some time longer - apparently he’s still mixing with the others downstairs, and something about supervising a wayward climber? - and so there are no eyes on him but Izumida’s.
The hand soap in Hakone’s reserved hotel smells of almonds and shea butter. Komari lathers it carefully over each of his fingers, taking even more time and care with his handwashing than usual. He’s not used to this atmosphere. Usually when he touches a stranger, he can cycle away while they’re still frozen. Nobody expects him to look them in the eye after.
Izumida is already kneeling on the bed when Komari comes out of the bathroom. His jersey hangs completely open, exposing every ridge of his abdominal muscles. Komari bites his lip. If this was a race, he would see this as an excellent opening and touch them with delight before fleeing any consequences, but the way Izumida is looking at him and waiting has him remembering what hesitation feels like.
“Ah, Kishigami-kun. Would you like to start here?” He gestures to his stomach, adding an entirely superfluous “abs.”
Komari swallows, and the voice he finds is quiet and polite. “Yes, please.”
He crouches before Izumida on the cool cotton sheets and rests the fingers of both hands against Izumida’s stomach, between the exquisite curves of his rectus abdominis. His touch is uncharacteristically cautious at first, but the feel of toned meat is too delightful for him to hold back. He spreads his fingers out to feel the edge of Izumida’s obliques as he runs his hands up and down, slowly at first, then more eagerly as he discerns the tendons, the rhythmic and even contractions and relaxations of the muscles with each of Izumida’s breaths, moving over and over under the tips of Komari’s discerning fingers. So much work has gone into building these. Hours of crunches, late nights alone in the weight room, surely. Komari wishes he could have watched.
“Do you like it?” Izumida asks, as if Komari isn’t already breathing heavily.
Komari keeps looking down at his own hands moving across Izumida’s abdomen, uninterested or unwilling to see how Izumida is reacting. “You truly have a wonderful body, Izumida-san,” he admits.
“Thank you,” Izumida responds. “What else would you like to touch?”
Komari pauses thoughtfully. There’s so much on the table. “It’s even better if they’re in use,” he says eventually.
Izumida leans back, and for a moment Komari is afraid he’s pulling his muscles away from the touch - but he’s simply repositioning. His knees remain bent, but now his upper body is almost parallel to the bed, held up only by the strength of his abdominals and quadriceps. His upper body is so built up that it must be quite heavy - but he can hold himself like this without trembling. Komari gasps audibly, the rectus abdominis under his hands now taut as a bowstring.
He’s so excited he forgets to be embarrassed about Izumida’s eyes on him as he moves to touch Izumida’s beautiful quadriceps. They bulge under the loose workout pants Izumida is now wearing, the thin jersey hiding nothing. Komari can feel each of the four muscles defined separately but working in perfect harmony. Even his femoral triangle is visible.
“So beautiful,” Komari murmurs, the vibrations of the muscle fibers under tension echoing through his fingertips as he presses his thumbs in, rubbing in little circles as he moves back upwards over the hips and to the obliques.
Izumida is so still that a flicker of motion out of the corner of Komari’s eye catches his attention. Izumida’s left pectoral throbs. Frank, wasn’t it? The cautious one.
“Be polite, Frank,” Izumida says. “We have a guest.”
Strange, to be a guest. Someone who is welcome. It seems impossible to do the things he’s doing, and those he wants to do, and still be welcome.
Komari reaches up to touch Frank gently, almost apologetically. He doesn’t like apologizing, or the shame that comes with it, but he doesn’t like the thought that Frank feels he has to warn Izumida away from Komari. He’s only here to appreciate, that’s all. He knows it’s wrong, but he can’t help it. And after all, he was invited.
Invited. He’s definitely blushing now. It’s only blood vessels opening, but the heat is distracting. He looks down at the bed, trying to gather himself. He thought he’d embraced the shamefulness of his desires, learned to act without restraint or self-consciousness. Isn’t that the only way someone like him could ever be happy? But Izumida invited him, taunted him with his beautiful body (and he can still feel Frank under his fingers, a beautiful firm mound rising from the rippling plains of his torso), and is even now watching his face turn pink like a child caught with a hand in the cookie jar.
“Are you okay, Kishigami-kun?” Izumida asks, hand rising to cup Komari’s burning cheek without breaking the pose. Komari looks up without thinking --
-- and sees that Izumida is smiling gently, and honestly. Komari has seen his share of fake smiles at home, and if this is fake, then Izumida’s an even better actor than he is a bodybuilder. “Do you want to stop?”
“No!” Komari blurts out, clapping both hands over his mouth again even as Izumida laughs kindly. “Ah -- could I touch your back, perhaps?” The words feel clumsy in his mouth. Such a shameful thing to ask, even if Izumida pretends so well that he does not notice.
Izumida’s kindness feels so different to Midousuji’s, though of course Komari is forever grateful to Midousuji-san. It’s unfamiliar. Komari doesn’t know how to navigate it.
“Oh, Fabian?” Komari carefully notes the name down in his mind. Fabian, yes, Komari has seen plenty of him today. More importantly, Komari can’t see both Fabian and Izumida’s face at the same time.
Izumida takes off his jersey entirely and turns around so Komari can sit behind him. He doesn’t usually get to touch backs like this, seated and straight, only people who are lying down. But he probably shouldn’t give the enemy a full massage on the night before the final, even if he doesn’t really care about the competition; he owes Midousuji that much.
Izumida obliges Komari by performing some light back and shoulder exercises, enough to keep his muscles in motion. Komari traces the visible lines, watches them ripple with every motion. He can feel his heart sing along with the thrum of the muscle fibers. So firm, but so supple. Well balanced, too, despite how easy it would be to favor one side or the other. Only Komari can truly appreciate the artistry of it. It would be a shame to share.
Without really thinking about it, Komari leans his forehead against Izumida’s back, near where the rhomboid minor meets the spine, and breathes deep. He’s never gotten to smell another body, too. He’s always had to satisfy himself with looking, and furtive touching when visuals no longer sufficed. Izumida smells of cedarwood and spice antiperspirant and warm musk underneath that. Komari breathes it in again, trying to file it away in his memory as much as he does the feel of the meat of Izumida’s body.
The heat in his cheeks has settled in his stomach now, sinking slowly lower.
“Kishigami-kun, you’re excited, aren’t you?” Izumida says, voice still kind.
“Hm? Of course I am, I get to touch muscles,” Komari replies, genuinely confused.
“No, I mean…” Izumida trails off, equally confused, and only then does Komari notice with horror his own erection.
He’d gotten so good at not getting those anymore. It had been so difficult in middle school, when he often came home from his afternoons secretly watching the athletes with an uncomfortable throbbing in his private area. And somehow his mother always knew, and he would have to endure her disgusted look as she lectured him over and over about self-control and feelings unbecoming to a man of good upbringing. But he had learned with practice how to stare them down, how to put aside his own deviant body and not indulge its reflexes.
And yet here it is again at the worst time. He should have known, he should have changed into jeans instead of just grabbing a spare pair of tight-fitting training pants. Stupid boy, stupid, shameful--
Komari scoots quickly backwards across the bed, away from Izumida, pulling his legs to his chest to hide. Wrap it up, don’t let anyone see, they’ll all see how disgusting you really are--
“Kishigami-kun?” Izumida turns to him with concern. “Do you want to touch yourself?”
“Touch … myself … ?” Komari mumbles, still clutching his legs.
“I don’t mind.” Izumida smiles gently, then looks faintly horrified when Komari doesn’t move. “Don’t tell me you’ve never…?”
“It usually … goes away eventually ... “ Komari stammers.
“Oh, Kishigami,” Izumida looks genuinely sorrowful. “I can help you?”
Komari’s eyes widen impossibly.
“Don’t be embarrassed. Look, I’m the same,” Izumida says, gesturing to his own front - and sure enough, the thin fabric of his workout pants is tented and it’s clear that his arms and legs aren’t the only part of him that’s thick and firm.
Has he done that? Did Izumida enjoy Komari touching him? Is that allowed?
“May I touch you?” Izumida asks, and Komari is startled. Nobody has ever asked him that before. He didn’t know anybody else felt the desire to touch.
“It’s okay to say no,” Izumida adds when Komari hesitates.
“No, that’s…” Komari takes a deep breath. Nothing makes sense. Izumida keeps offering him things that he didn’t know could be offered. He’s never thought about himself being touched in return. He didn’t even know he wasn’t thinking about it. And now it’s simply there, to take or leave.
Is it okay? Is this allowed?
Komari feels himself suspended between the box and the dizzying fall into chaos. He has been two selves, and neither of them knows how to handle this kind and seemingly, impossibly, earnest offer.
He does not know what he’s stepping out onto, but he takes the step. “Yes, please.”
Izumida smiles.
This time Izumida sits behind Komari, his thighs spread so that Komari can sit between them, facing away. (Adductor brevis, adductor longus, adductor magnus, gracilis, Komari thinks to himself in the brief, maddening interlude; he can feel Izumida’s inner thigh muscles against his now naked legs and recognize how he stiffens in response to that touch.)
“Like this,” Izumida says, and reaches for him.
Izumida’s hand is strong, too, but gentle as he grasps Komari. Komari can feel the calluses from all the dumbbells he’s lifted and handlebars he’s gripped. They drag slightly on the skin of his -- oh god -- penis -- he’s never said it even to himself, he didn’t know it could feel like this. He’s moved secretly against his bed in the dark from time to time, when it wasn’t enough to wish the ache away, but the feeling of skin on skin, touching it shamelessly, someone else touching it shamelessly --
“You’re very beautiful, Kishigami-kun,” Izumida murmurs into his ear. “Tell me any time if you need me to stop.”
He breathes loud and hard now, harder than even at the sprint goal line. Izumida’s hand moves on him and he pushes into it, ecstatic. Izumida’s other arm reaches around his chest and holds him close. He can feel Andy and Frank fluttering against his back, and lower he can feel Izumida’s own penis against him, hard and proud and eager.
It feels like it takes forever and he’s asking too much from Izumida, but he wishes it would never stop. Izumida’s fingers massaging his shaft, dragging the foreskin over the sensitive glans and back again, tightening around him. It’s simple, really. He could do this himself, if he thought he could get away with it. But he wouldn’t mind -- if Izumida could always do this for him --
The tight hot knot in his stomach is boiling over and he can feel himself tensing up, about to reach the point where even he can no longer control it. “Izumida-san--”
“Good. Let go.”
In that moment, it’s the simplest thing in the world to obey.
There’s so much of it. He watches in amazement as he spurts thick come over and over onto Izumida’s wide warm hand, and how Izumida accepts it as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Komari makes nonsense noises as his whole body shudders in Izumida’s arms, and Izumida holds him up until his breathing slows and he can collect himself. The feeling of his own back arched into Izumida’s chest and Izumida groaning softly into his ear as he pumps Komari dry is etched onto his mind, hopefully forever.
Komari falls forward onto his hands, still panting. He can still feel Izumida’s cock against him; if anything, it’s harder than it was. “Izumida-san…”
“You don’t have to do anything,” Izumida says quickly, wiping his hands on a fresh tissue. “I enjoy it.”
“But…” and the frustration churns in him, because he wants, and he only knows one way to want, but Izumida has been so kind and so surprising.
“Tell me,” Izumida smiles, with a trace of wickedness. “Ask me.”
Komari swallows hard. Asking is so much more frightening than taking. But he still remembers the electric jolt of hearing it from Izumida. It would only be polite. “May I touch you, too?”
He feels the words on his tongue (eight muscles, half anchored to bone, half unmoored and acting only on themselves), and they feel good.
“Absolutely.” The other boy grins, taking off his pants in one smooth, practiced motion. There’s nothing underneath them besides Izumida himself, glistening and beautiful.
It’s not like any other muscle. The way it swells and stands is nothing like how the rest of the body moves itself. It gets bigger when Komari straddles Izumida’s thighs, face to face, and it throbs against Komari’s lightly closed hand. He could study it for hours, though he would like to think he’s a fast enough learner that Izumida will not last like this for hours.
“Such good meat,” he murmurs hungrily into Izumida’s ear as he slowly starts to move his hand, and Izumida’s groan is more beautiful than any flower.
*
Komari lies back on the bed when it’s done, his hand still sticky with come from what the tissue couldn’t remove. He’ll have to wash his hands all over again. He’s exhausted and trembling as the adrenaline and elation of new discovery leaves him, and the echoing silence in his mind fills up with the realization of what he’s done.
He curls up again, thinking of how his mother would look if she knew. She always knows. She can stare right through him, no matter how hard he tries to hide it. She knows things about him that he doesn’t understand, and she will not be happy that he is learning.
His face is hot again, as if the stain of every stroke and groan and spurt is burnt into it.
“Hey.” Izumida touches his cheek again. It amazes him how someone so strong and so proud can be gentle, too. Izumida must have more control than anyone he’s ever met. Komari would like to study at his feet. “This was your first time, right? I know this must be a lot.”
“I shouldn’t,” Komari mumbles, unsure how to finish. He shouldn’t be here, he shouldn’t want to be here. He shouldn’t want to touch. He shouldn’t have let himself be touched, and he shouldn’t want to be touched again. It doesn’t feel as easy to believe all that now, but he knows it must be true. “I wasn’t raised like this.”
“You should,” Izumida replies, soft but firm. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Very few things are worth being ashamed of.”
Komari looks at him in confusion. He’s never heard this sort of thing before, either.
“You wanted to do that. Yes?” Komari nods slowly. “And I wanted to do that. That’s a good thing. Touching someone who wants to be touched is a kindness.”
A kindness. Another thing Komari has never heard his desires described as. There’s been far too much to take in tonight.
“I have to go.” He can breathe stably enough now that maybe nobody will guess what he’s been up to. He certainly wouldn’t have guessed it, but Midousuji has a knack for reading people that Komari would prefer not to be on the wrong end of just now. “Midousuji-san wants us back for a meeting.”
“Don’t let anyone make you hide your gifts, Kishigami-kun,” Izumida tells him, watching from the bed as he pulls on his training pants and head for the hotel door. “And you are welcome in Hakone any time.”
Tomorrow they’ll be enemies again. Komari will still be trying to learn his teammates’ muscles and the secrets they whisper. (If he’s lucky, he won’t give away too much when he sees Izumida’s muscles again tomorrow.) But maybe, when the summer is over and he’s done his duty to Midousuji-san, maybe it would be good to go to Hakone and learn how men like Izumida are made.
Maybe there is another Komari waiting there, too. One who knows about asking, and about accepting. One who is welcome.