Chapter Text
Relationships came in all shapes and forms. From familial to romantic, to even enemies, all these things could be classified, and are, as types of relationships between people and he's seen them all happen in front of him for better or for worse. He saw kids talking to their parents and getting patted on the head. He noticed how teen girls would link arms as they walked together or boys would bump their shoulders against one another, laughing too loudly for his comfort. Even with Naito and Sawashiro had he seen a relationship solely based on mutual hatred transpire where Naito wanted to stand on top of Sawashiro's corpse and Sawashiro just didn't care enough about him to warrant him a proper enemy to enemy relationship. It was rather one sided, if he was being honest, nothing like Team Seven and Glowing Dawn, or rather him and Tomoro.
No, Hotaruko had started off hating Kuonji's guts but the blond hacker was far too kind to do the same and Granit and Sakuya didn't hate each other as much as Granit was morose and Sakuya was far too chipper for him. The real thing had been him and Tomoro—natural enemies who fought at every turn, always at each other's throats, ready to tear each other to shreds, and Naito had encouraged it, wanted Raito to end the boy so he could come ahead and hold Tomoro like a trophy to show Sawashiro that he was the best. Raito can't believe he'd been willing to do it just for a scrap of that man's attention, still internally grateful that he'd gotten out of there when he could, that he wouldn't have Tomoro's blood on his hands on the order of someone else.
He'd rather have it of Tomoro's own permission, staining his hands red because the boy wished it so.
But without Naito's encouragement to continue this cat and mouse game of enemies who wanted to claw each other's eyes out, Raito had found himself feeling oddly uneasy without the bespectacled boy right at his heels, never going away no matter how many times he snapped at him. Was it an unhealthy dependence from all those days of having to battle the boy for a scrap of validation from his superior? Had he somehow conditioned himself to want Tomoro to be after him, to need that thrill of being hunted down and lashing out just to keep him close and see what will happen next?
Their relationship grew muddled from this back and forth game, the lines between rival, friend, and something else blurring together into something Raito's never witnessed before. Rivals fought each other all the time, but did they like pinning the other down, knowing that they were the one who caused the other to struggle with breathing? Did they like being pinned themselves, bruises forming on their skin because they wanted to be cheeky? Friends liked to hit each other, but they never tried to induce crying, never felt satisfaction when the other party whimpered and hiccuped and had snot dribbling down their nose and yet they wanted to push it further, see how long it takes until their friend screams at them and can't breathe from all the sobs leaving their mouth, crawling up their throat like vomit.
And that thing they had—this urge to be the prey, the predator, to chase each other down and corner the other, to be the one that causes their bruises and their bleeding and to feel proud of that fact—, well, Raito is sure that no one else thinks like this, at least not anyone he's seen himself, and it had been fine, this dynamic of theirs where no strings were attached and they could do whatever they wanted without reprucssions and then Tomoro had to fucking kiss him and all and any idea of no attachment went out the window.
Raito wouldn't say he's got an addictive personality. He's never smoked. He's never drank. He's never gotten high. Sure, half of it was because of his family and Tactics but it's not like he'd been stealing morphine to get a high that would numb the pain, or anything, he just wanted to stop being in pain and by the time of that stupid colosseum of certain death, he hadn't even thought of the damn drug but kissing Tomoro? Feeling his lips turn bloody and tasting that same thing on his tongue? Oh, Raito would be lying to say that he hadn't wanted more of it, that he hadn't pulled Tomoro back in and bit at him back, obsessed with the way that the other only half heartedly tried to stake the kiss on his own, only for Raito to easily switch their positions, prying himself away from Tomoro's lips (and hearing him give a pitiful whine that made Raito's head spin) to bite at his neck, his collarbone, wondering if he can leave just as much everlasting bruises with his teeth and mouth like he does with his fists.
And if he thinks about, that's what it was, wasn't it? Less of an addiction that he had to satisfy and more of an obsession, a sort of craving that he wanted to indulge himself in until he grew sick of it, though he suspected he never would. Not of something like this, of seeing another way he could push Tomoro to the brink and leave him chasing Raito for more, just as obsessed as him, addicted to the way his lungs burn as the lack of air gets to his head, makes him woozy, chest threatening to burst before Raito pulls away and they both have to gulp down air. He goes back again the second the burn subsides, over and over and over but never quite enough to satisfy, never feeling like he could pull away and be done with it.
When the sun began to set, and Rhamphomon's wing beats got louder, closer, Raito had to pry himself off, lick the blood off his lips and try not to go back when he catches sight of Tomoro's face, flushed from the lack of oxygen, hair a mess, glasses askew on his face, lips all swollen and bitten to hell. The mark of his teeth on either side of the boy's neck, hard enough to leave an indent but not break skin, how they travel down to his collarbone and form blue-purple bruises that Raito finds himself pleased as punch to look at. Like a dog, he preens at marking what's his (And doesn't that come with a lot of implications) but just like all their meetings, it's time for him to leave far too soon, leaving nothing behind but marks that will fade by the next time they cross each other's path.
The wait becomes an itch under his skin that he cannot claw out of himself.
Like a camera, his mind's got snapshots of that evening, the memory playing in his head on loop like some sort of broken record. The feeling of Tomoro's lips. The taste of his blood. How pliant he was underneath him, so easily moveable, fully trusting in Raito's abilities. The obsession only grows from there, taking root and planting its seed in his barren chest until his heart's been wrapped in vines of infatuation that grow flowers dripping with the nectar of desire so potent that it's all Raito can do to not throw himself at a base of Cleaners who wouldn't be too happy to see him, even more so if he whisked what they deemed precious away from them, needing to wait around for Tomoro to come to him as he paced about on the building's roof, mind whirling with thoughts.
Would Tomoro act like nothing had happened? Should he be ignoring the elephant in the room? The relationships he observed were of no help, presenting this dynamic of honesty and respect and mutual understanding when Raito still can't tell Tomoro to his face that he knows the boy's got his bandanna, reduced to tying his hair up as if the dense bastard was actually capable of putting the pieces together. Maybe he was. Maybe he just didn't want to talk about it. Whichever the case, Raito knows that he and Tomoro are different, their thing built on respect and understanding but missing the honesty that they can't push themselves to give when all Raito wants to do is tell Tomoro that seeing the bruises inflicted on him fading away, becoming nothing but a memory, makes him want to go out and buy a collar to stick around the other's neck that had a dinosaur pendant hanging off it just so people got the message.
He'd be walking around with everyone knowing he's mine.
Unbidden, the thought springs to life, nearly making Raito choke on the juice he's drinking. Tomoro glances over, taking slow, savoring bites of his pudding, and Raito almost regrets ruling that they should eat before they fight, his skin crawling with the urge to color the soft skin in front of him various shades of purple, black and blue. They're sitting so close, their thighs are nearly touching, knees and elbows knocking together, and Raito thinks how easy it would be to knock Tomoro about to the ground and finish what they'd had started. His glasses would get knocked out his face from the force. He'd squawk and splutter before Raito shut him up, try and wrestle with him for who gets to be on top until Raito pins his wrists down with one hand, feels the tug and twist of trying to break free, having to tighten his hold because Tomoro isn't so twiggy as he'd once been and if he could, bucking Raito off would be as easy as child's play, if not take a little while.
Not that he'd ever try, Raito knows. Tomoro would stare up at him with those big eyes of his like prey that's finally been cornered, but let himself lay bare on a silver platter for Raito to eat up as he pleased. He'd start by remaking what he needs to, bruise layered upon bruise, before pushing Tomoro to the brink until his own lungs begged for air and his body jerks reflexively to keep him alive. Then he'd take his meal, enjoy it while it lasts, until—
"M'done."
Tomoro shows him his empty pudding cup, legs swinging. Raito chugs down the rest of his juice and stands to his feet, feeling the breeze in his hair, pulling at the strands while Tomoro copies his actions. Will they seriously put this on the back burner? Ignore the elephant in the room until it starts to become a problem? Hasn't this entire thing been to ignore the bigger issue? To act like you didn't just want—"Best two out of three?" Raito waves a hand, cracking his knuckles as he hops from foot to foot. "I'll even lift the stakes. First one to be pinned down has to—"
"Why didn't you come to the arcade?"
Like knife slicing through butter, Tomoro cuts him off, brows furrowed as his hands curl into fists by his side, shaking just slightly, and Raito can't help but wish the boy had run forward and punched him straight in the face than stare up at him with those big eyes, slightly narrowed, mouth pulled tight into a pursed line as the sun glints off his glasses.
"Why," Tomoro starts, making Raito's skin crawl as his voice lowers, slightly breaking like when you've hit glass, watching spiderweb cracks spread across its surface, "did you lie?"