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Satoru doesn’t know what exactly is in the supplements Shoko occasionally gives him for his migraines, but it knocks him right the fuck out half the time and chills him right the fuck out the other half, so when she offers, he always says yes. After a couple times, she asks if they’re helping, and—they really are, aren’t they? He finally feels like he’s getting enough sleep, he finally isn’t constantly on edge about every single goddamn thing. He doesn’t mention that he hasn’t had a panic attack since the first time she dropped a little blue oval into his outstretched palms. He knows Shoko already knows. She always knows.
“Good,” she says, and writes him a prescription for a bottle of little blue ovals, take one-half pill as needed. He dry-swallows a half of one right then, snapping it in two with his bare hands and licking the bitter crumble off of his index finger. The bright glare of the fluorescent lights in her office always make him a little nauseous, anyway. Shoko watches him with an inscrutable expression, but he thinks she might be pleased.
He starts off sparingly, only taking a pill every couple of days, but then it becomes more and more often, excuse after excuse—my head kind of hurts, my heart’s beating a little fast, I have that test later that I need to be calm for. Soon, his halves turn to wholes, and he’s finishing the whole bottle before he’s due for his monthly refills.
Shoko doubles the number of pills without even asking why. “They’re still helping?” she asks, and barely glances up when Satoru nods yes. That night, he takes two, one more than usual, and feels his body melting into the stiff dormitory bed, the riotous static of colors that always appear in the dark fading away as he falls headlong into blissful unconsciousness.
“Don’t have more than a couple drinks with these,” she says one time as he picks up his prescription, and Satoru wants to laugh. The one time he’d tried drinking, his head had spun so violently that he had puked psychedelic all over the floor before he could even make it out of the seat to the bathroom. He’d ended up kneeling in a pool of his own vomit, acid soaking sharp into the knees of his pants, staring with crystal clarity at the dancing chains of lipids and proteins that had previously made up the contents of his stomach.
He doesn’t remember what happened after that. He woke up in his bed the next day, wearing clean pajamas, his uniform washed and hung up on the back of the door, an empty bucket and a bottle of water by his bed.
Chemistry makes him nauseous now.
“I don’t drink,” he tells Shoko shortly, and she throws her head back and laughs, loud and grating in his ears. The child-safe cap on the bottle she just handed him is practically begging to be opened.
“Right, right,” she says lazily, dipping her head forward. “Well, take a couple of those instead and come out with me and Suguru tonight. There’s this new place that opened by 5th Station, and supposedly they don’t check ID at all.”
“Shoko, I don’t know if I really—“
“Don’t be a fucking pussy,” she snorts, and that’s how Satoru finds himself wedged in between her and Suguru in a booth lined with peeling leather in a noisy, crowded bar. People clamor against the bar proper for the bartender’s attention, shitty pop music blaring on staticy speakers, the air filled with the acrid scent of cheap beer and body odor.
“I hate it here,” Satoru informs his companions, who had apparently pre-gamed back in the dorms and were now giggling uncontrollably.
“How many of those, haha, uh, vitamins did you take before you came, Satoru?” Shoko asks, leaning in close to him. She’s too warm; the press of her arm against his is distracting.
From his other side, Suguru snorts. “Vitamins? Is that what you told him?”
Satoru turns his head to look at Suguru properly. He feels slow and stupid like he always does when he takes Shoko’s supplements, like he has to slog through waist-deep jello just to form a single thought. “Told me?” he asks.
Suguru laughs the way he does when something is particularly funny—head tilted back, eyes squinted shut, mouth open. It exposes the column of his throat beautifully. Satoru wants to bite it.
He’s distracted from the delicate bob of Suguru’s Adam’s apple by Shoko tracing her fingers over his thigh. “How many did you take?” she asks, and finally, Satoru recognizes the question.
“Mmm…Three?” he says. Well, three is kind of a guess. He kind of loses count after a few. A few times he’s woken up and the whole bottle is gone, presumably eaten by him as the fulfillment of some subconscious desire.
Suguru rummages around in his pocket and pulls out another pill. “Take this one,” he says, holding it out to Satoru. This one is different from the ones that Shoko usually prescribes him, circular and white instead of oblong and blue. He picks it up and holds it up to the light, squinting at it.
Shoko smacks his hand back down. “Don’t wave it around, idiot!” she hisses. “It’s the same thing, it just looks different.”
Satoru looks at the white pill, sitting innocently in the palm of his hand. His head bobs a bit on his neck, already heavy enough that he’s having trouble keeping it up. “I don’t know,” he says, even as the bass vibrates through his body, each peak and valley arcing through his nerves.
“We’re already pretty drunk,” Suguru says. “You should catch up.”
“It’ll help with the lights, too,” Shoko adds, tapping her fingernail on the screen of his sunglasses. Satoru flinches away—she knows he hates it when she does that—and decides fuck it, might as well, so he tilts his head back and tosses the pill in, grabbing the nearest glass to swallow it down with. It’s Shoko’s beer, bitter and foamy, and the carbonation makes the pill stick to the roof of his mouth, coating his tongue with a medicinal taste that makes him want to gag. He splutters, only barely managing to not spew beer across the table. Shoko pats his back soothingly as he takes another long gulp just to swallow the damn pill.
“That was fucking nasty,” he says, coughing once more for good measure and setting the half-drained glass back on the table with a heavy thunk. Beer sloshes over the top of the glass, spilling over his fingers. He wipes them off on his shirt, but they’re still sticky, and he shakes his hand out sadly.
“You’re supposed to swallow it, not choke on it,” Shoko says. “And you owe me another beer.”
“That’s what she said,” Suguru chortles.
“Fuck you,” Satoru mumbles, leaning forward to press his head onto the table. He’s not sure which one of them he’s talking to. Both, maybe? The few gulps of beer are already hitting his stomach, hot and leaden. He feels like the room is spinning around him, his head against the tacky vinyl surface of the bar table his only anchor.
Suguru pats his back soothingly. “Let’s walk to the bar together and get Shoko another drink, and you some water,” he says. “You’ll feel better after.”
“No, I…’m just gonna head back,” Satoru slurs. “To the dorms.”
“Loser,” Shoko snorts. “We’ve barely gotten started.”
Someone pushes a glass of water in front of him, and he drinks it hazily, spilling half of it down his shirt front. Shoko laughs at him, laughs and laughs and laughs and laughs, taking a drink out of her beer. When did she get another? Satoru wonders, taking another overly large gulp of water, his fingers slipping as he drops the empty glass back on the table. Shoko’s hands are still tracing patterns on his upper thigh, and Suguru’s hand is gripping him firmly on the other leg. When did they start touching him?
Satoru squirms. “I’m…” The lights are too bright, too hot, it’s sweaty. Suguru and Shoko are pressed in on either side of him, too close and uncomfortably warm. Even through the pills, he can feel himself starting to panic, breathing heavily through his mouth as his vision swims in front of him. The wet patches on his shirt and pants cling uncomfortably to his skin. “Guys, I don’t…” He hiccups, a sharp sound that wrenches itself out of him. “I don’t feel good.”
Suguru gets up, extending a hand, and Satoru oozes out of the booth. He sways immediately, lilting to the left, and Suguru’s firm hands catch him on both shoulders to prop him up.
Suguru’s eyes meet his, searching for something, but Satoru just stares hazily at him, eyes unfocused. “‘M gonna go,” he slurs. “To the...to the dorms.”
Behind him, Shoko scoffs. “You can’t even stand on your own,” she says. “How are you going to get back? Fucking useless.”
The word echoes around him, bouncing off of walls and corners, phasing through the throngs of people still crowding the bar, useless useless useless. “Fuck you,” Satoru says again, and Suguru steps closer, his hands still on Satoru’s shoulders. Satoru’s ass presses into the side of the tabletop.
“It’s okay,” Suguru says. “I’ll help you get back.”
“Ugh, don’t leave me here,” Shoko moans. “Lemme get another couple shots, and I’ll walk back with you, okay?”
Satoru groans. His head throbs in time with the music reverberating around the bar. He squints his eyes and he can see the sound waves pulsing, neon greens and purples, afterimages of people that don’t exist traipsing through the air. “S’guru…” he mumbles.
Suguru pulls him close, nestling his head into something firm and warm. Satoru’s tall, but Suguru’s taller, his chest the perfect height for him to lean against. Long fingers card through his hair. “I’ve got you,” Suguru murmurs to him. “It’s okay.”
Next to him, Shoko laughs, loud and sharp. It feels like a hammer is being taken directly to his eardrums. “He’s fucked up, isn’t he?” she cackles.
“He is,” a deep voice says from above his head. “You shouldn’t have made him have that drink.” Suguru’s hand keeps stroking his hair, petting him. He feels fuzzy all over. Suguru is taking care of him, though, so it’s okay. Suguru wouldn’t hurt him.
“Let’s just go back to the dorms,” Shoko says. “That bartender who wants to fuck me hooked me up with a bottle of rum, so we can keep drinking.”
Suguru says something else to her, but it’s lost in the cacophony of adjectives and verbs, just a deep rumble against Satoru’s head. Suddenly he’s being pulled, his feet slipping out from under him like his ankles are made of jelly, stumbling after Suguru. “Whr’ we…” he starts.
“Back to the dorms,” Suguru says. “Bed, yeah? You wanna lay down?”
They spill out into the street, night air cold and crisp. It’s refreshingly dark. Satoru blinks and looks around. The air vibrates around him, neon street signs and traffic lights searingly bright and streaking across his vision even through his sunglasses, but there’s less pressure than there was in the bar. “Yeah,” he says, answering Suguru’s rhetorical question. “Fuckin’...obviously I wanna lay down.” He pauses, staring cross-eyed at the puffs of breath he can see in the cool air.
“We’ll get you there,” Suguru says, and winds an arm under Satoru’s shoulders to take more of his weight.
“I c’n walk,” Satoru protests, but Suguru just tilts his head back and laughs, the chilly breeze whipping a strand of black hair across his face. Shoko slips in on his other side, and together, the two of them drag him back to the campus, the cracked concrete slipping away under his feet like water.
He bobs in and out of consciousness then, held up by the twin points of warmth under his shoulders from Suguru and Shoko. His legs are wobblier than he remembers them being, each step taking more effort than he thinks it should. He ignores the lurching in his stomach and focuses on putting one foot in front of the other, left right left right left right, until the air changes. The wind stops, the ground under his feet shifts to something that clacks instead of thumps against his heels. A few muffled voices, Suguru’s baritone laugh rumbling through his chest, and then he’s being pushed forward, free-falling until he faceplants on something warm and soft.
“There you go,” Suguru says, and warm fingers pet through his hair, scratching the back of his neck.
Satoru moans into the covers at the sensation. It’s like his brain is underwater, the feeling of nails scraping dully against his nape taking longer to reach his brain than it should. Electricity travels through wires almost instantaneously—flip a light switch and the light turns on immediately, despite the distance each electron has to travel. But his nerves are operating on a delay, electrical impulses running through miles and miles of phone poles and underground wires and fiber-optic cables. Maybe his nervous system got all scrambled up inside him like spaghetti, maybe his neurons got lost in the tangle of his body. That’s why sensation is taking so long to reach his brain. Probably. Definitely.
“He’s pretty like this,” Suguru says, still petting the back of his head.
“When he’s not talking?” Shoko asks, from somewhere in the room.
“Compliant,” Suguru says, and then there are hands on him, firm hands on his shoulders, pushing and prodding him onto his back, and the blessed darkness of his pillow is replaced with Suguru’s face, hovering over him, black strands of hair falling like a waterfall around his jaw. He’s reaching forward, his hands too close to Satoru’s face, and gently easing his glasses off.
There’s only a single lamp on, but even in the relative darkness, its corona burns itself into his eyes. Suguru places his sunglasses on the nightstand, and Satoru squints his eyes shut and hisses, arcs of neon green flashing behind his eyelids.
The bed dips near his feet as Shoko sits on the bed. “I want his cunt,” she says.
Suguru grins, a hint of teeth flashing behind his lips. “Gonna get him ready for me?”
“Pfft,” Shoko snorts, and then her small hands are running up his legs, fingers pressing against his ankles to his calves all the way up his thighs, and the action doesn’t mean anything to Satoru until her hands stop at the button of his jeans.
“No—wait—” he gasps, his eyes flying open. He lurches up, or tries to, but Suguru’s there, looming too close to him again, blocking Shoko from view. He presses Satoru back into the mattress with two hands on his shoulders, pinning him down effortlessly.
Satoru’s hands fly up to grasp at Suguru’s wrists, pulling at them weakly. “What are you—” he chokes out.
Suguru smiles at him, a shitty little smirk as his eyes curve into half-moons, and leans forward even more, until the ends of his hair brush against Satoru’s face, a thick curtain cutting him off from the rest of the room. Satoru squirms against the scratchy, almost-ticklish sensation. He hates light touches. They barely scrape over his skin but burn all the hotter for it. It almost distracts him from the sensation of Shoko working over the button of his jeans, the toothy scrape of the zipper being undone. Warm, slim fingers hook into his waistband and tug. His pants and underwear are slid down to his ankles, the bunched-up fabric an awful weight against the place where the elastic of his socks digs into his skin. He still has his shoes on, and all of a sudden it’s all he can focus on, all he can think about, the way his feet are too heavy, the individual stitches in his socks rubbing against his skin, the clammy sensation of the sweat pooling in the arch of his feet. He groans inarticulately. Off, off, they need to be off—
Shoko returns her traitorous fingers to his thighs, rubbing and kneading the pale skin there, and he doesn’t want it but at least her touch is firm. She runs a hand through his pubic hair, scratching at the skin underneath. She cards her fingers through rough curls and tugs, and Satoru arches his back in a fruitless attempt to get away from the sensation of each individual hair pulling up the skin underneath. It’s like his skin is being torn away, or at least what he imagines that would be like, dermis ripped off by desperate follicles clinging to platinum strands. The sinew and blood exposed underneath, glistening red, blood pooling under his crotch, sticky liquid staining the sheets redder than red.
“Heh, he’s already getting wet,” Shoko says.
Suguru’s expression shifts towards something even more wicked. “Not surprising,” he says. “He’s very expressive. I can tell he’s trying to pretend that he doesn’t enjoy it.”
Satoru flails around in his mind for the comforting buzz of Infinity, his ultimate armor, his protection against everyone but himself. It usually comes easily—he usually keeps it on—but the pills Shoko gives him make it harder for him to use it, make it seem like he doesn’t need the blanket of his power when he’s already wrapped in their mind-numbing, euphoric warmth. He can’t reach it. He can’t reach it. Again and again, it slips out of his fingers. “I—” Satoru chokes out, his lips and tongue clumsy and uncooperative. “I don’t—”
Want it, he doesn’t get to finish, because Suguru is leaning down and Shoko is sliding in and whatever thoughts he might have had get blown out of his head like windows in a nuclear explosion. Suguru’s lips on his, his tongue slipping warm and wet into Satoru’s mouth, sloppy and writhing and hideously alive. Shoko’s finger inside him, too cool against the heat of his body, the intrusion accompanied by a sharp, gut-wrenching ache deep inside him.
She tsks. “Always so tight at first. Relax a little, hmm?” Her finger slips in and out, prodding at his walls like she’s performing a medical exam, mapping out every inch of him. She slides another in before he’s had a chance to adjust, and the ache deepens.
He tries again to push upwards, to buck Suguru off him, but his body isn’t responding correctly. He can barely maintain the weak grasp he has on Suguru’s wrists. Suguru uses the motion to pull at the hem of his shirt, breaking the kiss to ruck it over his head and throw it into some abandoned corner of the room before pressing him back into the mattress. He groans in protest, low and long in the back of his throat, the sound eaten up by Suguru’s hungry mouth. Suguru’s hair is still searing fire against his cheeks and the soft skin of his neck, contrasting the firm pressure of his hands against Satoru’s shoulders. Let me up, he thinks desperately, but he can’t get the words out, can’t do more than make keening noises that get swallowed up before they’ve even crawled out of his throat.
Suguru pulls back, a thick strand of saliva bridging their lips, and smirks down at him. One hand moves down, skating over his torso. He hadn’t worn a binder today, so his nipples pebble in the cold air immediately, hard and exposed under Suguru’s hungry gaze. He kisses down the side of Satoru’s neck, his teeth scraping indelicately over thin skin while his hand gropes at Satoru’s chest. Satoru arches into the touch against his will—it’s not good, he chants in his head, it’s not good, he doesn’t like it—but despite the overwhelming onslaught of sensation, he still finds himself pushing his tits forward. Suguru rolls a nipple between his fingers, and Satoru has to bite his lip to hold back the moan that threatens to spill out of him.
Suguru is bent over him, mouth buried in the crook of his neck and shoulder, but Satoru can still feel his smirk. “You hear that, Shoko? I think he likes having his tits played with.”
Shoko’s fingers fucking into him are agonizing in their intensity, constantly moving, the mortifying squelch of his cunt around her fingers louder than it has any right to be. He doesn’t know why it’s so loud, why it echoes against the thin walls of his dorm room, why the curve of her knuckles brushing against his taint makes his hips twitch forward. It still hurts, sharp and deep, but faint pangs of pleasure are beginning to reverberate inside him. He’s not into this, he doesn’t like it, so why is his body reacting like this?
“The pills make him more reactive,” Shoko says, sliding a third finger in, and Satoru gasps sharply, his back bowing off the covers. “He doesn’t get wet unless he’s fucked up.”
“Sounds like a challenge,” Suguru muses, his other hand leaving Satoru’s shoulder to massage his other tit.
“Or an obstacle,” Shoko mutters, focused on her task. “It’s not prohibitive.”
“You wanna fuck him dry?” Suguru asks, lowering his head down to suck on one of Satoru’s nipples. His tongue is hot and wet, teeth scraping dully over the skin, and Satoru whines at the sensation. It’s good—it’s bad—it hurts—he’s dizzy—he wants more—
“It’d shut him up,” Shoko responds mildly, still jackhammering her fingers in and out of his cunt, rubbing against his g-spot just often enough to be doing it on purpose. “Maybe if he could hold his fucking booze, it’d be less of an issue.”
She twists her hand, her thumb skating over his swollen dick, the sensation devastating in its intensity and yet still not enough. Satoru whines, he can’t hold it back anymore, his body acting against him. “Sh—Shoko—please—”
Shoko leans forward, her fingers still buried inside him, and shoves Suguru roughly out of the way. “What’s that, Satoru? Did you say my name?”
Satoru groans. Sweat is dripping down the back of his neck, the small of his back, the backs of his knees. Shoko switches tactics, petting meanly over the rough patch inside him, a constant stimulus so intense he can barely fill his lungs with air. “What did you say, Sa-to-ru?” she croons.
Suguru’s hands are still kneading meanly at his tits, rolling his nipples between thick fingers. “Answer her,” he says, his voice low yet still loud in the dim light.
“Oh, god,” Satoru chokes. He’s awash with sensation, their touch the only thing tying him to this plane. Floating away, moored to physical existence only by the hands on his tits and the fingers in his sopping cunt. “Fuck—Sh’ko—I want—”
“What do you want, Satoru?” she asks, stilling her hand entirely, and Satoru wants to scream.
“Fuck me, please,” he chokes out. “Touch my cock—please—I need it—I—”
Shoko’s fingers fuck back into him shockingly quickly. “Aw, you want me to touch your cock? Is that it? You can’t come just from being fucked?” The rough movement of her hand slows, a solid pressure against his inner walls, and Satoru’s dick throbs. “You have before.”
He doesn’t know what the fuck that’s supposed to mean, but Suguru’s mouth latches around one of his nipples right as Shoko rubs her thumb over his cock again, and any thoughts he might have had are lost in the fallout. It’s too much, still too much, every scrape of their skin against his is too hot and too harsh and it fucking hurts, but they don’t stop. He can’t make them stop. He feels used, owned, claimed, like a fucktoy they can do anything they want to. He’s helpless against their combined onslaught—Suguru’s mouth laving wet trails over his skin, Shoko’s fingers fucking relentlessly into him. The wet sound his cunt makes as she fingerfucks him is humiliating, audible even over the loud pants and whines he can’t bite back anymore.
“Sloppy,” Shoko tsks, swiping her thumb over his dick again as she curls her fingers forward, pressing on the same spot from inside and out.
Satoru’s orgasm hits him like an eighteen-wheeler doing twenty over. He jerks up, his entire body tensing, a rippling contraction of muscles that starts in his lower stomach and overflows to the rest of his body. His mouth falls open as a guttural and horrifyingly wanton moan claws its way out of his throat. His cock twitches, rhythmic pulses that feel like they’re sweeping across his entire body, turning his muscles and bones into liquid fire. He’s dimly aware of Suguru’s hands returning to his torso, pinning him to the mattress by cupping his breasts, and Shoko’s hand still thrusting ceaselessly into him, her thumb still pushing a hot line of too-much into his dick, but the only thing he can hear is the sound of his blood rushing in his ears, a rushing wave that drowns out any ambient noise.
He slumps back against the bed, open-mouthed, breathing hard. Suguru swoops in to claim his mouth again, shoving his tongue into his mouth even as Satoru lays limp and unresponsive. He’s flushed red and sweaty all over, muscles loose and heavy, his body still trembling with tiny zaps of pleasure. His fingers twitch involuntarily, trying desperately to curl themselves into fists, but he can’t even think about actually moving just yet. His head is spinning, the room still warping and warbling around them.
Shoko pulls her fingers out and wipes them on his stomach, his own fluids tacky and nauseating on his skin. Satoru groans, trying to bring a hand up to swipe at the quickly-drying mess, but his hand flops back onto the bed without reaching. He can’t see her expression, but he imagines she looks tremendously self-satisfied.
Suguru bites his lip harshly and pulls back, grinning, admiring the way Satoru’s unfocused eyes stare blearily up at him. He turns his head over his shoulder. “I wanna fuck him now,” he says. “I’ve been hard since the bar.”
“Knock yourself out,” Shoko mutters, waving a hand, and slides off the bed. She picks up the rum, takes a swig directly out of the bottle, and settles back beside Satoru’s head.
Suguru shuffles down to the foot of the bed, hands pressing on the inside of Satoru’s knees to spread them further apart, and leans forward, rubbing his cock against Satoru’s hole. The pressure is horrifyingly thick, even against the crude gape Shoko left behind, and Satoru whines high-pitched in the back of his throat. He’s not sure what’s going on, but panic is seeping back into his veins, replacing the syrupy feeling of pleasure with a raw terror that leaves him hyperaware.
“No,” he breathes out, “No, no, no—” His limbs are still too fuzzy to respond, ignoring the klaxons blaring in his head, and then Suguru presses in and Satoru almost screams. It hurts, worse than Shoko’s fingers, like someone threaded a fishhook through his navel and is trying to pull it out through his cunt. He wasn’t made for this, wasn’t meant to have anything inside him, let alone something that hurts this much. “Stop,” he whines, “It hurts—”
“Can you shut him up?” Suguru asks, hoisting Satoru’s ass off the bed like he weighs nothing, holding him aloft by the hips as he starts fucking him roughly. His hands are too tight on his legs, forcing his thighs apart uncomfortably far. “He was so quiet—earlier. It was—ah—nice.”
“I’m not kissing him,” Shoko says, taking another swig. Satoru can smell the rum, spoiled and bitter, and it makes him want to gag.
“Didn’t say you had to,” Suguru grunts.
Shoko leans over Satoru’s face, taking in the way his expression is screwed up in pain, tears budding in the corner of his eyes, bangs plastered to his forehead. She purses her lips, then pries his mouth open and crams her fingers inside, spreading his jaw open.
He does whine then, and she shushes him, petting heavily over his tongue. Her fingers taste like—like pussy, like his pussy, sour and cloying in a way that instantly coats his entire mouth. He gags.
“They’re not even that deep,” Shoko says, then shoves them further in, scraping against his uvula.
Satoru gags again, bile rising in the back of his throat, and Shoko yanks her fingers out immediately. “Don’t fucking puke on me,” she snarls. Suguru’s hips stutter.
Satoru hiccups wetly, unable to work his throat enough to swallow. It feels like his throat is dissolving, bile burning and bitter, clogging his esophagus. He can’t breathe around it, can’t get any oxygen into his lungs. Black spots dance in front of his eyes, blotting out first the label on the bottle of rum, then the text on the posters on his wall, like ink splatters against the fabric of his sheets and the wood grain of his desk. Is he going to die like this, spread and speared open underneath Suguru?
I’m never taking those fucking pills again, he thinks in a sudden moment of clarity.
Then Suguru is pushing his legs even further apart, Shoko’s fingers slip back between his lips, and he careens into unconsciousness cunt-first.
—
The sunlight streaming through his window is achingly bright. Satoru’s head pounds before he’s even opened his eyes. Actually, scratch that—his whole body hurts. His throat is raw and scratchy, his thighs burn, his stomach is roiling unpleasantly. There’s a cool, squishy wet spot under his ass. Did he fucking piss himself?
Christ, it’s too early to deal with this. Why the hell does his vag hurt? What is going on?
He gropes blindly for his glasses. He always places them on the nightstand before he goes to sleep, so they should be in arms’ reach, and then he’ll be way more equipped to figure out what the fuck is wrong with him.
His hand lands in a puddle of something wet that is decidedly not his glasses, and the shock of it makes him wrench his eyes open even in the searing white light of daytime.
“Fuck,” he hisses, slapping a hand over his eyes, and then immediately jerking it away when he realizes that whatever he touched is still on his hand and thus now on his face. “What the fuck.”
He spreads his fingers apart, staring, and then his eyes dart over to the rest of his room. Shit. There’s vomit splattered across his pillow, puddles of it on the floor and splashback up the side of his desk and the wall. A bottle of some brown liquor is tipped over on his desk, its contents spilled over his notebooks and pooled the floor. When he looks down at himself, he’s completely naked on top of the covers, the blankets underneath his ass completely soaked in what he’s increasingly sure is his own piss. There’s something crusty drying on his stomach, tugging at the skin when he moves and flaking a bit when he pokes at it. His mouth is painfully dry and tastes like absolute ass. He smacks his lips a few times, but the taste doesn’t go away.
The smell hits him then, acrid and intense, and he barely manages to lean over the side of his bed before he’s emptying the contents of his stomach onto the floor. He dry-heaves for a couple of moments after, only managing to hock up thick strings of saliva. His stomach is still churning violently. It feels like his organs are dissolving, like his body is eating itself from the inside out.
Satoru stumbles a bit as he rolls off the bed to open the window. He’s fucking disgusting, but he needs to air the room out before he can do anything else. The scent of sweat, puke, booze, and piss hangs so heavy in the air he can’t breathe. He scrambles at the latch, fingers responding slowly, and yanks the window open, sticking his head out immediately to gulp lungfuls of fresh air. At least his room doesn’t face any campus buildings, so he doesn’t have to worry about anyone seeing him hang naked out of the window.
Something wet rolls down the inside of his thigh, and he freezes. Another drop joins it, smearing sticky where his thighs rub together. He reaches down to feel it, realizing at the last moment that his right hand still has flecks of vomit on it and jerking it away from his crotch. Left hand it is, then, swiping through the slick, probing awkwardly at the dick he barely touches and the hole he never does. It feels—loose, open, pliant in a way it’s never felt before. He can slip the tip of his finger inside with no resistance. Inside, it’s warmer than he expected, plush and wet around his fingertip, but overwhelmingly sensitive. Achy, even; just the slightest brush of his finger has him yanking his hand away with a hiss of pain. What the hell?
Okay, putting the puzzle pieces back together—he went out with Suguru and Shoko last night, he remembers that. He remembers the bar, loud and overwhelming, remembers his friends caging him into the booth, Suguru’s laugh obnoxiously loud in his ear. And then…nothing. It’s blank.
Satoru’s eyes flit back to the upended liquor bottle. He’s not sure how much of it is spilled over his desk—and his schoolwork, fuck—but it looks mostly empty. Did he get drunk at the bar? Where did that bottle come from? And he…fingered himself after? Probably?
His pants are pooled on the floor at the foot of his bed, miraculously avoiding the worst of the mess. He wipes his hand on the bedsheets, since they’ll have to be washed anyway, and scrounges around until he pulls his phone out of the pocket.
It’s 2:45 p.m., later than he’s ever slept in his life. He has a few twitter notifications, a spam email, and a new follower on instagram. He ignores them to open his group text with Suguru and Shoko. He has two unread messages, both from Shoko.
shoko: You got wasted as shit. We had to leave the bar early to bring you back to your room. You wouldn’t let me take the rum back, so I don’t know what happened after we left.
shoko: Drink some water, take some ibuprofen, puke if you need to.
Got that covered, Satoru thinks glumly, and makes the executive decision to shower before he even begins to think about cleaning up the mess that is his room. It’s not like it’s going to get any worse, after all. He brushes his teeth twice, gathers up his towel and shower caddy, pops a painkiller per Shoko’s instructions and washes it down with water straight from the faucet. Ignoring the chafe and drip between his thighs, he tugs on a clean t-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts that hopefully hang low enough in the crotch for him to get to the showers before he oozes all over them.
Satoru’s almost to the door when he pauses, wasting precious few seconds, before turning on his heel and rushing back to his desk. He tugs the drawer open, rifling through its messy contents before he finds what he’s looking for—a dark blue bottle, white cap, white label. The child safety lock clicks, and he upends the bottle in his hand. A little powder-blue pill tumbles out into his sweaty palm. Satoru presses it into his mouth with shaking fingers, letting it sit on his tongue for a minute before dry-swallowing it. The familiar bitter taste is a welcome reprieve from the burn still perched at the back of his throat.
There. He feels better, now.