Chapter Text
“That all you got-?!” He tried putting some bite behind the taunt, but he couldn’t quite hide the exhaustion in his voice.
A full month without any fresh blood in his system was finally catching up with him, “Shinpa-chan has to have some fresh kills somewhere.” the thought had popped into his head that late afternoon, while laying splayed on the floor of the inn he’d been staying in, and he immediately made up his mind on making the trek over to his brothers place. Or drop dead on the way there.
He nearly dodged another swing his way and stumbled to the side. They’d been going at it for longer than these little meetups of theirs usually lasted for, and the one who started it hadn’t been him, for once, which was odd in its own right. The other man always made it a point to end their impromptu sparring matches quickly, given that he always happened to choose the most inconvenient of times to instigate him into a brawl. This night, things were different.
It had started raining half way to the little shack on the other side of the valley he’d help his brother build a decade or so ago. It was modest, primarily for prepping and storing food, with a nook in a corner just big enough to unroll a futon or two in, some shelf space for personal items and a small irori. All of it cramped across and in between the others’ hunting equipment (not a proper living space by any means, but Nagakura didn’t seem to mind). Although the rain wasn’t a down pour, the winds were fierce and he found himself drenched in a matter of minutes. Given he was almost there already, and with the only half-way compelling reason to turn back being risking getting an earful about dragging mud all over his brothers house; he trudged on.
It hadn’t rained all month, so the weather suddenly deciding to turn sour right the same night he reached his wits end, and admitted to himself he needed help, felt like a cruel joke. But he’d later quietly thank whatever power was looking over him for the convenient excuse of his assailants footsteps being masked by the offending weather. Getting caught off guard on a perfectly tranquil night would’ve been too low of a blow for his already fragile current state to withstand.
His movements had turned sluggish as the fight dragged on, and his eye wouldn’t cooperate and focus properly on the man rushing towards him, a blur of red and grey. He ducked on instinct, the others’ outstretched leg barely missing the side of his head.
Seeing a chance to get the upper hand in the fight, he planted a foot to his side and willed his heavy limbs to propel himself upwards. With the other man still mid round house-kick, it was easy to wrap his forearms around his waist and pull him in, the others back pressing against his own exposed chest.
“Ya gettin’ slow on me, Ryoma-chan.”
He felt Ryoma tens in his arms, and for a moment it felt like that was it; the fight was over. He weakened the vice grip he was holding him with, but before he could untangle his arms and step back- Ryoma grabbed unto his forearms, keeping him in place. He leaned his neck over the others shoulder again and gave him a confused look, only to be met with what was, by Ryoma standards, a shit eating grin.
Without warning, he threw himself towards the grass by the side of the dirt road, and did a forward roll over Okitas poor, tired body. Ryoma turned around and straddled his lap, slamming his hands over his shoulders to keep him in place.
“You’re one to talk...” He panted above him, hair a mess. “…barely putting up a fight. I almost took offence to it.”
Blades of wet grass stuck to the sides of his face and open palms, the smell of rain and mud and rot and blood and Ryomas weight on him overwhelming his senses. At the very least his back was serving as a makeshift tent, giving him a respite from the rain. Still, some raindrops slid their way across Ryomas neck, and when one just so happened to fall down on his own lips, Okita had to will himself not to part them and get a taste of him. He blinked, and chose to focus on the vague smell of iron still coming from somewhere above him.
“Are ya bleeding?”
Ryoma looked taken a back for a second, and seemed to wrestle with some internal conflict before sitting up and straightening his back. Okita followed suit and near forgot the question he’d just made with both: the view and feeling of Ryoma sitting on his lap, and the sight of blood soaking the sleeve of his grey kimono where he’d apparently cut him sometime during their fight.
Ryoma looked back at him after inspecting the torn, bloody fabric along the small cut, brow furrowed.
He brought his hands up to clasp around the sides of Okitas arms.
“Are you okay?”
His warm hands held onto him with a gentle grip, like Ryoma could tell he was decidedly not okay and was trying his best to keep him from metaphorically falling apart.
He must’ve fallen face first in a ditch on his way to Nagakuras place. Yea, that was it, he must be on the brink of death and this was all just a big and warm hallucination his brain was concocting to give him a peaceful sendoff. For a split second he debated whether to use his newfound near-death-lucidity to give himself a better last dream. Maybe one where instead of sitting under the cold rain with grass stuck up his ass, they were in a dry and comfortable futon somewhere far away from that valley. With something else up his ass.
“Okita?”
Ryomas voice snapped him out of the fantasy and he looked up to meet his gaze. Those dark eyes of his drank him in and for a split second he wasn’t so sure that the theory about this all being in his head wasn’t real. The moonlight above them and the rain made him look like a goddamn angel and he had to take a moment to blink away all the very stupid things he wanted to do in that moment and get back to the problem at hand. Reluctantly, he gently yet firmly took Ryomas hands off himself, then leaned back and braced on his forearms to make some space between them.
“’m fine, was on my way to Shinpa-chans place before gettin’ ambushed by a handsome devil.”
He felt Ryoma stir on top of him but make no move to get off. The wind had quieted down and its rampage was replaced with the rumble of the rain picking up a steady pace ever so slightly around them.
Neither of them spoke for a long moment, and Okita tried drowning out his thoughts by focusing on the rainfall. It did not work. His stomach suddenly growled, and he was once again painfully aware of just how hungry he was. Ryoma must’ve heard it too. Hell, he probably felt it with how close he was. Okita chanced a glance at him and immediately regretted it. Ryoma had that serious and determined look on his face he sometimes got when they discussed battle strategies, or got really into a song at the bar, and it made a shiver run up his spine.
“...When was the last time you ate?”
Okita made a show of scratching his goatee and thinking real hard about the question, humming under his breath. After an appropriately dramatic pause, he snapped his fingers and looked up at him, blankly.
“Last night. An old woman at the inn took a shine to me, served me some oden after I came back from the smith shop-”
“You know that’s not what I meant.” Lightning struck overhead and Okita flinched, sitting upright again. What the hell was with the weather tonight?
Ryomas eyes were fixed on his face, and his composure, paired with his intense glare, made Okita catch on that he was apparently perfectly fine with staying planted on his lap in the middle of what was starting to look like a storm until he got some real answers. Usually, he’d be more than happy to indulge his stubbornness, but tonight wasn’t the usual. He was cold, exhausted and so very, very hungry. He took a moment to weight his options. Ryoma wouldn’t take a half-assed answer, which was the best he felt he could muster at the moment, so talking sense into him about dropping the issue and going their separate ways wasn’t going to work. He could push him off and book it the rest of the way to Nagakuras place, but in his weakened state he was sure he wouldn’t make it more than a couple of steps before getting tackled to the ground again, and then they’d be back at square one.
He could only think of one other option that would yield any results for either of them. He let out a tired sigh, and wrapped his hands under either side of Ryomas thighs.
“What are you-?” Ryoma cut himself off with a gasp as Okita hoisted him up and got on his feet.
Ryoma barely had time to process their new position when Okita proceeded to lift and fling him unceremoniously over his shoulder, and start running back down the dirt road.
His shoulder dug into Ryomas stomach, and his arm on that side wrapped around the back of his knees to keep him from sliding off. He could vaguely make out Ryoma spitting venom over his shoulder, but he settled on ignoring whatever threats he kept yelling his way and keep running. He wasn’t exactly putting up a fight to be let down, seemingly okay with letting himself get carried around like a sack of flour for the time being. And sacks of flour don’t ask questions, so he had every right to ignore him. Besides, he figured it could all wait once they weren’t outside anymore and their voices didn’t have to compete against the suddenly torrential rain.
He eventually reached the fork in the road that served as a landmark to the shacks location, stopped, and turned to his right. He could see the structure in the distance, sitting a little ways in where the forest started and the valley ended. Nagakura had even gone the extra mile of planting moss and shrubs on the outer walls and roof, making it near invisible if you didn’t know it was there already. With a shaky smile on his face he tightened his grip around Ryomas legs and started making his way back through the grass, towards the treeline.
He wasn’t sure for how much longer Ryoma would allow him to keep hauling his body around with no explanation. At least the fact he was still firmly draped over his shoulder and had decided to just hang on to the back of his blood stained haori instead of ripping it off and strangling him with it was a sign he hadn’t pushed his luck too far.
“We’re almost there Hajime-chan, just hang on tight.”
He reached up and patted the back of Ryomas thighs with his free hand, and picked up the pace.
Once inside, Okita set him down next to the door and fumbled through the shelves on the other side next to the entrance for a lantern, the little moonlight coming in through the door not helping in the slightest. His fingers brushed against the familiar thin metal handle and he pulled it off the shelf, twisting the knob at its base and praying his brother had left it with some oil. He let out a sigh of relief and closed the door as the flame sprung to life inside the glass, and set it back down on a stool under the previously raided shelves. The place looked more or less the same as the last time he’d been over. Notably, Nagakura had fixed the hole in the wall he himself had made with his head after one too many cups of shōchū (just to prove that he could, the alcohol had little to do with his thought process in the matter). Even more notably, and upsetting: the shack was more or less empty. Even the jars next to the sunken irori that were usually left filled with blood for him were full of nothing. It wasn’t uncommon for his brother to pack up and leave for a day or two to do one thing or another, but he usually gave him a heads up before doing so.
He fumbled around the place after throwing some wood into the irori and lighting it up, looking over shelves and inside pots and under the secret lose floorboards for something, anything he could eat. After opening the last straw basket next to the front door, only to find it full of tea leaves, of all things, he finally admitted defeat. Nagakura had either taken everything with him or finished it all up before leaving. Which left Okita with no choice but to curl up and die right then and there. That way Nagakura would at least feel guilty and responsible once he came back from wherever he’d gone off to, and Okita could haunt him from beyond his poor excuse of a grave.
He slincked towards the open fire again and crouched, hoping for its warmth to bring some comfort. Instead, he was thoroughly confused when, after letting out yet another defeated sigh, he could see his breath in front of him. The room had turned uncomfortably cold. He got up and turned around, only to almost ram straight into Ryoma. Right. He was still here.
His arms were crossed over his chest and he had a look of both exasperation and worry spread across his face, his brow not knighted together for once. Okita couldn’t tell if it was the hunger affecting his reasoning skills, but he couldn’t read Ryoma for the life of him. The guy had let himself get picked up and taken across a valley and into a sketchy shed where he then silently and patiently waited for him to finish inspecting every square inch of. If Ryoma was going to hurt him he would’ve done so back at the valley, that fact on top of the look in his eyes made him subconsciously drop his guard and he suddenly felt exhausted to high hell, and jumpy.
Things were bad. He hadn’t exactly thought up a plan B when he started making his way across the valley. And with the storm going on outside, it didn’t seem like he’d be able to make his way back into town before his body gave out under him. He’d crossed more than a couple of stray cats on the stretch of road between the inn and the towns entrance, and he suddenly wished he’d broken his promise to Nagakura on keeping cats out of his diet. It’s not like their bodies even held enough blood to quench his thirst to begin with, but they could’ve alleviated it somewhat.
He looked over Ryoma. Strands of hair stuck to his forehead, and his clothes looked dark and heavy on his form. They should’ve probably hung them to dry the moment they stepped in, but being wet and uncomfortable wasn’t exactly a problem at the forefront of Okitas mind. The rain had made the dark spot on his sleeve where he’d bled through spread more across the fabric, and the smell wasn’t as strong as before, having been watered down, but it was enough to make him feel dizzy. The fire had finally decided to do its job and warm the room up, and its light made Ryoma look as enticing as he smelled: with his features softened and the warm glow highlighted the water drops still clinging to his skin, Okitas eye zeroing in on one as it slid down his neck.
He hadn’t realised how close he’d gotten to Ryoma until he felt a hand in his chest firmly keep him from leaning in and-
“Okita.”
His voice was levelled, but there was something under it that poked at his inhibitions. Ryoma didn’t look scared, his eyes ran across his face curiously and Okita could’ve sworn he felt the steady hand in his chest falter, only letting him get the slightest bit closer before stopping him again. Ryoma was waiting for him to do something.
He took a phew steps back before throwing himself backwards and lying flat on the tatami, next to the irori and the fire burning in it.
He couldn’t do it, not to him. He’d only lived in this state for a couple of decades at that point, and in that time he’d found that not everyone reacted the same way to being bit. He didn’t have to rely on feeding off people often, thanks to Nagakura, but the times he had he’d found that, if he was careful enough, some would wake up hours later, walking it off like nothing happened. Others would wake up with the same hunger for blood as him, but most didn’t wake up at all, regardless of how careful or quick he was. He hadn’t figured out what exactly prompted each result, and wasn’t sure there even was a common denominator.
Ryoma sat down on his knees next to him, facing his way, and Okita draped an arm over his face to try and keep himself from sitting up and pouncing on him. But when he felt Ryoma shift at his side, he cautiously lifted his arm an inch to peek under it at him.
Ryoma was rolling up his sleeves and passing a hand through his hair in an attempt to smooth it out. Being flung around under heavy rain had left him looking a mess, and all the articles of clothing he wore, unlike Okitas simple haori/hakama combo, looked uncomfortable to have to sit in while drenched. This was as good a distraction from his impending death as any.
He got up and shrugged his haori off, throwing it over the makeshift drying rack standing against the wall on a side of the irori. Reaching up, he untied his topknot and ruffled his hair, splitting it near, but not quite, down the center with his fingers. Ryoma had silently gotten up after him, so he stepped aside to give him some room and let him follow suit. Okita pressed his bare back against the space in the wall next to the drying rack, and slide his way back down to the floor.
In hindsight, a mistake.
He rested his head back against the wall and just watched as Ryoma undressed. He had a feeling the other was doing so slower than necessary, but with his head still feeling airy and the entire situation being as unconventional as it was, he couldn’t mentally accuse him of putting on a show on purpose. A part of himself expected him to strip down to his fundoshi, but Ryoma followed after him and only took his haori and kimono off, leaving them both shirtless and in their respective soaking wet hakama. He stood there a moment, seemingly thinking something over. Then he untied his hair and raked his fingers through it, letting it sit on his shoulders and not bothering to smooth back the bangs that fell over his forehead.
It wasn’t the worst thing Okita could imagine being the last thing he saw before passing over to the next world. In any other normal circumstance, where his head wasn’t spinning and his memory did its job, this would be a sight he’d compare to the start of more than a couple of dreams he’d had.
Ryoma took a seat next to him, mirroring his position and stretching his legs in front of himself, before crossing his arms. They both stayed like that for a while, listening to the still pouring rain outside and the kindling of the fire at their feet. He couldn’t exactly keep postponing the inevitable, so he braced himself and just went for it.
“Its been a little over a month.” His voice came out lower than he would’ve liked it to, and his accent slipped near the end. “Last time I ate, I mean.”
Ryoma had sat on his good side, so he could see from the corner of his eye that he looked deep in thought, looking forward at the fire and mulling something over with the muscles in his jaw. After a moment of contemplation, he turned his head to face him. Okita felt compelled to do the same, while still leaning back heavily against the wall.
“Let me help.” He hated how casual and innocent the offer sounded.
Ryoma had probably gone over all the options they had available to them already, same as him. He knew there was no food anywhere in the room and that it looked like the rain wasn’t stopping anytime soon, so going out to buy or kill anything for him wasn’t an option either.
He swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat and just stared at him for a moment. His stomach growled again, Okita really wasn’t sure he’d last much longer if things kept going the way they were.
“Is there any risk of you turning?”
He asked cautiously, non humans seemed to have immunity to it, and he’d suspected for a while that Ryoma wasn’t fully human. But he’d never been able to pin exactly what he was. A part of him hoped Ryoma just so happened to have a different plan in mind, and would sneer at him for suggesting that he’d let him sink his teeth into him. After all, maybe he’d misunderstood Ryomas offer.
“Not that I’m aware of.” No such luck.
Okita met him with a pointedly unconvinced look, and he took a moment before elaborating.
“I’ve been bit before.” Ryoma tightened his crossed arms further, and straightened his back. “Nothing-”
“Who bit you?” The question slipped past his lips, abated by his current mental state, and he decided to not dwell on the possessive tone that dripped from it.
Ryoma got an amused look on his face and unfolded his arms, laying his palms flat on his thighs. It looked like a weight had lifted off him. “My brother and I used to roughhouse when we were younger,” He turned towards the fire, as if he could see in it the scene he was describing. “he bit me once on accident and our… guardians lost their minds over it.”
He let out a huff as a warm smile spread across his face, and added “They sent the rest of our siblings to a neighbours’ and locked themselves with us both in the cellar, waiting for something to happen. But nothing ever did.”
He pushed all the questions that followed that freely granted vivid look into Ryomas past to the very back of his head, and forced himself to stay on track. Pillow talk could wait for after he wasn’t at deaths door anymore.
“Ya sure that wasn’t just a fluke?”
Ryoma gave him a confused look. This guys brother was apparently also a vampire, yet he seemed to have no clue of how this all worked, aside from a surface level understanding that ‘no blood = no good’.
“This didn’t exactly come with instructions ya know,” he started “some things turn, some don’t- most of ‘em just die.”
Ryoma took a moment to process the information he should’ve probably been privy to already, then spoke again.
“So there’s only around a fifty-fifty chance of me dying from it?” It always took Okita by surprise whenever Ryoma reminded him that he is, in fact, an idiot. Despite his seemingly stoic composure. And to Okitas horror, he opened his mouth again.
“It’s my fifty-fifty against your one hundred.” Ryoma tilted his head and gave him a look, as if it was a no-brainer to take those odds.
“Give me some credit, it’s more like ninety percent.” He lied and forced a weak grin. Ryoma didn’t give him any sort of a reaction, he knew he had Okita cornered.
Those odds were bad. He wouldn’t want to take them even if there was only a one percent chance of Ryoma dying, or turning, or regretting it. He himself carried regrets that he would never set down, the guilt a reminder to keep going and never make the same mistakes. He’d seen first hand what turning could do to people. The things they’d become as they slipped further away from their humanity, or the things they’d put themselves through after regretting their choice.
He was sure he wouldn’t have had that much of a different end from them if Nagakura hadn’t been there for him. Okita suspected he only took up hunting to keep him fed whenever he couldn’t do so himself, even if he made fun of Okita for ‘being full of himself’ the one time he brought it up. The fact that Onis couldn’t contract vampirism or be affected by it in any way was also a plus, especially in the beginning when he was still getting a hang on the whole ‘not killing people’ thing. It was a good thing Nagakura knew a lot about vampires, at least more than Okita did when he was turned into one. And after crossing paths with the others younger sister a couple of times, and noticing the pattern of her only stopping by late at night and, like him, only eating raw, bloody meat or nothing at all, he realized why. And that they’d let him in on her secret. None of them ever brought it up, it was a silent understanding that they were in this together. And it helped Okita, having the clear picture, knowing why and how Nagakura knew where it was safe (enough) to draw blood from and what substitutes he could use. His sister, Yasuko, even took it upon herself to drop tips from time to time on how to ‘hunt’ more efficiently. Although she would normally deliver these tips hidden in the form of sodomy metaphors, for whatever reason, much to Nagakuras dismay whenever he was around to hear them talk about it. The woman had an odd sense of humour, and he found it fun to torture Nagakura alongside her.
Okita was also thankful that his brother was strong enough to deal with his outbursts whenever it all got… difficult to handle. When things got especially bad, Nagakura would sometimes let Okita bite into his arm until he calmed down, and his blood tasting like ink helped in speeding up the process of him learning to control his new impulses.
His eye trailed up Ryomas neck and he was suddenly very curios about what his tasted like. There was the chance of nothing happening if they actually went through with it…
He clicked his tongue and pushed himself off the wall, leaning forward, there had to be a way to convince this stubborn beefcake of a man to just drop it.
“Hajime-”
“Bite me.”
Well.
Stunned in place, he watched from the corner of his eye as Ryoma lifted his hands to the back of his own head and started fiddling with his hair, tying most of it back up and leaving lose strands to fall around his face, then sat up after him to be able to face him again. Okita was beside himself. He knew about Ryomas seeming lack of self-preservation, had had to deal with it first hand in the past, but this was leagues beyond how bad he’d gathered it to be.
He turned his head to face him fully as well, and the borderline pleading look in his eyes did him in. This was a terrible idea. Probably the worst either of them had ever settled on going through with together. He just had to hope Ryoma was built off the same things the people that didn’t get infected were. The guy was as strong as an ox, so his immune system should be as well, after all. Hopefully.
“Alright.” He managed to breathe out before turning to sit crossed legged at the others side, and lifted Ryomas arm with his hands.
“What are you doing?” The mixed signals might very well kill him before the malnourishment did.
“Suckin’ you?”
“No, I thought-” Ryoma shifted in place, cheeks a soft shade of red, and slowly brought his free hand up to rub against the side of his own neck, craning it to the side and locking eyes with Okitas’. “isn’t it supposed to be through here?”
There’s moments in life where a man is faced with difficult decisions. Okita fancied himself pretty adept in navigating through most of the bullshit and hard choices he came across in his day to day life. He had decades of experience under his belt at dealing with the stuff. But in that moment he could do nothing but hold his breath and gawk up at the soft and expectant eyes welding him into place.
He could explain himself. Give Ryoma the same rundown about pulse points and blood intake and whatever else Nagakura had given him dozens of times when he was still learning.
But if he was offering himself like that, what harm was there in indulging? As long as he was quick about it, things would be fine. He didn’t need to drink until he wasn’t hungry anymore, just enough for his stomach to stop trying to digest itself. Once the storm died down he could go off and hunt some wild animals or track down some douchebags and feed little by little until Nagakura came back. The fact that he’d had no luck doing that before this point not withstanding.
He let out a steady breath, trying to calm his nerves, and flicked his head towards the wall behind them.
“Lean back.”
Ryoma blinked at him but did as he was told, and pressed his entire back against the wall, a little rigidly. If he sat on his lap like this the angle would be a bit awkward, having to crouch a little to reach his neck. Making up his mind quickly on the matter he got up on his knees, with Ryomas legs in between them. He looked up, and gave Okita a questioning look. Okitas skin prickled with anticipation and he figured just fixing their positions himself would be quicker then asking him to move.
Ryoma couldn’t suppress the sound that ripped from the back of his throat as Okita gripped the sides of his hakama and pulled his hips towards himself, his back dragging lower against the wall. The flash of uncertainty in Ryomas face almost gave Okita pause, but it was quickly replaced with a piercing, daring look and it was all he could do not to lean in and tear into him then and there.
He straddled Ryomas thighs and settled on them, hovering a hairs width over his tanned chest. While bracing his palms on the floor in between the others arms he lowered himself even further into his space, lips brushing against the skin between his neck and shoulder. He felt Ryoma tense under him and, not seeing a point in delaying it any longer, leaned in. Tongue pressed flat against his skin and teeth sinking into it. Ryoma sucked in a breath at the feeling but remained still, leaning his head back against the wall. Okita gave him a second to relax into it, and himself a moment to breathe in his musk and taste his skin, before starting to drink.
The first phew drops of blood to trickle down from his fangs to his tongue sent shivers through his nerves. He was right about Ryoma after all: this wasn’t human blood. And it was disorienting, not being able to name what exactly was coating his teeth and dripping down from his parted lips, while at the same time not caring enough to stop. The taste was overpowering and foreign, yet he could make out hints of something familiar under it all. Not that he was in any position to try and place it in the moment, but a passing thought is a thought nonetheless.
He let his body rest flush atop Ryomas and snaked a hand around his waist to let it rest on his lower back, while the other came up to cup the other side of his neck. He sunk his teeth in a little deeper and the surprised, airy gasp it dragged from Ryoma made his head swim. A part of Okita was sure he would come out from this drunk.
He slid the hand on Ryomas neck further back, resting his fingers around it and hooking a thumb under the side of his jaw, pressing down firmly. He could feel Ryomas quickened heartbeat through it, and the sensation, on top of finally having some blood on his system, made him snap back into reality. How he hadn’t noticed Ryomas iron grip around him before that, he did not know.
Okita winced once his brain processed the amount of pressure around himself, it felt like Ryoma was trying his hardest to crush his rib cage against his own, and the sting of nails digging into the expanse of his back woke him up further. But it was processing the sound of Ryomas winded breathing against his ear what made him unclench his jaw and jerk back.
“Shit-” Okita haphazardly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, cutting the red strings of saliva that followed after it, ending with him no cleaner than before doing so, and sat back. Pulling both his hands from where they perched on Ryomas body only to have them fuss over the rest of it. He smeared the blood running down the others shoulder and chest in a futile attempt at wiping it off, before bringing both his bloodied hands to cup his warm face gently, without a thought to the mess his ministrations made in their wake.
“Still with me?”
His nerves calmed down once he’d made sure Ryoma was fine, and if Okitas heart was still beating, it would’ve probably hammered its way out of his chest at the sight. Ryomas eyes looked up at him with an odd droopy intensity, and a relaxed smile tugged at the edges of his lips. It almost looked like he was drunk, with his eyelids looking heavy and a pretty blush spreading along his face and neck, mixing in with the blood, his lips parted and chest heaving. The question he’d made about his state completely taking a backseat as Okitas eye took it all in. In between his hands, he cradled one of the most fearsome and lethal men he’d ever crossed swords with. A man who nodded lazily, presumably an answer to his question, and nuzzled against one of his palms, getting blood over the corner of his mouth and nose. ‘Cute…’.
As much as he enjoyed the suffocating smell of blood and the way it looked smeared across Ryomas cheeks and chest; it really was a mess. Cleaning it all up with their limited supplies would be a bit of a challenge. Not that Okita minded, he’d lick it all off both of them if Ryoma allowed him to. He jumped at the feeling of Ryomas hands kneading lazily at his thighs and smoothing up his waist. When did they even get there?
He brought his hands down to the others shoulders and let a sound close to a chuckle slip past his lips. Whatever had taken over him before was gone now, Ryoma seemed to be well and he wasn’t hungry anymore. Plus, he’d gotten to feel him up and hear him moan, Okita really couldn’t have hoped for better results than these- Ryoma had moaned. Had he enjoyed it? As much as him even? The hands gliding up and down his thighs and waist seemed to indicate that to be the case, and the goofy, blissed out look on his face was another point in that favor. There was too much to unpack, and Okita was tired, even Ryoma seemed close to passing out himself. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to get cleaned up, throw himself on the futon Nagakura had left behind and wrap himself around the furnace that was Ryomas body.
He heard a hum under himself and his eye darted back up to scan Ryomas face.
“Feelin’ better?” The words came out vaguely slurred, and the overtly relaxed look on his face made him look extremely dumb and… really kissable.
“Yeah,” He slid his hand up and gently brushed over the teeth marks he left earlier with his thumb. “sorry ‘bout this.”
Ryoma shivered under the touch and shook his head.
“Don’t be,” He took in a dizzy breath. “I wanted you to.”
The wording of that burned straight down Okitas lower stomach and threatened to send him spiralling. Instead of giving in to that, he barked out a laugh and cupped Ryomas cheek, smearing the blood there with his thumb and relishing in the soft sounds that tumbled from the back of Ryomas throat at the contact.
As much as he wanted to stay in that moment, he didn’t want the blood to dry up on their skin. He’d found some dry rags and stored water on his earlier siege of the place, and figured they were better than nothing.
“Hold on.” With that, he mustered up enough will power to get up off his lap and take a knee, standing up. Ryoma sat there, watching him fumble around the room and listening to the still pouring rain. It had been a weird, long night. He’d bumped into Nagakura on his way to a bar, and the anxious energy emanating from the usual levelheaded and stoic man made him reach out. Nagakura didn’t exactly dodge his questions and offers of help as much as he just didn’t give any direct answers to them. He seemed tense and uncharacteristically reserved so Ryoma took the hint and left him to his own devices. This was Nagakura, if he really needed help with something, he wouldn’t have turned him away. So the fact that he had gave Ryoma some peace of mind. Even if it was a little weird.
And it was that weirdness that kept him mulling over the interaction and wondering what it was that had him so frazzled. Then Okita popped into his head and the worry returned at full force. Had something happened to him? It would explain Nagakuras… demeanor, at least. As if on cue, he spotted that familiar bloody haori walking out of town, and followed him. His intuition hadn’t been wrong, Okita didn’t look well. And the fact he hadn’t noticed Ryoma walking not twenty feet behind him for the ten or so minutes before he pounced was proof enough. He’d give him a good fight and then offer to help, just as the other always seemed to do for him.
He hadn’t expected things to turn out, well, like this. He was never one to look a gift vampire in the fangs, though.
Okita came back more or less cleaned up and retook his place on his lap, setting down a small bucket filled with already red tinted water to the side and holding up a damp cloth. Ryoma took a moment before answering the unasked question with a nod, and leaning his head back against the wall.
Okita passed the cloth along Ryomas pec and collarbone, cleaning up what had dripped down and the mess he’d made of it earlier, his free hand on his other shoulder to steady him. Things fell into a comfortable pace, dipping and wringing out the rag when it got too bloody before going straight back to smoothing it across the others skin. Once he was satisfied with the cleanliness of the others chest, shoulders and neck, he moved up to Ryomas face, leaving everything clean except for some blood on the corner of his mouth, where he’d rubbed against his palm. The rag was dirty by now and the water wasn’t in any better shape, it wouldn’t be sanitary to use them to clean his mouth and all. So he did the right thing and licked it off.
Ryoma didn’t move a muscle, and when Okita leaned back he had to bite his tongue as to not laugh at how Ryoma was staring up at him with the biggest, wettest eyes he’d ever seen on a grown man. It was… juvenile. It really didn’t suit him, acting like a love-struck teenager. But no one got to decide what two men like them got to do for fun. And this was fun. Whatever ‘this’ was. There weren’t even any witnesses to chastise him later for his behavior, so he wasn’t about to go ahead and do it himself.
The weather, as his stomach, seemed to have calmed down by then, and Okitas eye slipped to the side towards his unmade futon on the corner. Nagakura didn’t bother picking up after him at this point, and he was more than fine with that arrangement. Especially when it worked out in his favor, like making it less work to go to bed.
He flashed Ryoma a smile before rolling off his lap and crawling towards the futon, falling on his back into it and letting out a deep sigh. But after a moment too long of no Ryoma slumping into the space next to him, he raised his head to find him still sitting against the wall, glancing at the door and fiddling with his hakama. The image of a kicked puppy popped into Okitas head and he bolted back across the floor, grabbing onto his bicep gently.
“It’s late. Yer sleeping here tonight.”
He got on his feet and pulled Ryoma up with him, taking in the suddenly relieved look on his face before bending down and throwing him with little fanfare back over his shoulder. This time, thanks to the walls isolating them from the wind and rain, he could perfectly hear Ryoma nag at him about it.
“Damn it Okita, what’s with- oof-!” Getting the wind knocked out of you, yea, being dropped on your back will do that. Even if it is on a soft and fluffy surface.
Okita got on his knees above him and caged Ryomas head in-between his forearms. Ryoma huffed and glared up at him, the usual intensity and annoyance present in that action nowhere to be found.
“You find carrying me around against my will fun?”
Okita laughed, loud and full of something that sounded close to fondness. “Last time I checked, yer more than capable of getting off me by yourself.” Ryoma turned his head to the side, embarrassed. He wasn’t wrong, but he wasn’t about to admit that to his face.
Slowly, Okita leaned down, lips brushing over the others ear. “’Fact that you didn’t even attempt to do that, well, almost makes me think you liked it.” Yet another thing he would never admit.
Ryoma hooked an arm around his back and grabbed onto his shoulder, holding onto his side with his other hand, and flipped him to lay on the futon, switching their positions. Being taken by surprise like that sent a shiver up Okitas spine, and he could do little more than just stare up at him, starstruck.
“Could say the same about you,” Ryoma laid with a leg stretched in between both of his, open palms planted on either side of his head, hair loose and falling over his shoulders. “always letting me pin you down like this.”
“Nah,” Okita grinned and slid a hand up to the small on his back, the other cupping his cheek, thumb brushing over the blush there. “never like this before.”
Ryoma took a moment before closing his eyes and leaning into it. Neither of them was used to this kind of intimacy, or at least had gone without it for longer than they cared to admit. It was nice, letting go, sharing warmth.
Ryoma closed the distance between them, resting his head on the crook of Okitas neck and letting out a deep sigh.
“Tired.” He murmured against his collarbone, and shook with the movement of Okitas laugh beneath him.
“Then go to sleep already.” He shot back while wrapping an arm around his back and yawning.
The warm breath on his skin, the smell of Ryomas hair and the near maddening pressure of him clinging onto his chest had Okita wishing he wasn’t as exhausted as he was, wanting to enjoy this little slice of heaven they’d carved out for themselves as much as he could. It wouldn’t be the last time they had each other like this, it couldn’t be. Okita himself would make sure of that. Aside form the more vital reason of wanting to get his hands all over him, he wanted to get a taste of that blood of his again. It wasn’t human blood, of that he was sure, but looking back he still couldn’t figure out what it was. That hint of something he’d tasted before was probably linked to oni blood, he’d had enough of that at this point to identify it easier than most. Was Ryoma like Nagakura? Something similar at least?
The man in his arms stirred and let out a soft noise that made him lose his train of thought completely. He had all the time in the world to figure out what Ryoma had running through his veins, and dig up more of his past, right now he should only be focusing on the heartbeat drumming against his chest, the parts of his body that felt on fire in all the places Ryomas met his, and the faint scent of blood still lingering between them. And that’s exactly what he did as he drifted off into probably the best night of sleep he’d had in a really long time.