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The building still reeked of hops and barley.
That thick-sweet, spoiled scent had settled into every porous surface—into the beams and the rafters, into the slats of the floorboards where the beer had run, ankle-deep in places. It soaked through the grain of the wood and the wool of Tsukishima’s uniform. Even the coarse band of his cap, which had slipped back off his head, had gotten saturated. Now, with the windows cracked and the night air trickling in, the room had gone cold and sharp, but the smell clung close to the skin.
Tsukishima had been caught in the middle of it. Not just soaked but doused, head to foot, with every inch of his uniform clinging to him and foaming slightly where it squeezed tight to his ribs, rubbing the strip of skin raw where his belt was clasped tightest.
He’d tried to mop it up. That had been his first mistake. Kneeling there, already reeling from the sting of alcohol through his nostrils, pressing towels and rags against the slosh of warm beer and glass grit, and with every motion something in his body gave a little more. He’d felt the heat behind his eyes. The ache in his lower back. A pressure that pulsed behind his navel and wouldn’t let up.
That had been some time ago. An hour? Two? The oil lamp on the far table was nearly out, its flame guttering against the damp. It cast thin shadows across the barrels and floor, stretching long over the uneven wood. Tsukishima had given up mopping long ago and had instead leaned back against one of the bare pillars, breathing through his teeth, knuckles white on his thigh.
That was when Koito came back.
The door opened with a click and a faint rattle of the warped wood against the frame. He stepped in slow, boots careful, one hand still tucking his gloves into the satchel at his hip. He didn’t call out. Didn’t ask what had happened. The way his gaze swept the room—sharp, pointed, flitting too quickly to be casual—made it clear he already had an idea. The kegs stacked by the wall had been shifted and overturned, one still leaking a lazy thread of foam onto the warped floorboards. Glass was swept into small piles, not clean but gathered, and the air was so heavy with malt and yeast it made his tongue press against the roof of his mouth.
He saw Tsukishima before he acknowledged him.
Still kneeling, back slouched and braced against the beam like it was the only thing holding him upright, Tsukishima didn’t look up, eyes dim and half-lidded, the hard line of his jaw trembling faintly with tension. His knees were wide and uneven on the soaked boards, hands curled on his thighs, and his cap had slipped down, the brim shadowing his eyes. The wool of his uniform clung to him like molasses, dark and sodden and shapeless, tight across his shoulders and chest where the fabric had dried slightly and drawn in. The buttons across his chest strained against the tug of wet fabric, one already popped loose.
Koito turned his head toward him only half-curious at first, more interested in locating the source of a draft creeping in through the boards, but eventually his gaze followed the hard line of his shoulders and spine down to the clench of his fingers.
“This is disgusting,” he said aloud, more to himself than anyone else. His tone rang through the beams and high rafters, too sharp for the space. Tsukishima didn’t react at all.
Koito took a few deliberate steps closer, boots loud against the damp boards. He was careful not to let his expression shift too much, but his mouth curled faintly at the corner when he got a good look.
“You really thought you could clean this up on your own?”
Tsukishima’s breathing was audible now—tight through his nose, as if his lungs were working around something. His shoulders rose and fell in an uneven rhythm, the flush crawling up his throat dark against his skin. There was a line of dampness at his temple, sweat or condensation, impossible to tell.
Koito came to a stop just beside him and let out a breathy scoff. “You look like hell.”
Nothing.
“Tsukishima.”
Still nothing.
Koito shifted his weight. “You’re not deaf.”
He nudged at Tsukishima’s knee with the side of his boot.
Nothing.
Another, firmer prod—not enough to hurt, but enough to jostle his balance. The heel of Koito’s boot slid slightly on the wet wood as he did it, and the motion pushed Tsukishima gently off-kilter.
Still no protest.
Koito crouched down partway, then rose again with a dissatisfied sigh, petulantly shifting his weight and giving him a slightly more deliberate push with his toe.
That got a reaction—Tsukishima’s spine tensed. The hollow of his throat worked. He swallowed and licked his lips, still not lifting his head.
Koito’s eyes narrowed faintly, something between irritation and curiosity blooming slow behind them. He tapped the toe of his boot against Tsukishima’s shin again, more rhythmic now. “Well?”
Tsukishima exhaled, slow and ragged. His eyelids dipped low, but he still didn’t raise his head. His voice, when it came, was a low rasp: “Sir.”
Koito paused. That should’ve satisfied him. He’d gotten his yes-sir, technically. But the delay pissed him off.
“What, was that so hard?” Koito muttered, looking down at him. “You’re slow tonight.”
Tsukishima exhaled, slow and rough.
Koito let his toe drift forward again, this time curling it slightly beneath Tsukishima’s thigh where he knelt, testing the firmness there, feeling the muscle twitch under pressure. Tsukishima’s breath hitched audibly.
Koito stilled. Then pushed again, just to confirm.
It was faint, but the reaction was real. A tautening of posture. A flicker of strain in the way Tsukishima’s hands gripped his own legs. He wasn’t reacting so much as containing himself.
Koito’s brow rose, slowly. Something like amusement crept into the corners of his mouth.
“You’re sensitive,” he observed, voice lilting upward. “From just that?”
Tsukishima didn’t answer. He didn’t lift his head. Koito’s boot slid up, light and deliberate, and stopped flat across Tsukishima’s abdomen.
“Here?” Koito asked, not gently. “Is it here?”
He left his boot there, not applying pressure but not withdrawing either. Tsukishima was breathing through his nose now, the way someone might in a waiting room, trying to stave off nausea or pain. His back had begun to curve forward, protective, drawn over his middle.
Koito stepped closer, planting his other boot beside Tsukishima’s thigh so that he could bracket him, to loom over him.
“What’s the matter?” he said, voice low and curved with faux concern.
“…Sir—”
Koito tilted his head. “What was that?”
Tsukishima grit his teeth. “This—
Koito stepped in further and set the ball of his foot against that same place, firm now, weight shifting with a calculated slowness. Tsukishima’s hands twitched like he meant to push him away, but they never followed through. He only tightened where he sat, knees buckling inward, thighs clamped tight and tense together.
Koito didn’t allow that. With a small huff, he kicked Tsukishima’s thighs apart.
The motion was sudden and rough, not hard enough to bruise but enough to make his knees skid wider on the slick wood. Tsukishima shuddered. One hand braced at his own inner thigh instinctively, but Koito only tutted, taking his time to prod the heel of his boot backwards and slide it gently, almost lazily, against the same spot, mashing his fingers under wet hobnails hard enough to make him gasp, before dragging the toe back.
Koito jutted out his chin and observed him, pressing more deliberately just below his navel, and the reaction was immediate—Tsukishima’s head fell back against the post with a faint thud, hands twitching hard where they gripped his thighs, the fingers of his left hand red from being stepped on. His jaw flexed. His throat worked. Sweat was beginning to bead faintly at his hairline again, in spite of the cold soak of his uniform, and one of his fists finally unclenched to splay against the boards beside his knee, as if he needed the support.
Koito leaned in a little and dragged the heel of his boot, slow and measured, from just beneath Tsukishima’s navel to the dip at his hip, and then down again in a firmer stroke. Tsukishima’s spine arched forward an inch, breath catching, and he immediately reined himself back with a tight inhale through the nose. His teeth clenched so hard the muscle jumped along his jaw.
“You can’t even sit still,” Koito said, with a breathy, delighted little laugh. He kicked again, a flippant jerk of his heel, jostling Tsukishima’s thighs wide. When Tsukishima started to draw them in reflexively again, Koito stepped between them with a pointed little stomp.
“No,” he said, prim as if scolding a child. “Don’t be rude.”
His boot found its place again just under the belt buckle, pressing into the taut rise where, distantly, Koito recalled his scar from Mukden must lay.
“That’s not very grateful, is it,” Koito said, pushing forward an inch at a time, speaking like he was drawing this out just to hear himself talk. “I come all the way back to check on you and this is how you behave. You didn’t even say ‘welcome back,’ let alone thank you.”
Tsukishima’s fingers twitched. His shoulders rose slowly, breath hitching again. His face was flushed deeper now, brows furrowed hard enough to crease his forehead.
“Don’t make that face,” Koito murmured, stepping in closer until his knees brushed Tsukishima’s shoulders. “It’s not my fault you were crawling around in a puddle like a dog.”
He gave another push, just slightly off-center, and Tsukishima finally let out a breath that could’ve been a sound—cut short at the back of his throat, caught and buried deep. He leaned forward this time, elbow braced on one thigh, trying to breathe through it.
Koito looked at him with growing amusement.
“Does it hurt?” he asked, eyes narrowing, and when Tsukishima didn’t respond, he bent at the waist to rest a hand casually on top of his head, fingers sifting into the damp prickle of his hair like a boy testing the heat of a stove. “You’re so warm,” he added, a low whisper.
Tsukishima swallowed, slow and deliberate. His neck moved with effort.
“Sir,” he said, ragged.
Koito grinned. “Uhuh.”
He straightened up and, without ceremony, planted his full weight down onto his forward foot—heel driving slow into the swollen tautness beneath it, all the softness of play gone in that one heavy, bracing shift. It wasn’t fast. It was worse for how gradual it was, his balance tipping forward like a lever drawn down into place, until all of it was settled over that single point of contact.
Tsukishima’s body jerked.
Not violently. Not even outwardly, not enough to lose his position or cry out—but something inside of him clearly gave. His breath left him in one sharp, shaky exhale and his hands went flat on the floor, elbows locked as if trying to keep himself upright. His back rounded. He doubled over an inch, then another. It was the weight of it, the inevitability, that made it unbearable. Like closing a drawer around something just barely too big to fit.
And then Koito felt it.
The tiniest shudder under his boot. The way Tsukishima’s hips flinched and held and then—
A warmth. Slow, then immediate. It soaked through wool and pooled beneath.
Koito froze, eyes wide. Then he leaned back a little, lifted his heel delicately from where it had been planted—and saw it spreading.
A gleam of moisture darkening further at Tsukishima’s front, seeping through his trousers. The thick wool did little to hide the shape of it: the way it spread outward and then down, warm and sticky. It had already begun to run—through the inner seam of his uniform pants, pooling on the wood below, snaking through the gaps of Tsukishima’s fingers from where he’d braced his palm on the wood.
Tsukishima did not move. He didn’t gasp or protest or flinch anymore. He stayed kneeling, hunched slightly forward, the shame visible only in how rigid his shoulders had become, how tightly his knuckles pressed into the grain of the floor.
Koito stood still for a long moment, one hand resting on his hip, staring down with round eyes, before he let out a stunned little breath, covering his mouth with one hand and laughing, short and mean.
“…Oh my god,” he said, voice cracking slightly with delight. “You’re—? Really? You actually—?
Tsukishima flinched.
“Oh my god,” he said again, giggling now. “You pissed yourself!”
He didn’t even try to hide the glee in his voice—he was delighted, genuinely, the way a child might be. It was ridiculous, it was grotesque, it was humiliating—and most of all, it wasn’t something that happened to Tsukishima of all people.
Koito crouched, then knelt, rocking back on his heels with his arms folded loosely across one knee, as if he were simply examining something curious and tragic. A dog hit by a cart. A painting someone had dropped face-first into a gutter.
He got close enough to see the way Tsukishima’s face had gone pale under the flush—clammy at the temples, mouth slack, eyes still low and unfocused. Whatever composure he’d had was long gone. He looked ruined. Like he’d been left out in the rain and forgotten.
“Poor thing,” Koito cooed, tilting his head. He reached out and patted Tsukishima’s cheek twice with the flat of his fingers, sharp and quick like testing for fever. “Didn’t even know it was coming, huh?”
Tsukishima stirred. A faint motion—his brows twitched. His mouth worked once, uselessly.
“I…” he started, voice barely a croak. He coughed once, swallowed hard. “…Was going to change. At the bath—”
Koito cut him off with a pointed clearing of his throat, reaching down and flicking one of the folds of Tsukishima’s soaked trousers with two fingers. The wet fabric gave a soft shlp. “You can’t even stand, can you?”
Tsukishima’s mouth pressed tighter. His shoulders jerked once in an aborted attempt to straighten—but he didn’t get far. He just swayed a little, then settled again against the post behind him, like gravity had gotten its hooks in deep.
“I can—” he said again, quieter. “I’ll go now. Sir. It’s fine.”
Koito snorted and reached for his waistband. His fingers brushed the sodden wool, warm from the inside out, and he made a faint sound of disgust that didn’t stop him. He worked the top button open, then the next. The fabric resisted him—too soaked to slip clean—but he took his time, dragging each one loose with exaggerated care.
As the fly parted, Koito tugged the fabric down just enough to bare the skin beneath—pale where it hadn’t flushed, damp all over. The hair trailing down from his navel was thick and dark, flattened to his skin by sweat and wet wool, and right through it—slashing down at a jagged diagonal—was the scar. It gleamed pale against his flushed skin, ridged and ugly, war-healed and twisted at one edge where the stitching must have pulled too tight. Koito knew that one. Mukden. Shrapnel from an artillery shell. Tsurumi’s life saved, just barely, by the meat of Tsukishima’s own body.
Koito’s face twitched, just slightly.
His breath caught faintly in his throat, and when he reached forward, it wasn’t with the same flippant scorn. His hand hovered, then came down light—fingers splaying just above the waistband, the pad of his middle finger dragging across the edge of the scar with a slow, greedy reverence.
Tsukishima twitched. His brow furrowed, a tiny tremor fluttering through his spine. He lifted his head slightly—just a few degrees—and blinked hard, trying to pull his gaze into focus. His lips parted, wet and ruddy from breathing hard.
“…What are you…” His voice was hoarse, almost lost under the sound of their breathing.
His hand drifted back up, fingers spreading wide over Tsukishima’s stomach, pressing just lightly at the scar again—just enough pressure to feel the tension rise beneath it, the small twist of Tsukishima’s hips trying to flinch away. Koito’s attention was nicked downward, to a strain that was decidedly new.
He palmed the front of the trousers gently down another inch and leaned in closer. His knees hit the floor with a soft thud, boxing Tsukishima in. From this angle, he could see the sweat collected in the hollow of Tsukishima’s throat, the way it trickled faintly down the exposed skin and caught in the dip above his sternum. His shirt was still on, but it was clinging to him like a wet rag—wrinkled, discolored, stretched thin at the buttons.
Tsukishima’s breath hitched. “Don’t—”
His hand lifted again, but Koito caught his wrist, and with an irritated little click of his tongue, shoved it down to the floor.
“No,” he said firmly. “Stay still.”
Then he kissed him full on the mouth.
It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t even particularly coordinated. Koito’s lips pressed wet and open-mouthed against Tsukishima’s slack jaw, his breath warm and sticky with malt. His tongue pushed shallowly past dry lips, brushed against teeth. The scrape of Tsukishima’s beard left his skin ruddy and raw, but Koito didn’t stop. He leaned into it, tilted his head and kissed him deeper, louder, like he was trying to wring sound out of him.
Tsukishima made a low, miserable sound into his mouth—something cracked down the middle, alarmed and soft. His hands twitched uselessly on the floorboards, pushing half-heartedly, like he couldn’t decide whether he was trying to stop it or steady himself. Koito palmed back up Tsukishima’s chest, pressed against the damp wool stretched there, feeling the tight, uneven rhythm of his breathing under his palm.
“I said,” Koito gritted, against his slack jaw, “stay still.”
Tsukishima’s mouth trembled beneath his.
Koito pulled back only a little, licking his bottom lip thoughtfully. Then he sat back on his heels and looked him over—uniform half-off, piss cooling on the floor, red-faced and slouched like something wrung out and tossed aside. Koito smoothed his palm up and down Tsukishima’s flank, like soothing a horse, before slowly spidering his fingers back to his fly, hitching his pants down enough to expose his fundoshi properly.
The fabric there had clearly suffered the worst of it, soaked through and yellowed with piss and beer—Koito briefly wrinkled his nose—but most of all, noticeably tented.
A thick silence stretched between them.
“You—“ Koito raised a damp finger.
“Stop,”
“You cannot be—“
“Sir,”
Tsukishima made a weak attempt to bat at Koito’s wrist, calloused knuckles brushing weak and dumb and easily knocked aside as the younger man hitched the soaked fabric down, a thin appraising smile curving the edge of his mouth.
Tsukishima’s cock lay heavy and half hard on his thigh, glistening with piss and beer, a dewy bead of precum oozing to pool at the hollow where his hip met his leg. Koito watched his stomach clench as he dragged his thumb from base to tip, a noise catching in his throat as he pressed the tip of his thumbnail into the ruddy slit.
He watched, round eyed as Tsukishima filled out in his hand, his fist sliding easily as he gave him a curious pump—dragging a strangled sound out of the older man’s throat—palm growing tacky with the… quite frankly filth he’d been sitting in.
“You’re really okay with this?” Koito tipped his head, breath puffing over Tsukishima’s cheek as he worked him over, a mean grin splitting his face as his Sergeant seemed to remember his limbs existed, shoving weakly at Koito’s chest and leaving a wet handprint on the tan fabric.
“Yyuggh,” He replied, intelligently. Koito nodded, because that made sense to him. A choking squeeze to the base of his cock forced a punched sound out of him, hips jerking upwards.
The weird piss-beer combo was good lube for all of two seconds, but it was starting to gum up and grow tacky. Koito lamented his camilla oil, stowed away in his trunk at the inn, as he licked a stripe up his palm, the acrid flavor collecting thickly on his tongue. For good measure, and to try and purge the taste, he dribbled a glob of frothy spit down the head, collecting it and smoothing his closed fist from base to tip.
Tsukishima’s chest heaved, breath coming reedy and high in his throat, and Koito shuffled forward on his knees, bracketing the older man in until they were chest to chest. His hips jerked fitfully, still half-asleep and sluggish in their movements, as if he was trying to fuck into Koito's grip and escape it at the same time.
Distantly, Koito nursed a distressing thought: He wanted... he wanted to swallow down Tsukishima's cock. He wanted to taste the bitter cocktail of piss and saliva and beer that coated his skin. He wanted to hear the sounds he could draw from the drunk, helpless man beneath him.
But, as far as he saw it, he was debasing himself enough just by letting his hands touch this swill. Koito studied Tsukishima’s face as he worked him over, jaw slack and loose, a stark contrast to his screwed shut eyes, eyebrows pinched and low. His breath fogged the little space between them, and Koito leaned forward to mouth at the tacky skin along his jawline, feeling the muscles there cinch and work as he dug his thumbnail into the slit of his cockhead, collecting the precum there.
Koito brought his thumb up and pressed it flat to Tsukishima’s tongue, eyes wide and lips pressed into a thin line as he watched the older man just take it, letting him press the pad of his finger onto his numb tongue, feeding him his own filth, a line of spit still connecting him as he trailed back to fist his cock again.
Tsukishima jolted as the touch returned—“Hnuh,”—far more rough than before, and Koito took a sick joy in watching Tsukishima’s confusion as he tried to arch both toward and away from his touch, feeling the muscles of his abdomen tense.
Tsukishima mumbled something else, Koito couldn’t make it out even as close as he was—it probably wasn’t anything coherent anyway, before the younger man blinked as something hot striped up against his chin. He tucked his head down, watching in mean satisfaction as Tsukishima convulsed like a man dying, cum splattering over both their chests, ruining their already gross uniforms.
Tsukishima kept making some awful, miserable noise, wheezy and hitched and somewhere in his throat, shaking his head and fisting at his soaked trousers as his hips jerked, once, twice, and then Tsukishima went heavy in an instant.
The full weight of him collapsed forward like a felled tree—one long, boneless slide that nearly took Koito out with him. His chin dropped against Koito’s shoulder, breath shallow, arms limp at his sides. His hair was damp and hot where it touched Koito’s cheek, and there was a faint tremor in his limbs still twitching through the aftershocks. Koito caught him out of reflex—arms cinching around his middle with a grunt of effort—and let them both ease awkwardly to the floor.
He exhaled through his nose, sharp and nasal, shifting back against the post as Tsukishima slumped half into his lap. For a moment he just stared down at him, lips parted like he wanted to say something clever, but couldn’t decide which shade of smug to go with.
A bruising pinch to the nape of his neck confirmed it—Out cold.
The heat of it all still clung in the air. The stink of beer and sweat and arousal was thick enough to taste—yeasty and sour and hot against the back of the tongue. Tsukishima’s uniform was thoroughly ruined. The front was soaked straight through, the wool sagging heavy with beer and striped with white, streaked at the knees with the darker stain of old malt where he’d knelt in the foam. His coat clung like a soaked blanket, warped and sagging at the hem. His fly was still partly open, half-tugged down from Koito’s earlier work, the fabric bunched obscenely at his hips, and the scar just barely visible through the crease in the fold, and after a moment Koito whistled to himself as he tucked Tsukishima back into his ruined fundoshi.
Koito leaned back on his elbows and regarded him.
“You look awful,” he said conversationally. “You know that, right?”
No answer, obviously.
Still, Koito clicked his tongue and gave a long, exaggerated sigh. “Can’t even handle a little beer and play without passing out. And here I thought you were supposed to be reliable.”
He prodded Tsukishima’s shoulder with his knuckles—not hard, just enough to make the weight of his body roll slightly off balance. Tsukishima’s head lolled to the side, his breath whistling faintly through parted lips. No response.
Koito stared for a second longer, then scrubbed a hand through his damp hair.
“…Ugh. You better not be drooling on me.”
Eventually, he shoved Tsukishima off his lap and onto his side with an inelegant grunt, letting him sprawl half onto the warped boards. Then Koito got to his feet, stretching with a yawn. He peeled off his jacket, flicked some dampness off it, and set about the vague approximation of “cleaning up.”
That mostly meant tugging Tsukishima’s coat off and flinging it across one of the overturned barrels. It hit with a splat. Then came the belt, which had left a deep welt along Tsukishima’s side from wet friction—Koito poked at it with the tip of one nail, then hummed in faint approval as he unbuckled it with a loud clink and tossed it aside. The rest, he left. He wasn’t going to undress him entirely. That would be too helpful.
Instead, he found a mostly-dry towel from the half-used stack near the door and dropped it unceremoniously over Tsukishima’s middle. More of a gesture than anything. Koito crouched back down beside him and dragged a finger through the mess on the floorboards, smearing Tsukishima’s own fluids over his slack mouth.
“Lucky you,” he murmured, voice dipped low again—half-mocking, half-indulgent. “I’m so generous.”