Wake Up

Author's Note: I've always wanted to write some JSRF fanfiction. And so then I wrote some! I was actually aiming for a different style than my usual for this, something closer to the kind of thing you see in LJ-centric media fandom than, say, the kind of stuff you see at y!gallery or on nifty.org. You can, uh, be the judge of whether or not I succeeded.

---

The GG's Graffiti Souls clattered against his chest as Clutch ducked into an alleyway. He hadn't seen any of them, but he was certain he was being chased. All of them talked so much about teamwork and solidarity; there's no way they'd let him go after he said he knew where Yoyo— the real Yoyo— was. And if they did... well, at least he'd get a bunch of Souls out of it.

"Yo," came a voice from ahead and he jerked back, screeching to a halt. One or two of the Souls dropped out of his hoodie pocket and clattered to the ground as he braked hard. There was a GG perched on the crossbar of a lamp right fuckin' in front of him, backlit by the setting sun. He was crouched down, froglike— leaning forward, his knees up almost to his ears, long arms hanging down. All he could see were his goggles, their reflective surface shining out brightly. They were crosshatched, lookin' like a spiders' eyes, completely obscuring his eyes. He looked freakish and creepy— most of the GGs did, really.

Clutch's skates rolled quietly against the cracked pavement as he backed away slowly. The GG noticed, though, and leapt from his perch and landed smoothly with the slightest clatter of wheels. He used the momentum to circle around in a shallow arc, coming up behind him. "You better return those souls, boyo," he said, words pronounced with the faintest accent.

"I didn't steal nothin'!" Clutch said nervously, putting his hands up. "Just took out a little loan— I know where Yoyo is, too!"

"Riiight," the GG said, skating around to Clutch's front. It was... someone wearing weird goggles, but not Beat's weird goggles. Kind of short, and pretty well-muscled for a rudie; he was dark-skinned with a shaved head and had a lot of piercings in his ears. Pretty hot, and kind of terrifying. "Hand 'em over, then."

Clutch pulled the jangling bunch of Souls from his pockets, slowly, and dropped them into the GG's hands, carefully. "I won't try nuthin' funny!"

The GG smirked at that, lips curving up to reveal his teeth. "Right," he said, sarcastically, again. "Where's Yoyo?" he added, after tucking the Souls in his shorts pockets, never once taking an eye off Clutch's nervous face— presumably, since he couldn't actually see where he was looking under those goggles.

"They got yr kid over in the Fortified Residential Zone." The GG looked skeptical and he added "I swear, man!" He paused, looked aside, and tried to say casually, like the idea had just come to him. "Hey, lemme help you out! I swear I won't try nothin' funny."

The GG looked Clutch up and down, probably judging him silently. "What d'you write?" he asked, eventually, and he took that to mean he was in.

"I write Clutch, man!" he said, extending a hand.

The other guy took it, squeezing hard as he replied "Garam," simply.

"So..." Clutch said, slowly skating backwards, away from Garam. "I'll go see y'all at the Garage, yeah?"

"No way," Garam said, grabbing hold of the front of Clutch's hoodie and dragging him close. "You and your spiky head are coming with me, got it?" Garam said, his mouth curled into an angry shape even as his goggles hid his expression. "Like you said, no funny business. But you'll regret it if we get there and Yoyo's not there."

Clutch swallowed nervously. Yoyo'd been there, definitely. He'd checked himself, following the Rokkaku brigades around. But who knew what they were up to, or how long they'd keep him there before moving him again. "N-no problem, man! I'll be there with you, no problem!" he babbled as Garam stared at him with those creepy spider goggles.

After a tense second, apparently Garam was satisfied by whatever it was he was looking for in his expression. He grabbed Clutch's wrist and skated off, dragging him behind.

It really did not take long for Garam to establish that he was, by far, the more experienced skater of the two. With Garam still dragging him by the wrist Clutch couldn't keep his fuckin' balance at all, but Garam swung him back and forth like he was a fuckin' rag doll, and used him as a gigantic counterweight. He pulled off all sorts of crazy tricks effortlessly, usually ones that left Clutch panting and nursing an aching body part after he'd landed badly.

His hand around his wrist at least gave him an excuse to look at him, all punked-up and fierce lookin' all the time, and with the self confidence to back it up— if he wasn't sure he'd smack him down (probably literally, too) he'd maybe try to hit that.

Garam reminded of people he used to know, cocky fuckers who knew they were hot and said it loud and clear. Garam didn't even need to say it. He didn't need to say much of anything, apparently.

Garam finally let go of him halfway through the sewers, since at that point, Clutch figured, he couldn't run away if he'd tried. The sewers were a goddamn crazy-ass maze, but Garam skated through them with ease, hurtling down long tunnels and slinging around corners like he had every twist and turn mapped out in his head. He'd let go of Clutch's wrist, aching by this point, to swing himself up onto a pipe. He ground along its length, skates kicking up a shower of sparks behind him.

Then, once they skated out of the low half-pipe into the Fortified Residential Zone... man, he was stuck right in the middle of the latest crazy shit going down between Rokkaku and the rudies, 'cause their fuckin' assassin branch had set up time-bombs all through the place.

Clutch managed to disarm one, clomping up a stairway in his skates and spending forever messing with the wires, sweaty and terrified. Garam skated all over the place, smashing in the video plates and deftly pulling out something that made them shut off. He tagged the wreckage for good measure; a sloppy 'GGs' across every one.

He'd heard the GGs were where the real talent was in the city, but... hearing about what they'd done, or even seeing their tags up in impossible places— none of that was anything compared to seeing what one of them was like in action. Garam skated effortlessly across houses, leaping back and forth between awning poles like it was the most natural thing in the world to do. He followed behind, just barely managing. He scrambled over fences Garam had jumped right over; he clambered across rooftops slowly and haphazardly that Garam had soared past, his skates barely seeming to touch the ground.

Then, a VTOL jet crashed straight through the skylight. And Garam took care of it. Garam did, a lone skater versus a serious war machine, tagging all across the sights, leaving long messy lines of paint over the sensors until it retreated. He'd never been so impressed in his life, watching him fearlessly take on something like that. He'd freed Yoyo from the cage almost casually, like an afterthought even in the midst of it, and then he joined in, some tiny little kid taking on a military jet.

They both left, back through the sewers. Garam took a second to turn back at him, smirking again. "If you were serious about joining the GGs, come by the garage some time." He was already turning away, and Clutch caught his shrug and the start of a grin, his lips curling up to show his flashing teeth. "Show us what you're made of."

He would've liked to make some snappy comeback, but all he did was nod dumbly. Yoyo started griping loudly to Garam as they skated off into the dark, and for a long time he could hear their distorted voices echoing back. The steady clack of their skates took even longer to fade away, leaving Clutch alone in the underworks.

---

Clutch went to the garage, of course. How could he not? Admittedly, knowing what he knew now, it was such a stupid idea to try and impress them by stealing their Souls... but whatever, it all worked out in the end.

They weren't very pleased with him when he showed up, but evidently Garam— or Yoyo— had talked to someone, and he was pulled aside by Gum and Tab themselves, the founders of the whole deal. So yeah, then he was an official member of the GGs. Didn't feel much different, still froze up when he ever ran into other GGs on the street. He couldn't believe that Beat— the Beat, who'd been around back in the day, the legendary king who'd tagged all across the city, the one who vanished without a trace and came back with even more skill— was just some scrawny redhead. He was short and twiggy. Like, he only recognized him because of his headphones and goggles. It was crazy.

Hanging with the GGs wasn't that much different from what he'd been up to before— he still hung around with his old posse; crashed at his old pad. But he slept over at the Garage, too, sometimes, and went out in the mornings to tag, everything bright and quiet (or as quiet as it got) in the early light.

It was after a week or two that Garam went aside to talk to him.

"I was thinking of tagging up the sewers," he said with little introduction. He had a pair of disposable ventilation masks in his hand, dangling by their straps. He cocked his hips, locking the wheels of his skates, glaring (or maybe just looking) at Clutch like he was daring him to respond.

Honestly, after the surprise of Garam actually talking to him it was all he could do not to stare, focus on the lines of his arm, the low curves of his wiry muscle and how he could see right through the edges of his shirt, backlit by the setting sun. Fuck, earlier in the summer he'd just gone around in his shorts, and Clutch felt a little angry that he'd missed it. The thick nubs of his nipple piercings just barely made peaks in the fabric of his heavy muscle shirt. "Want to come with?" Garam asked, his voice barely raising to make it a question.

Clutch ragged his gaze up to Garam's face. "Yeah, man!" He said, after a pause, "'course I do!"

Garam smirked again, as he always did. He started skating backwards, away from him, as he spoke. "Then c'mon, follow me," he said, already twisting his torso around to cleanly flip forward, skating off into the distance almost before Clutch could stand up. He at least knew the way to the sewers now, which was good— he barely got another glimpse of Garam until he skated around the final corner and dropped into the long winding overflow halfpipe. He found him just a little ahead, his legs pumping, his muscled calves and thighs flexing with each push. Clutch bit his lip and looked away, focusing on the ground between them as he propelled himself forward, trying to catch up before he reached the grating across the entrance.

Garam waited there for him, although by that time he was only a second behind, breath already coming a little fast. He bent over at the waist with his hands on his knees, panting dramatically to hide his very real shortness of breath. If Garam noticed— which, he wasn't kidding himself, he probably did— he didn't call him on it.

"You'll want this," Garam said at last, raising a hand to hold out one of the vent masks. Clutch looked up at him, then reached out to grab at it without standing up. His fingers touched Garam's, the contact so brief he only really felt it in retrospect, after the loose straps of the mask were dangling in his hand.

And then they were off, Garam leading the way through the winding tunnels. They skated in silence save for the occasional loud scrape of their skates against the floor, kicking up showers of stripes from the magnetic strips. Clutch focused mostly on just not falling behind; every time they hit a branch Garam barreled down one way or another and he had to fight the urge to scratch up the walls to leave some trace of their path into the depths.

He really hoped Garam wasn't taking him down here to murder him or anything.

Eventually, they passed through a huge dark room with the sound of running water loud in their ears. Garam skated over to a cracked-open door, the doorway clogged with old Poison Jam tags. The tunnel he picked ran downhill, definitely, and thankfully converged with a few pipes, their cheery red and blue construction colors at least giving some detail to the otherwise brutally functional overflow tunnels. He knew that trying to follow them back would get him at most as far as the huge overflow chamber, and just end in frustration and probably dying lost in the sewers, but he still focused on them almost to the exclusion of Garam's dark body ahead of him, silhouetted against the flashlight he had hung around his neck.

Still, when Garam abruptly kicked off the ground he would have jumped back in startled alarm if he wasn't so caught up trying to keep up with him. He was still full of energy, apparently— he landed from his jump with his skates angled against the wall. Sparks flew out in streams behind him as he ground the wall. He defied gravity for what felt like an impossibly long time before kicking off again in a smooth leap, pulling his legs up to do a 180 in midair, landing backwards on top of the largest pipe, skates locked against the metal guides.

Garam grinned cockily at him, making a beckoning gesture to jump up on the pipe too, but before he could really even consider it he ran out of tunnel to skate on.

The tunnel opened up into a dripping overflow chamber, near the top. There was a brief moment of sheer terror as he shot out of the tunnel, but there was a maintenance platform and stairway at the top. He jolted loudly and painfully across the metal grating, slamming at almost full speed into the railing.

Garam soared ahead, oblivious— or at least acting that way— to his pained grunt and loud swear. His ribs ached across his chest from where he'd hit the railing. The blue pipe he'd been on swooped up, running along the top of the room with ample room for a person to skate on top of, and Clutch just watched in amazement as Garam leapt from that pipe to a smaller one, spiraling around the edges of the room and finally landing by jumping off, wallgrinding again to land on the wet floor, coasting to a slow stop near the center. And all that before Clutch could even start down the steps, clomping noisily and awkwardly.

In a slight concession to his dignity he ground down the stair railing, taking what felt like an ungainly leap from the stairs to catch his skates on it, angling along the corners so fast and awkwardly he was afraid he was gonna bash his brains out on the floor. He flew off the end, feet suddenly without support, and he hurtled to the ground for an eternal second before he landed. His legs only wobbled a little as he pushed himself up.

Garam, as usual for when he did something dumb or impressive, watched him but didn't really react. He was growing to hate that lack of a look, almost as much as he got a thrill in his gut from Garam watching him for a change.

Clutch jerked his head aside, looking at the bare, sloping walls of the chamber, all slick and moist. There were little grated panels near the top, and water flowed out of some of them, cascading down the walls and collecting in a shallow pool on the floor. "So this is where we're gonna tag, huh?" he asked, rhetorically.

"Yeah," Garam responded, gesturing to the walls. "I was thinking you could take those walls and I could take these ones— I got an idea."

"Huh, whatever," he said back, dumbly. That was a hell of a thing to spring on someone, just dragging someone off to tag some, like, mural plan with no warning. A little part of him felt like he oughtta be proud, cuz he wouldn't've asked if he didn't think he could pull it off... but more likely Garam had his own reasons that he had no clue about.

Like, it could be the setup to Garam schooling him, but it that didn't seem like something he'd do. He couldn't think of anything that was something he'd do. It was the same damn problem with everything about him: no matter what, Garam knew he was better than him at pretty much everything, and he didn't even tease him or gloat about it. He did shit but there never seemed to be a reason.

He was just so fucking even. He had no way to tell if he was happy or pissed off or what. For a while he'd even entertained the crazy thought that maybe Garam favored different jewelry up in his ears and face depending on his mood. But eventually he figured, no, he didn't, and he was going crazy staring at his shiny dark metal lip stud. Or maybe just from staring at his lips in general.

Even in retrospect, thinking back to when they'd met— that was Garam, super pissed off. Like, he'd heard he'd torn out of the Garage after him without a word back, and everyone seriously thought he was gonna come back with a dead body or something dire like that. The rest of the GGs... they'd opened up a little to him, and even the ones he didn't get along with he at least had a guess about how they'd react to shit. He was so fucking reserved. He taunted people sometimes, Beat mostly, called them lamer has-beens who'd never amount to anything and who had delusions of adequacy, but it never had the edge of a real rivalry or grudge. Who the fuck knew what he was thinking.

So whatever, screw him. Or at least that's what he resolved, angrily laying down the lines for his tags. They were sloppy, messy, and he kept jerking his head over to stare at Garam's back, watching him lay down equally messy lines, only to fill them in smooth and sweet on a second pass. Yeah, sure he had an idea. Garam had pulled his mask on right before he'd started painting, and it was like he had no facial cues left at all, just the bridge of his nose and his cheeks exposed. At least he was spared staring at his lips for hours.

He settled for making a big arrow diagram, drawing off some of the crazy tags he'd seen those weirdass clones of Beat throw down and then some of the even crazier variants Beat himself had done, tagging over all of them. It was definitely not his best work, but... well, wasn't much point in trying his best when no one would ever see it, not all the way down here. Still, as he got caught up working on it he couldn't help but think of what it'd look like if he tried a second time, tagged over it some other day when he had more time to prepare. There were parts that just sucked, but it had a solid design; vivid bright colours that looped back and forth, a freestyle design no one could ever untangle.

What eventually drew him out of it was Garam scraping his skates against the wall, splashing through the thin sluicing of water. He looked over his shoulder, finally succumbing to the inevitable to look at Garam and his idea.

His design, of course, was excellent. It was one of his pictures-- a cityscape, huge rotting geometrical towers crumbing into the river. He'd worked the water streaming down the walls into a crazy-ass riverbed, filled with the kind of shit they hauled out of the harbor after a storm. The walls were embossed a little, he only noticed as he stared at Garam's piece, and he'd turned the cut, and how it turned the flow into a perspective-twisting arc across the city, like the river had leapt out of its banks and attacked.

It was completely fucking impressive and put anything he'd ever done to shame and made him want to slug the undoubtedly smug fucker, dragging him down here to be witness to his glory or whatever the fuck he did this for.

Garam noticed he was staring, apparently, and looked over from where he was detailing one of the buildings, braced against the wall like a fucking spider. His mask had gone a damp grey— Clutch's probably had too, at this point— and his bare arms were covered with paint, vivid and surreal like streaky tattoos. He nodded at Clutch, then turned back to his work. He finished what was apparently the last of the work, angling his skates just so to skate down his piece, sending up waves of marshy sewer water that thankfully got nowhere close to Clutch.

"Nice piece," said Garam, voice muffled. He was looking over Clutch's work, or at least pointing his head in that direction. He could still see the hard line of his jaw through the mask, the slight press of his lips against the fabric as he stood in almost-profile. He realized he was staring, brow furrowed, and looked away violently, to the dreary floor.

"There're some other places down here I wanna hit," Garam said, maybe looking at him as he stared at the swirl of water across the floor, "But I'm beat— let's call it a night," he finished, and Clutch realized in a blinding flash that this was him being kind and nice and going back because he thought he was pissed off, even though he wanted to stay down and tag more. Now he really wanted to punch him upside his head.

"Yeah," he said, dully. He sure as hell couldn't make out any of Garam's inflection, but the sound of his own bitter voice was so obvious, even distorted and muffled. As usual, Garam made nothing of it, skated— a little slower— to the stairs and started heading out, like it made no difference if he was being pissy or polite.

It was maybe one of the worst sessions of Clutch's entire life, including the time he almost got crushed by a train when he rolled under it to get away from the bull. The entire way back he glared at Garam's back, so incredibly aware of how his muscles shifted under his wet-translucent shirt but equally aware of how fucking agonizing every single one of their interactions had been.

So he was surprised when Garam asked him tag again, and again after that, again and again until every single one of the GGs assumed that they'd decided to be, like, tagging buddies.

Garam was still as inexplicable and flat as ever, but somewhere between tagging up the inside of a Benten skyscraper and taking a whole week to work on a combined mural, deep in Shibuya's twisty backstreets... he definitely didn't like it, but maybe he'd resigned himself to lusting after him from afar and never having any meaningful social interaction with him that wasn't hours of tagging.

Even everything with the Golden Rhinos and Rokkaku didn't get much out of him. They didn't tag together for a while, when everything was going down, but not a week after the huge, surreal tower of Rokkaku's tore up the terminal Garam showed up, calm and flat lookin' as ever, and said he was gonna tag across the 99th St. rooftops and did he want to come along?

So of course he did. As always, following behind and doing a bunch of tags with crazy, ever-evolving style and never really talking. He'd gotten way, way better— he could pull off some tricks like a real GG, even. It was good news, cuz there was a whole 'nother wave of recruits, practically every rudie in the city coming together to join the biggest, baddest gang of 'em all. So he had to be properly awesome for them, at least.

But Garam still beat him out at everything. Of course.

This night— another night up late, out tagging until dawn, til he wondered if they would just run out of wall, cover the whole city in their signs— they were tagging the Benten railway, down below the bridges where there was nothing but flat, unmarked concrete for blocks and blocks. There were even some train cars parked there, empty and open and practically inviting them to come in and add some color to the place.

So they did. He'd tagged this huge tag, ribbons streaming back and forth across three cars. It'd look ridiculous once they were all swapped around, hooked up with other cars, each one incomplete without its neighbors. But whatever, he'd learned to enjoy it all, the brief moments when he'd finished a tag and he was the only person to ever see it, this bizarre art he'd pulled out of his head and his cans.

He thought maybe being around Garam all the time had made him think a lot more, 'cause he sure as hell never rambled like this to himself before. Or maybe it was the weeks of no sleep, staying up until the sky turned pink with dawn before crashing, waking up just a few hours later to play out his day like he wasn't running on empty, dazed and tired until the bright, sharp lights at night woke him up, the cold clean air rushing through his lungs as he skated across the city.

Maybe it was how the best rudies lived; spending their days caught up in the flow of it all. Or maybe he was just some clueless thug who thought he had it big, whichever. But these days he could think, some long and useless monologue about his life, all the while working on another level on a piece, on balance and color and wrapping it up tight, automatic thoughts that translated instantly into action, adding another mark to his latest sprawling piece.

"Yo," he called over to Garam, "I'm done over here— wanna go get some food? I'm fuckin' starving."

Which was maybe one of the perks— now that Garam was around all the time, even as weird and hot and inscrutable as he was, he was a lot less worried about doing something wrong, pissing him off or whatever. If he wanted to be all mysterious and never show his fucking emotions, fine, whatever. Then he'd just do what he wanted and Garam would have to roll with it or else actually fuckin' show himself.

He tried not to think too much about what that attitude implied he should do when he only wanted to shove Garam up against a wall and make out, biting at his lower lip until he pulled back, breath hot against his neck. Or, admittedly, when he just wanted to deck him.

Garam finished up his tag with only a nod in his direction, Clutch leaning back against a rail car, elbows up on metal bumper, staring. He was doing something all realistic, maybe a futuristic rail station with trains running along jagged lines like in old fashioned printed circuits. It was hard to tell, sometimes, how far done Garam was with the cityscape stuff, 'cause he could go back and add detail after detail, weird blurry shading and everything. Sometimes it seemed a waste, considering that their stuff usually got painted over pretty quick. But whatever, at least he could stare at Garam's back under his thin jacket, staring up the sleeves to see the junction of his shoulder. Fuck, when he wore more clothes it was almost hotter, keeping the bare muscle hidden away until he twisted his torso and it went skin-tight in a line across his back.

After their tagging sessions, Clutch always jerked off. It was kind of disgusting how rapidly he'd fixated on him. He felt like a few years ago, he'd have just idolized him for his skill, but now... well, he'd realized a long time back that he could lust after people he also idolized, and sometimes even catch them. Hanging around with him all the time, quiet and working— it made him want to talk, to be so fuckin' awesome that Garam would stare at him in awe. But instead... it was complicated. Everything about it was wrapped up like miles of tangled cable in his head and chest, something that hurt to think about too much.

Maybe if he'd made his move before they started this... whatever it was, that they were doing, they could have fucked and he would have just walked away from it all, but now it all just left a bitter taste in the back of his mouth, realizing how sad and pathetic this whole thing was, hanging after him like a lovesick puppy, trying to win him over by just being around all the time.

"Yo, I'm done," Garam announced, spraying one final line across his piece, and Clutch pushed himself up, shaking his head.

"Nice," he said, still feeling too hollow and introspective for his own good. "Let's go," he said, waiting just long enough for Garam to nod before he started working his way up along the line, skating along the tops of cars until he was close enough to jump up and catch the edge of the disused pedestrian walkway over the lines. Garam followed only a few seconds behind, probably pulling off some fancy maneuver he didn't even see, scanning across the buildings on both sides of the railway. It felt so remote and quiet down there that it was kind of hard to believe that they were right next to the sprawling Benten markets, just a single row of dark buildings blocking the bright lights and continual murmur of voices.

They got cheap greasy noodles from some takeout stall, Clutch's with chunks of mystery meat and Garam's so spicy he wouldn't have been surprised if it caught fire.

There was a narrow, flat alleyway past the blaring Benten shops; it was cluttered with junk and at its end it opened up by the subway station, a story up over the storefronts. They sat on its edge, legs swinging down over the shops with blinking lights all dark, and moving animatronics, all still. The sky was dark purple with the very first light of dawn and Clutch was suddenly aware of just how tired he was. His arms were sore and his legs ached.

He spoke between eating his noodles, making sweeping gestures with his chopsticks and not talking about anything. Garam nodded every so often, seeming content to sit there with his legs folded up, watching the sky turn pink. They could still hear the noise of Benten proper behind them, but it sounded faded and dull, distant under the low sounds of traffic from the highway.

"Hey," Clutch said abruptly, dropping his chopsticks into his empty carton, the whole thing toppling over. Garam looked up as he chewed, swallowed his latest forkful of noodles.

They were sitting close; Garam sprawled against one wall and Clutch sitting next to him, so it wasn't a stretch at all to raise his hand up to his face. He tugged once and pulled the goggles up and over his head, then let them fall onto his lap, Garam frozen like a statue.

He'd actually never realized how dark he tanned; his skin below the goggles was dusky yellow-brown. Combined with the dark smudges below his eyes and the reddened grooves where the goggles had been pressed against his skin, he really looked like hell. Clutch sunk forward, eyes almost sagging shut as he swayed against Garam, only snapping open when he'd almost collided with his head.

Garam's eyes were broadly set in his face and shaded by dark, long eyelashes, his eyes a dull brown and currently open wide. "Hey," Clutch said, and kissed him.

Garam tasted like his fucking spicy noodles, of course. The cheap savory flavoring and the burn of the peppers were on his lips, but he kept kissing through it. Garam lifted his hands up, fisting them in the folds of his hoodie and pulled closer, breaking their kiss for a moment. Their noses slid against each other and Garam murmured out something he just couldn't hear; his lips moved against his before they pressed together again.

Clutch eventually pulled away when he realized he'd been holding his breath and he didn't want to gasp across his face, but he couldn't even sit back, since Garam was still holding on tight to his hoodie.

"Hey," Garam responded, his smirk transformed into a sly grin as his eyes pulled up at the corners. He actually had a complete facial expression and it was incredibly hot; he was so pathetic. His eyebrows were quirked up a tiny fraction.

Clutch sagged forward, practically sitting in Garam's lap. He folded his arms around him as he rested his forehead against the wall, letting his eyelids droop. "I'm really tired."

"It's been a long night." Garam said. Clutch looked out of the corner of his eye at his profile as he spoke, head still pressed against the wall. Even his voice seemed richer now that he could connect it to his face, which was so sad.

He pulled back just enough to slide over, kissing him again as he opened his mouth to speak. He lazily pressed his tongue against Garam's upper lip, pleasantly surprised when he opened his mouth further, his own tongue, still hot and spicy, pressed into his mouth and curled behind his teeth. He probably would have been content to make out all night— or all day, since the night was pretty much over.

Except then Garam slid one of his hands up under his shirt. His fingers were cold at first and he pulled back, but his touch quickly warmed. Garam pushed up, feeling across his chest, baring his stomach as his layered shirts all bunched up against his elbow.

"Uhhh," he spoke, slow and a little slurred, feeling tired and a little hot, arousal dim under the heavy tired weight of his body. Garam tilted his head, the stubble behind his ear scraping against his cheek as he kissed his shoulder, quick and dry.

"The fuck," Clutch said, no real force behind his rambling words. "What're you getting out of this? Man," he said, and paused, slumping back as Garam shoved his shirts up more, all of them bunched up by his throat, his chest bared. "I never know what yr thinking."

"You're hot," Garam said, and pushed Clutch backwards until he was practically lying on the ground, Garam kneeling between his spread legs. He knew where this was going and it felt like a knot unweaving in his guts, but it was hard to focus on him and not on the cool concrete scraping against his back, or the sky above him, grey and red with reflected light from the city.

Garam's hands across his belly pulled him back, and he looked over just in time to catch him speak. "and I like your style."

"My style, what, fuck," Clutch said, and groaned as Garam ground his palm against his dick through his jeans. "Oh fuck man, yeah," he blurted out, like he had no control over what he was saying.

Garam just grinned down at him, splayed out on the ground like he was some kinda pin-up model making poses instead of a thuggish skater sprawled out, dazed, all rough skin and scabs. He liked the way Garam was lookin' at him; he liked it a lot. It was so obvious what he wanted, and knowing that he was going to take it made him ache all over, anticipate every little touch.

"I like your dumb hair," Garam said, bending low until he was almost lying on top of him, hands deftly unbuckling his belt, the backs of his hands brushing against the trail of hair along his stomach; his jeans sagging down further as they moved against each other. "I like it when you try to impress me," he said, and unzipped Clutch's pants, the clatter of the tab clacking down knotting everything inside him back up in anticipation.

"You couldn't have told me?" Clutch asked weakly, sounding like he was the one with no vocal inflection now.

"I'm telling you now," Garam said, his breath against his neck, and groped him through the thin fabric of his boxers. "Is it too late?"

"Fuuuuuck," Clutch said, all drawn out and slurred as Garam finally touched his dick, reaching under the waist of his ragged boxers to palm his hand against him. "No. Fuck, no, yeah," he babbled as Garam started jerking him off, moving his hand slowly up and down his dick, nowhere near enough to get him off.

Each little touch felt like it was shooting sparks through his entire body. Garam skimmed a finger across the inside of his thighs and he actually whimpered, a little desperate sound he muffled by biting down on his lip.

He wiggled and his legs spasmed as he tried to work his hips; he ground against Garam who just responded by sprawling back, tangling their legs together and pinning him down, unmoving; Garam's skates slid against his calves, cool against his skin. But, fuck, he could feel the bulge of Garam's dick now, hot against his thigh. He was grinding back against him a little, too, rubbing his trapped dick back and forth against his leg, a rough heat through their clothes.

Garam continued jerking him off, slow, and he was completely unable to keep in the stream of whimpering little gasps, little plosive bursts of breathed-out words, tossing his head back and forth. Garam just watched him, quiet, and that was maybe hottest of all, jerking him off and staring at him as he writhed back and forth, his cool eyes taking him in, his face composed but eager.

"Aaah, fuck," he finally said, gasping, and came in streamers all across his chest, shooting hard, legs kicking. Garam kept touching him, practically milking his dick as he reached up with his other hand, rubbed his calloused thumb against his right nipple, stiff from the chill. He groaned again, whimpering as Garam kept toying with him, slick hand coated in his load and still stroking him, almost painful as he slid his fingers around the flared ridge of his head, moaning and yelping as he rubbed his thumb back and forth across his frenulum.

He sagged down to the ground, eventually, limp and relaxed. He looked up at Garam through tired eyes with a wide, slow grin. Garam sat up, pulling back, and he followed. It took some effort, it was hard to sit up with the rush of his orgasm still humming through his nerves, but Garam was sitting right in front of him, open and inviting. He struggled up and instantly sunk forward, collapsing against him. He considered making a face as his shirts and hoodie slid down across his body, smearing his come all across his chest and stomach.

Still, it was totally his turn now, and he wasn't gonna miss it for a second, even if he only felt like he could move in slow motion. He kissed Garam's jaw, pressing his tongue flat against his skin as he reached up, grabbing at the tab of his jacket and pulling it down. The click of the tab sliding down made his breath come faster even as he could feel Garam's pulse; his rapid breath, against his lips.

His chest was heaving, only a thin undershirt between him and Garam's bare chest. He pushed his hands inside, along his sides, and spread his jacket so that it gaped open. He could see the low mound of his nipples through the shirt, so he pressed his hands against them. His piercings were hard and warm to the touch, even though his undershirt, and he ground the pad of his finger against his nipples under they peaked up. He cupped one of his pecs, the toned muscle tight and hot in his hand, his stiff little nipple grinding against his palm as he gasped out breath.

Garam was practically hyperventilating as he let one hand sink down, sliding across his chiseled abs until his fingers touched the slim gap between his shorts and his shirt. He pushed his rough fingers across the smooth skin below his bellybutton, shoving his undershirt up to his chest and feeling all across his smooth, hard muscles. He rubbed back and forth, tracing the shapes of them until Garam groaned, grabbing at his hand and shoving it down his shorts.

Clutch huffed out a low laugh that turned into a low sigh as he rubbed a hand against the front of Garam's bulging underwear, his hand trapped at a weird angle by the tight waist of his shorts. Undoing a button and unzipping a zipper wasn't complicated, but he still fumbled at it for a second, feeling drawn out and hazy, uncoordinated. He did finally get his shorts off, Garam apparently more self-controlled after getting him to touch his dick, sprawled back against the alley wall, hands rubbing back and forth against his thighs and breathing coming in fast, rough huffs.

He pulled at his shorts, managing at least to spread the fly wide, pull the waist down below his underwear. He was wearing black bikini briefs, his cock skewing to one side in a thick bulge. Clutch groaned against Garam's chest as he looked down at his hands, their huge span easily cupping around his dick and balls. Garam echoed his groan from above, a low growly sound he wouldn't have even thought he could've made.

He ran his hands back and forth across his trapped dick, Garam breathing hard. He could feel the heat of it, feel the slight dampness seeping through at the tip. Now Garam was the one panting, huffing, his limbs trembling as he just ran his hands back and forth. He never really stroked or grabbed, just touched lightly, reaching up across his stomach and sliding down to feel his trembling thighs. He loved the feel of Garam under him, knowing how much he wanted it— how much they both wanted it— to come, to touch completely, but wanting to take his time, stretch it out so far until it broke.

Clutch kissed his chest, head drooping down, a light little series across his pectorals. He slid a hand up across his abs, all trembling as Garam tried to stay still, hands clenching on his thighs, his dick jutting up hard, pulling the waistband of his underwear away from his body a little.

He finally pulled his cock out; he pressed his knuckles against his stomach and ran them down, then hooked his fingers under his waistband and dragged it out and down. His cock jumped out and bobbed against his knuckles, the length of it thick and dark. His skin below was the same light brown, and his tired mind finally connected his dark thighs and chest to his goggles.

He wondered where the hell he was sunbathing in just underwear and goggles, and the hazy thought of him climbing up to the top of some building and stripping down, sprawling out almost naked made him moan against his bellybutton. He'd slid down his body almost unconsciously, until he was facing his dick, the length of it bobbing right in front of him. Fuck, and he shaved down here too, with only a short bush of stiff hair just above his dick, his balls hanging smooth below.

He groaned, low, as Garam finally moved, tangled his hands into his hair, pulled him close. The length of his dick slid across his face, the head slick with precome. His forehead pressed again his abs, hard and shifting as he breathed in rapid little breaths. Clutch took a deep breath, staring wide-eyed, probably whimpering as his exhale made Garam's balls tighten and pull up, the smooth skin constricting until his balls were tight under his cock.

He turned the tiny fraction and Garam's dick finally pressed against his lips. It was the slightest bit damp from sweat, his skin supple and smooth but hard like metal beneath. Garam groaned something long and incomprehensible and tugged his head back, lips sliding down his length until he reached the end and opened up, pressing his tongue against the side of the head, tasting salt and bitter.

"Wait," Garam said, and he honestly didn't hear it as language, just the layered tones of his voice making noise until he said it again, "wait," tugging lightly up and away from his dick. "Hold on."

Clutch just made some inarticulate whimper as Garam pulled him up, his dick sandwiched between their bodies.

"We should," Garam started breathlessly, "go somewhere, if we're gonna..." he said, and trailed off, unfocused. "If we're gonna really fuck," he finally managed to finish, and kissed him right below his ear.

"Nnnngh," said Clutch, trying to think in words and working his mouth for a long moment. "Couldn't've you said it sooner," he slurred against his skin, still tasting him in his mouth. He looked over, noticing for the first time how flushed Garam had gotten.

"I didn't think," Garam started and then trailed off. He rose up beneath him, humping against his limp, sticky dick and then arching his hips up higher to grind his dick against his stomach. "I didn't want to," he said again, sounding dazed and slow, but managed to close with "I didn't think we'd", stopping like that was the end of a sentence.

"It was fine when you jerked me off," Clutch said lowly, practically just mouthing the words against Garam's neck.

"Yeah," Garam said, and grinned against the side of his head. He was still sliding up and down, humping against him, his hips rocking back and forth, smearing the tip of his dick across his stomach until it was slick with precome. Clutch's dick was starting to respond, already stiffening again as Garam arched back and forth, thigh and hip grinding against it.

Garam was hard and hot and he really wanted to reach down and just jerk him off until he begged him to stop, voice breaking, but then he said "If I'm gonna fuck you we gotta go back to my place anyway," and that pretty much made up his mind, a pathetic gasping whimper escaping from his lips.

"I like it when you make noise," Garam said, low and appreciative, and Clutch whimpered, grinding his half-hard dick back against Garam, both of them bucking and moving in slow motion, the friction of each other's body alone enough to get them both off given a little time. But then Garam slid back, chill air seeping between their bodies, and Clutch groaned, frustrated with his cock hard again and throbbing just as Garam pulled away.

Garam stood up on shaking, trembling legs, his cock jutting out from his body, curving to one side a little. He stared down at him for a long moment, on his knees in front of him, lips parted, but then stuffed it back into his underwear and pulled his shorts up.

"C'mon," Garam said, pulling him up, groaning a little when he stood only to slump against him, his cock sliding against his abs. Garam reached down and touched him, fingers wrapping around his shaft, sticky with drying come, but pulled back after a lingering touch. He managed to skate out from under him, legs wobbling. He slid up the alleyway a little, leaving him standing under his own weight after what felt like eternity.

He managed to zip up his jeans and buckle his belt without assistance, really making a face now as he felt the slimy, tacky drying come in his boxers, on his shirt. Garam crouched down where they'd been making out, Clutch clueless and just staring at his ass, at the slope of his back, until he pulled back with his carton of noodles, still warm.

"Let's go," Garam said as he slid up close to him and pressed his lips against his jaw, a day or two's worth of rough stubble there. "Follow me," he said, and skated off, way slower than usual.

Fuck, skating while hard was painful and distracting, but even after he'd gone mostly soft he felt like it was just barely within his ability to skate without running in to everything. His come was drying itchy all across his stomach and dick, but all he really had a mind for was Garam skating ahead of him, jacket still undone and flapping out behind him.

They'd gone underground and it really took him a minute to realize they were in the subway station; Garam had apparently been unwilling to take the trick jump out of the alleyway. He would've made fun of him for that if he didn't feel the exact same way; there was no way he could pull off fancy footwork now and it would be a shame to die when he was just about to get laid in an extremely gratuitous manner.

The subway was practically deserted in the earliest of morning. They got an entire carriage to themselves for most of the way and made out, slow and wet, pornographically. If there had been anyone else there they would have had the cops called on them for sure.

He'd sprawled out in an aisle seat, slouched down with his ass on the edge. His long legs reached all the way across the aisle and his skates pressed against the far seats. Garam sat on his lap, kneeling on top of him, and they ground against each other, groaning and yelping. The minimal decency they maintained was by virtue of the heavy fabric of his jeans and Garam's shorts, but even then they were tented, bulging. That just made him hotter, Garam's undershirt rucked up a tiny fraction, his dick hot and hard grinding against him, his shorts only making their touches rougher. He was surprised that they made it all the way to Shibuya without either of them coming in their pants.

Most of that was because halfway there— or what in retrospect he figured was halfway— someone else got on the train. He didn't even remember who they were, businessman or little old lady or schoolkids, what, all he was focused on was Garam grinding against him, so close to coming in his jeans when he looked over and slid off. He let out a whimper and clutched at Garam's hips as he settled in the seat next to him.

Half of it was that yeah, fuck, he wanted to get hot and heavy with Garam no matter who saw them, but the rapidly growing second half was that without the distraction of their bodies grinding together it was harder and harder to ignore the mess in his jeans, itchy and burning as his come dried on the head of his dick.

They still made out the rest of the way, kissing and sucking; his mouth unexpectedly slick and red after ten minutes of uninterruptedly making out. He gave Garam a dark bruise on his shoulders, right by his neck, and Garam gave him a massive hickey on his lower jaw, a dark reddish mark complete with teeth marks.

But Garam eventually groaned out "This is the stop," into his mouth; Clutch groaned as Garam pulled him closer, hands on his back under his clothes.

There was a single businessman waiting, who looked pretty scandalized when they stumbled out of the train together, Clutch behind Garam and stooping down, leaning forward, Garam's head tipped back, kissing wetly. He only noticed the man as an afterthought, groaning into Garam's mouth as he rubbed his dick against his back, hard and slick and wet practically to dripping on the inside of his boxers, and he didn't think Garam noticed at all.

"How far," Clutch said against his face as they staggered to the top of the stairway, the city bright with dawn and coming alive enough for them to get stared at.

"Not far," Garam said, and dragged them down a sidestreet. It was just a few blocks away— down alleys, along tight winding sidestreets. Garam probably led them to avoid people, so he could push him up against the wall of a building and make out without anyone yelling, but all Clutch could remember of it was the zig-zagging line the sky made through the buildings, orange and pink above them.

Finally, finally, Garam staggered into the entranceway of a dull apartment building, something ugly. He broke their kiss, pulling away enough so that Clutch groaned and tried to pull him back. He fished out a heavy ring of keys from a pocket and opened the heavy door, then Clutch pressed him against it as it swung open. Both their skates slid slowly across the floor as they kissed.

Garam eventually pulled his head back, jerked it over to the red light of the security camera watching the door, and dragged him up a few flights of crumbling steps, finally going down a long dark hallway and shoving against a door, pulling it up and towards the hinge as he unlocked it with another key, scraping it open and yanking Clutch in with him.

"Finally," Garam said, somehow managing to close the door and rip off his goggles, jacket, and shirt in one movement, chest sweaty and heaving as he leaned back against the door to kick off his skates. Clutch stared at him for a long moment, dick half-hard but burning, itchy and gross with his dried come.

"Yo, hold on a sec," he said, and ducked into the bathroom. The door was right next to the entrance; the whole apartment was a single room. The bathroom still had the style from when they built the place, all hard flat metal and shiny reflective surfaces; ugly and blinding.

He pulled his pants open and tugged down his underwear, painfully stuck to the head of his dick. He sighed as he finally could piss, flush out the dried come burning inside his dick.

"What the fuck?" he could hear from Garam, through the door.

"Fuck, that's what you get for jerkin' me off and then makin' us race back here while it dries," he yelled at the door, over the sound of his piss hitting the bowl.

He stopped abruptly when he left the bathroom, jeans still unzipped. Garam had stripped down to his shorts, and as he watched he dropped them down, pooling around his bare feet and revealing his tight blank underwear. His thighs were as huge as you'd expect from a rudie, and the skimpy briefs covered just half the swell of his muscled ass.

Clutch pulled his hoodie and shirt over his head, and when it cleared his face Garam was totally naked, his clothes dropped in a rough pile to one side of him.

Garam grabbed him and basically took two steps back, then sprawled out backwards on his bed, a low futon. He worked his sweaty feet across his skates, pulling them off almost entirely with his toes as he worked on his jeans and boxers, sliding them down his legs and kicking them off completely in a matter of seconds.

Even after going kinda soft on the way there he was hard again after a second of grinding up against Garam, kissing and moaning into his mouth. His lips hurt now, rough and feeling more chapped after their extended kissing. Garam was hard again too, his dick stiff and slick against his stomach, thighs spread around Clutch's knee.

Garam slid a hand down and held their cocks together. Clutch yelped and groaned as he stroked them both together, his own loud moan drowning out Garam's breathy grunts.

"Wanna fuck you," Garam said, staring over at him, flushed and hard in the early morning light.

"Uhhngh," Clutch responded, clenching his hands around his waist.

"Gonna—" Garam started, cutting off in a gasp as Clutch pulled his hips up hard, sliding him up until he was about level with his dick.

"Wanna suck you off," he said, voice practically lost against his stomach, his stubble scratching across his skin. Fuck, he could still taste him on his tongue. Above him, Garam made some inarticulate noise but didn't pull back when he slid down the rest of the way, his feet tangled up in his sheets, lips pressed against the base of his cock. Again. He sure was gonna take his time, make Garam regret pulling him back before.

His dick was hot and hard against his face, skewing off along Garam's stomach as he opened his mouth, kissing the heated flesh at the base, tongue pressing against his salty skin. Garam groaned above him, hands coming down on his shoulders as he tried to steer him to his cock.

Instead, he pressed his lips against the bottom of his shaft, just above his balls, and lapped at it until his balls pulled up, tight against his dick. Then he pulled back, letting it slide across his lips until the slick, dark tip was pressed against his open lips.

Garam actually wailed as he took it in, a long pleading gasp as he flicked his tongue across the head. He tasted like skin and sweat, salty with a metallic tang underneath, and this time he wasn't gonna let Garam interrupt him. He bobbed down, slowly taking more of his shaft into his mouth, and then pulled back, his cock coming out shining with spit.

Clutch looked up with the tip of Garam's cock nestled on his tongue, and locked eyes with Garam, staring down at him with hooded eyes, his mouth slack, his lips just as bruised and flushed as his own. He blinked once and swallowed around his cock, smirking a little when he heard and felt Garam's breath hitch.

He opened wide and gulped down, taking it into his throat for the brief second he could manage it, then pulled off completely and coughed, looking up at Garam who was still staring down at him. He licked across the tip of his cock, curling his tongue across the rim of his cockhead, before taking it into his mouth again.

He hummed low in his throat and took him a little deeper, bobbing back and forth on the first few inches of his cock. Garam touched his hands to his shoulder and the back of his head. He laced his fingers through his messy hair and curved them around his head, just behind his ear, a pleasant pressure against the bones of his skull.

Clutch smiled as much as he could with a cock in his mouth and kept sucking him off, grabbing tight on his narrow hips. He traced little arcs with his calloused thumbs across the toned, soft skin of his belly, just above his hips.

Dimly, he knew he wanted to reach down and jerk himself off; his cock was hard and it slid against the sheets with each movement he made, but Garam tensed and shuddered, his muscles twitching and sliding under his skin, skin just slightly damp from sweat under his palms, and he couldn't bring himself to let go.

"Hold on," Garam said, so quiet and low he hardly heard. His touch across his head became just a fraction stronger, guiding him back, off his cock, until the tip emerged from between his lips with a pop. "Wanna fuck you," he said again.

It felt like his whole body shuddered at just the thought of it, of Garam pushing inside him. It'd been a while since he'd fucked, and there was no way he couldn't say it wasn't an extremely appealing image. Except...

He pushed himself up until he was face-to-face with Garam, his breathing going even more ragged when his cock pressed against his hips, slowly slid into place between their stomachs, next to Garam's spit-slick shaft.

"You sure?" he asked, surprised at how husky and rough his voice was. He reached down between them and encircled both their cocks, stroking them together. For the first time, he really noticed how much heavier than Garam he was; his muscles blocky where Garam's were toned, his belly almost a muscled gut compared to Garam's even, defined muscles.

Garam's breath was hot against his neck as he stroked them both off, his hand a tight fit between their hips, pressed together. His eyes were hooded, almost shut completely, and he ran his hands across his back, clutching at the muscles of his shoulders as he ground his hips forward, sliding his cock back and forth through his fist as he jerked them off.

Garam came with a long moan, almost reedy, and then a muffled curse against his neck as he collapsed forward, his come smearing across their stomachs. Clutch kept stroking them slowly, drawing his orgasm out as he spurted lines of come across his stomach, until Garam's breath hitched and he pulled out of his hand, his cock flared and overstimulated.

"Sorry," he said, even though he wasn't, and Garam laughed against his chest.

"I'll fuck you later," he said, his voice a little even with sublimated laughter even as his lips were curled back in an easy grin, and then he pulled his head down and kissed him, pressing his tongue into his mouth when he opened up to moan. He brought his hands up, running them through his hair, and pulled them closer together, limbs intertwined.

Clutch pulled back and mumbled something incomprehensible against his lips before getting drawn back into the kiss, his cock throbbing urgently between them. He finally managed to break away, his lips feeling flushed and almost painful.

"Uh, I could fuck you?" he asked, and tried not to sound too eager.

Garam just laughed, again, his breath puffing out across his neck. "Later," he said, and his tone made it a promise.

Garam reached down between them and grabbed Clutch's cock. He ran his fingers along it, slick now with his own load, and began stroking him slowly, twisting his fingers around near the tip and digging down against his balls on the bottom, and Clutch almost yelped as he cupped a hand around his ass and pushed his fingers, dry, against his asshole.

He didn't do anything aside from yelp and moan in the short time it took before he came, humping upwards with his hips futilely until his whole body spasmed and he came, just adding to the slick mess between them, rough splatters of come shooting out against Garam's cupped hand and running down to drip across his stomach as he panted and shuddered.

He went completely limp and sprawled out on the bed, Garam practically astride him as the final dregs of his orgasm oozed out. He felt worn out; all the dim tiredness that had been pushing at his eyes suddenly crashed down on him like a wave and all he wanted was to close his eyes and fall asleep.

Garam shifted around on top of him, and after a second he tugged lightly on one of his arms. "Hey, get up," he said, and he sounded just about as tired. "If you get that mess all over my sheets I swear I'll make you wash them."

After a long moment of contemplation, feeling the weight of his own body, Clutch groaned and sat up, then staggered to his feet. He felt dead on his feet, or more like he'd been dead on his feet for a while, and now there wasn't even any good reason to be getting up. But he washed up and pissed, again. Afterward, he sprawled out all across Garam's futon, the sheets still warm. He was dimly aware of sound, of Garam clattering around in the bathroom and of the growing rush of traffic outside, everything else waking up while he sprawled out, warm and tired.

He was mostly asleep by the time Garam got out of the bathroom. He could feel the soft pad of his feet against the floorboards, and then Garam gently pushed on his shoulder with his foot. Clutch rolled over with a tired sound, and anyway curled right back around Garam once he laid down onto the bed, pressing his head against his shoulder.

Garam said something he didn't make out, and after a moment he said "go to sleep," only it came out as another inarticulate sound. He smiled, idly, as his mind rolled over the idea of them both tiredly groaning at each other to go to sleep, but before it could really percolate through his head he was out, gone except for the slow rush of sensation across his body, the thin warm blanket twisted over and around them, Garam's skin against his, the slow heat building between them, and the low, distorted bass roar of the city all around them, waking up.