Get well soon, Draken-kun. I'm so, so glad you're okay. Let me know if you need anything!!! See you soon!!!!! —Hanagaki Takemichi (Get well soon Draken-kun!! —Hinata)

✻

Oi Draken... Do you enjoy stressing us out? If you aren't out of that hospital soon I'll deck you. You owe me a tune up for this. —Mitsuya (Oh, and I'm working on new D&D jumpsuits. If you try to pay me I'll deck you a second time. Also Hakkai says get well soon.)

✻

Don't even THINK about scaring me like this again. And yeah, yeah, everything is fine at the shop. But I know you'll keep calling me anyways. So take it easy while you can because I'll probably kick your ass later. Really, really happy you're okay. Enjoy the magazine. I'll visit again soon. —Inupi

✻

Get well soon. —Pah-chin and Peh-yan.

✻

Hey, Draken-kun. You had me pretty worried. I'm sure the others are already giving you a hard time... So just get better quickly, okay? And come visit the store. We can walk the dogs. Drinks on me soon. —Matsuno Chifuyu

✻

Listen. I'm not sure what the girls would do without you. Everyone says get well soon. We still need your help around here so hurry up and get better. You're a good kid. —Masamichi

✻

There's barely any table surface left. The whole room is filled with flowers, cards, motorcycle magazines, packaged sweets, and a watermelon that Draken is definitely unable to cut anytime soon. It's ridiculous. "Where was all this when I got stabbed?" he'd joked to a disgruntled Mitsuya as if surviving three bullets was a comparable feat.

But truthfully, Draken is much more heartwarmed than he'd like to admit. And in other ways — ways he doesn't want to think about — he's much more heartbroken than he'd like to admit. But it's been almost two weeks since, and Draken feels... relieved.

It's a late night. Definitely far past his suggested bed time. That said, it hasn't been too long since Inupi left — or more accurately, was kicked out by hospital staff. He tends to overstay his welcome. Not that Draken minds. Inupi is blunt and occasionally rough, but he's so loyal and protective that Draken has learned to trust again. A difficult feat after what Mikey had done.

Two years seem to have flown by since the night Mikey called them all to Musashi Temple. It was shortly after Toman disbanded. Sure, he'd beaten them all senseless. But he crushed them in other ways too.

"No wonder you've always been attached to me, Kenchin," he sneered as Draken absorbed blow after blow. "No one else wanted you. Not even your whore mother."

Mikey's parting gifts weren't only bruises and a black eye. He'd been generous enough to give a knife to the heart and really twist it in too.

It took Draken a lot of processing time to come to terms with what had happened. Mikey's words stung. But deep down, he knew why Mikey had committed to going down that path. He wanted his friends out of his life to ensure their good futures. Draken knew this. But he was still enraged. Hurt. Disappointed. Mikey felt like a stranger. He feels like a stranger.

Inupi has been there to mend Draken's broken trust, whether they knew it or not.

Needless to say, the pair have grown close since their acquisition of Shinichiro's bike shop. Their similar experiences are an unspoken understanding that they share with each other — two healing souls that have loved and lost. So when Draken is lying in the hospital after narrowly escaping death, Inupi will be damned if some nurse tells him when he's allowed at Draken's side.

Tonight, however, Inupi obeyed.

Draken flips through the same magazine he's read four times now, his eyes skimming over (but not actually reading) an article about casual riding boots. Who gives a shit.

He wants out of that damn room. He wants to be back at D&D with Inupi, back to his life and his friends. He wants to be there for Brahman. But he doesn't regret it. Not a single thing.

He jolts when he hears the jiggle of the door handle. It's too late for someone to disturb him, and not to mention the hospital staff knocks. Could Inupi have come back? They would never let him in. Especially after the time he cussed out a nurse, demanding access to Draken's room.

A relatively short figure slinks in through the door, shutting it behind them. Draken will be damned if he gets murdered in the middle of the night by some creepy fucker — some serial killer that gets off on pulling plugs. He's not dying. Not like this.

"Oi," he growls, swinging his legs to sit on the bed and making a conscientious effort to not show the pain it induces. "Hey you. What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Careful Kenchin," a voice snaps. Draken stills instantly — it's a voice he could never mistake. "You shouldn't make threats you're too crippled to act on."

It can't be. Draken fumbles for the lamp on the side table, waiting for his eyes to expose his lying ears. If he's lucky, his mind is just playing tricks on him. Or this is just a dream. But Draken has never been a lucky man.

Dim yellow light fills the room and Draken stares. Mikey looks nearly the same as he did two years ago, except for... something. He looks empty. Hollow. And something else Draken can't quite put his finger on.

Mikey's wearing that same black shirt that he used to, white tank top underneath, baggy pants and boots. No uniform, just casual wear. Tousled blond hair lies over his shoulders, tied away from his face. Draken feels paralyzed as he sits on the edge of the bed. He's not nervous. Not afraid. But he's not happy either. His brain short circuits and he doesn't know what to feel. Not that it shows.

"How the hell did you get in here?" he snaps defensively.

Ignoring the question, Mikey walks over to him. The way he looks down at Draken is different. Something is just so, so different and Draken has no god damn clue what.

Slap.

It's an insanely hard-hitting blow for a slap. Draken's whole head jerks to the side, the sting on his face pailing in comparison to the electric jolt of pain shooting up through his abdomen. It knocks the wind out of him.

After a moment, the pain subdues and Draken wheezes with his arm clutched around his waist.

Slap.

A second, harder than the first.

Draken is tough. He's certainly no stranger to taking blows. But the sting in his chest makes him feel like he may never breathe again. He writhes and coughs, doubled over with furrowed eyebrows.

Angrily awaiting an explanation, he looks up expectantly at Mikey. He's met with silence. Mikey stares back with dull eyes that are as empty and lifeless as ever.

"Bastard," Draken's words are somehow a partial growl and a partial wheeze. "I'm recovering from three fucking gunshot wounds, you know."

"That's why I didn't punch you."

"How kind," Draken snaps.

Mikey helps himself to a package of dorayaki on the side table — presumably left there as a 'get well' gift — as Draken reels. He watches in disbelief as Mikey pulls a chair out from against the wall and moves it closer to the bed, leaning back in it lazily and ripping open the plastic packaging.

Draken isn't sure what he's expecting. But anything other than — well, whatever this is — would be nice. Maybe a creepy, plug-pulling murderer wouldn't have been so bad after all.

A flurry of emotions flood Draken's system. He's angry, relieved, sad, and even a bit happy. He's fucking confused.

"Why are you here?" Draken grunts, still catching his breath.

Mikey bites into the pastry, examining it intently.

"'M bein' self'sh," he chomps.

He's being so casual and so... so Mikey that it pisses Draken off further. His fists clench and his teeth grit.

"You're being selfish? You showing your face for the first time in two god damn years is selfish? I had to be on death's door for you to care, and you giving a shit for once is selfish?"

"That's what I said, Kenchin."

"So what about when you fucked off in the first place? That wasn't selfish, but this is?"

"Yep."

Draken gives up. He scoots back on the bed and lies back down, turning his head toward the window. If Mikey wants to stab him in the back, Draken supposes this is his chance. And yet somehow he still trusts the bastard with his life.

Draken closes his eyes, face scrunched in a permanent scowl. Minutes pass in silence. Near silence, anyways. Mikey is still a noisy eater.

Draken wants to tell Mikey to fuck off. He wants to beg Mikey to stay. He wants to know how he's been and what he's been doing and why. Why.

Why, Mikey?

But the words don't come. Instead he stews.

Plastic crinkles and the munching stops. Mikey must have finished eating. Maybe he'll leave before Draken can decide what to say. But before he's given the luxury of true silence, Mikey speaks. With the flick of a switch, his voice is deep and commanding. The kind of voice that reminds others of just how powerful and intimidating he really is.

"I won't forgive you," he glowers.

Draken refuses to tear his eyes away from the slotted window blinds and the moonlight beyond them.

"The hell are you talking about?" he grumbles.

"You got involved," Mikey growls. "You got involved when I told you not to. And you — you and Takemichi — you ruined everything I was planning. You fucked. Everything."

Draken finally turns to face him — Mikey is seething with an emotion he can't quite pinpoint. Anger? Grief? Regret? Disbelief? One particular word rings in his head. Planning.

"Mikey," Draken cautions. "Are you here to tell me off? Or are you actually going to tell me what the fuck is going on with you?"

"I had a plan," Mikey reiterates.

There's a pause. Then he stands.

Mikey's hand sneaks into his pocket and as it appears Draken's eyes go wide with horror. It's a pistol. Semi-automatic by the looks of it.

"Where— what the fuck, Mikey?"

Mikey sits back down, expressionlessly fumbling with the gun's magazine and counting the loaded bullets.

Planning. The overwhelming dread makes Draken want to vomit.

"What the fuck?" he barks, suddenly remembering that he should be quiet in a hospital in the middle of the night (with a god damn gun in the room, no less.) He lowers his voice but seethes with added vigor. "Mikey, what the fuck?"

Mikey slams the magazine back in, cocks the gun, checks the safety, and makes a show of placing it away from them on the side table. He pulls his feet up onto the chair, wrapping his arms around his shins and tucking his head between his knees. It's a childish way to sit. And yet he appears as threatening as ever.

"I was going to kill them, you know," Mikey reports irritatedly. "Anyone who got in my way, really. South. Senju. Didn't matter who."

Draken fumes, incredulous, "Explain yourself, Mikey."

It's an unforgiving demand. Beneath Mikey's empty glare he looks pointedly enraged.

"Two years ago I said I'd kill any of you who came to me. Any of you who got involved. I wanted you all to see that I really fucking meant it. That I wouldn't think twice about killing someone. And that I'd truly given in... to those impulses."

He tilts his head back pensively, the new angle exposing the dark circles beneath his eyes.

"And no more rival gang bullshit. I'd merge them all and kill anyone against it. Start a new gang, Bonten. And then I'd come to you — just like this — and I'd say 'Ken. If you get involved, or if you try to come for me — I'll start with Takemichi. Then I'll kill Inupi. Mitsuya. Chifuyu. All of them. I'll kill all our fucking friends and leave you for last.'"

Mikey slides his feet down from the chair and leans forward, forearms resting on his knees. "You made me threaten this because I know you're a self-sacrificing bastard. You'd put your life on the line for me. But you wouldn't sacrifice theirs. Would you?"

Draken's face twists in anger, "Why do you insist on running away?"

"You know about the future, Kenchin. Is it really so hard to imagine why?"

No. Draken thinks to himself. Frankly, he understands Mikey's reasoning — although he wants to deny it with every cell in his body. And yet, if roles were reversed he'd be pushing Mikey away no matter the cost.

It's quiet again and Mikey hangs his head. Dangling blond hair obscures his face in the moonlight and his fingers clasp together. Draken lies paralyzed.

"So why didn't you kill them?" Draken asks in a near whisper.

"I think Takemichy time leaped again," Mikey simmers. "Which means you didn't keep your promise in the future. You didn't leave me be. Or keep Takemichy from me. I won't fucking forgive you."

The air stills for a moment and then Mikey suddenly kicks the bed so hard that it shakes. He roars furiously. "Fuck!"

Time suspends. Mikey's words are too much to process. As he stands beside the bed, fuming with clenched fists, Draken wonders if he might actually be killed.

"I'm trying to do what's best for the group and you just—" kick, "you fucking ruined it."

Mikey commits a relentless assault on the bed frame, his kicks escalating in power until Draken is shaking with the mattress. Mikey's breathing grows fast and he's clearly overcome with anger.

"You ruined it. Both of you," kick, "You and Takemichy ruined it," kick, kick, kick.

He puts a knee up onto the bed, fists punching into both the mattress and Draken's legs. His blows are decreasing in power and Draken realizes what this is — Mikey's version of an emotional release. His voice begins to waver as he barks, delivering punch after punch.

"You self-sacrificing bastards. Why can't you two just be selfish for once, you stupid fucks? Why couldn't you make it easy for me?"

His punches slow and that's when Draken realizes — Mikey's crying.

"You stupid fucking— stupid fucking—"

Mikey snaps. He wails. Sinking down to the floor, he buries his face into his trembling arms.

"Why couldn't you make it easy for me?" he sobs, his voice now a whimper.

Draken is too shocked to feel the thrumming pain in his legs. He's only seen Mikey like this once before. They were much younger then, too. Shinichiro.

Unsure what to say, Draken scoots over on the bed. It's a half-hearted gesture and Mikey accepts the invitation.

At the first sign of Mikey crawling up beside him, Draken reaches out his arms to pull him in. It's like muscle memory — his body reacting to Mikey before his brain can catch up. Even after the past two years. Even after everything that's happened.

Mikey curls up beside him and buries his face into his shoulder, shaking, crying, wailing. Snot runs down his nose and onto Draken's shirt. He hides his face away like he never wants to be seen again.

"I'm sorry," he weeps. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Draken isn't sure what Mikey is apologizing for. Is he sorry for leaving them? Or is he sorry that his plan failed? Draken refuses to ask. He simply turns his head instead, nose buried in Mikey's hair. It's a scent he could never forget.

While he can't move off his back, he pulls Mikey closer. He's in a near fetal position now, his hand clenching on to the fabric of Draken's shirt.

"I think you're the real self-sacrificing bastard here, Mikey," Draken whispers as his fingers draw soothing circles on Mikey's back.

Mikey has calmed, at least a little. He's still trembling, but taking sanctuary in the comfort of Draken's presence. As guilty as he feels to do so.

"Sacrificing yourself so that your friends can be happy. Just because you're afraid of those previous futures," Draken grumbles. "And I didn't see that sooner. I should have. And I should have stopped you."

Draken sighs.

"I'm sorry."

Mikey glances up and Draken's heart pangs when he realizes what it is that makes Mikey look so different. He's hurt. He's like a wounded animal, appearing all the more dangerous and threatening to hide the fact that he's in pain.

He's in so much pain.

They aren't sure what exactly draws their lips together. For Draken, it's probably a desire to pour himself into Mikey, to kiss the life back into his eyes. For Mikey, it's probably a desire to block out the rest of the world and chase what he truly wants — if even just for one night. They don't allow themselves to think about the 'why's.' They simply indulge in the long forgotten luxury of the other's lips.

It's a simple and chaste kiss. Mikey's snot is still running down his face and Draken can feel it on his upper lip. He can't be bothered. Mikey feels too warm and too familiar against his mouth. It hardly feels like it's been two years.

Mikey's right. Draken would do anything for him. Only him.

They pull away, dazed by a sad longing, and Mikey slides a hand up to Draken's blond hair. It's down — not braided — allowing Mikey to run his fingers through his disheveled strands.

"Fuck I missed you, Kenchin," he whispers. It breaks Draken's heart. "I fucking missed you."

Draken takes a sharp inhale through the nose before pulling Mikey in, kissing him more desperately, more passionately this time. His mind clouds and he can't think of anything besides Mikey, Mikey, Mikey. He drinks him in. His scent, his taste, the pitch of his little gasps for air, the way his leg slots between Draken's— they cling to each other desperately, but make out like they've got all the time in the world. They don't.

It's a wet, slow tangle of tongue and lips. Spit and drool. It's sloppy and they know it, but they're already losing themselves as they hastily drown in the familiarity. The flat of their tongues press against each other before Draken slides the tip across the back of Mikey's teeth, mouths open shamelessly wide. The taste of strawberry dorayaki still lingers on Mikey's tongue.

Draken snakes a hand beneath Mikey's shirt and hums. For as small as he is, he's still incredibly ripped. The muscles on his back are still thick and tense, his skin smooth and hot beneath Draken's calloused fingers.

Draken is too focused on the way Mikey sucks on his tongue to notice as he ruts against his thigh. He shifts subtly, leaning further over Draken — he's aware that Draken can't roll much off his back. It doesn't stop him from subconsciously grinding their hips as he licks and sucks and bites and indulges. Everything is happening too fast and too slow.

Without even realizing it, Draken begins to return Mikey's little thrusts and Mikey whimpers. It's a high pitched and breathy whine, and frankly, Mikey would be embarrassed if anyone heard it besides his Kenchin.

As if Mikey deserves revenge — Draken was the cause of his whine after all — Mikey bites hard on Draken's bottom lip and pulls back, stretching it out. His eyes open slowly, lidded with appetite, and that's when the pair notice they're at a serious crossroads.

"We have to stop, Mikey," Draken pants, his lips glistening with drool down to his chin.

Mikey smirks and licks his lips suggestively,

collecting the mixture of saliva on his tongue. "No."

He latches onto Draken's neck with a punishing bite. Serves him right.

Draken closes his eyes. The growing hardness in his boxers dares him to indulge, but his mind begs to differ.

"We're in the hospital," Draken pushes him off a little too forcefully and whispers. "Anyone can come inside. I'm injured. There's a god damn gun on the table. Mikey. Stop."

Mikey sits back. His face is red, covered in tears and drool, his lips puffy, and his hair tousled. Draken has to look away. It's erotic and heartbreaking all in one.

"Stop," Draken repeats — for himself more than for Mikey.

It doesn't matter anyways. Mikey towers over him, his face mere centimeters from Draken's. He pouts.

"No."

"So god damn childish," Draken snaps.

Mikey's hand snaps to the tent in Draken's pants before he can see it coming. Draken gasps and sputters Mikey's name in protest, but they both know it's a facade. They'd passed the point of no return long ago.

Dropping the childish attitude, Mikey turns demure and vulnerable. His hand strokes gently up and down the cotton fabric.

"Please," he whispers. "Do you really want me to stop?"

Draken has always been the responsible one. He knows he should say yes. But god— he's missed Mikey so much that he needs it. Needs him.

He swallows and shakes his head almost imperceptibly.

"Good boy," Mikey sniffles. Then he chuckles — it's the first time Mikey has really, truly smiled in almost two years. The guilt-ridden realization makes him start to cry again. How dare you smile like that?

Draken's hands look so large as they cup Mikey's teary face. He doesn't know what to say — he just watches, frozen, as rivulets gently stream down Mikey's cheeks. He wipes them away with his thumbs.

Mikey groans, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, "Sorry."

"Stop apologizing," Draken scolds, his irritation an unspoken love language.

It's quiet for a moment. Mikey scoots back, straddling Draken's hips in a conscious effort to keep weight off his injuries. He sniffles and wipes his nose again, then his eyes, and then his nose a third time, until the tears have stopped flowing and he's calmed down a bit. He eyes Draken's torso and delicately lifts his shirt. His fingers brush over the heavy bandaging and his eyebrows scrunch, displeased.

"Where?"

Draken points. "Here. Here. And here."

"You won't tell me who did it, will you?" It's more a statement than a question. Mikey already knows the answer.

Draken's lips form a thin line and he frowns.

"I'll find out, you know," Mikey threatens.

"You aren't a killer, Mikey."

"You don't know that."

Frustrated, Draken snaps upright. It sends a jolt of pain through his body before he can even retort.

"You're a real mood killer, you know."

"Always have been," Mikey deadpans.

And well, it's the god awful truth. But right now, Draken just wants to forget. He wants to bury himself in everything he's missed for the past two years. He wants to drown in Mikey and just feel him. Everywhere.

Mikey bends to plant careful kisses on each of the spots.

"Mikey," Draken murmurs. "We can't know the future for sure. It keeps changing. We can change it. Together. Don't just—"

"Shut up," Mikey snaps. "Just— shut up. Not right now."

There's no real hostility in his words. Draken understands. For now, he has Mikey by his side again. They can worry about the rest later.

Draken fights against his incoming blush, rolling his face to the side and focusing on the moonlit outline of a sunflower bouquet. His eyebrows relax and he closes his eyes in surrender as Mikey tenderly brushes hair from his face and lays it across the pillow. Draken melts internally at the gesture. He wants nothing more than to see Mikey smile again. But right now he looks so... broken.

"Need to feel you," Draken whispers, his voice husky and desperate. "All of you."

Mikey nods and brings their lips together again. When Draken's hands roam across Mikey's back, it arches instinctively — running his hands across its curve feels electric and Draken groans shamelessly. Mikey's hair is falling over his face, Mikey's tongue is down his throat, his hands are on Mikey's ass, and fuck it's been so long since he last got off. He's so worked up. Red in the face, panting, needy — Mikey's got him wrapped around his finger. Draken knows. And he submits to it.

Mikey doesn't say a word. He leaves a trail of soft kisses down Draken's chin, neck, and collarbone before he scoots down the bed. Draken's legs part for him on instinct as he hovers just above the tent in his pants.

Draken tries to prop himself up on his forearms but he hisses and collapses back down.

"Idiot," Mikey sighs. His fingers skirt around the waistband of Draken's pants and he gives a demanding tug, his eyes meeting Draken's expectantly.

"These," he commands.

Draken nods, mouth too dry to speak, and lifts his hips enough to help Mikey wiggle them down. There's a dark wet spot on his boxers. He really is worked up.

Mikey gets himself comfortable, lying on his stomach and propped up on his arms. For a moment he does nothing but stare — but then he leans forward and kisses the wet spot, the flat of his tongue pressed against the cotton fabric, and Draken has to slap a hand across his mouth to contain his moan.

Mikey sniffles and bites his lip, "Jesus, Kenchin, when's the last time you got off?"

"Shut up."

When the waistband of his boxers finally slips down, Draken's cock lies flat against his stomach. Red and neglected. Mikey takes it in his hand without hesitance. He gives a few perfunctory strokes before swiping his tongue over Draken's balls and then licking a long stripe up to his tip.

Draken can't bear to look down. It feels euphoric, and yet something feels so wrong. Mikey deserves some genuine help, not a cock down his throat. But if it's what Mikey wants, Draken will submit. Time after time.

He winces as Mikey's lips wrap around him, his tongue dancing in circles around his slit, collecting the salty precum. He's never really been self-conscious around Mikey, but it dawns on him that he's been in the hospital, and well — things might not taste so great down there.

"You don't have to," Draken quips pathetically.

Mikey responds with an emotionless glance and maintains the eye contact as he sinks his mouth as far down Draken's cock as he can. His tongue is like warm velvet and the way his throat spasms and gags makes Draken feel like he's being fucking milked. He hums contentedly, low and guttural.

Mikey's cheeks hollow as he pulls up slowly, finally breaking away and coughing. His face is wet. Tears prick the corners of his eyes again — although for different reasons now — and he sniffles as he pumps Draken once, twice, and then his mouth is suddenly sinking down over him again.

"Fuck Mikey, that's it," Draken coos. He can't watch too closely or he'll come prematurely. He scrunches his brows and looks through his peripherals at the bobbing blond hair between his legs. The wet gagging sounds alone are already too much to handle.

He's getting close — too close — and Mikey pulls away. Draken can't bring himself to be disappointed. He doesn't want to remember the real world. The longer Mikey edges him the better.

Mikey takes a single finger — his middle finger — and circles it around Draken's tip, swirling a beaded drop of precum. It's the tiniest stimulation, but it's almost painfully tantalizing. Mikey raises the digit to his mouth and sucks. It's strange — Draken can't identify the facial expression Mikey wears. But when Mikey slides his finger around Draken's rim in slow circles, he understands: Mikey is challenging him. All Draken can do is nod.

Mikey slowly pushes his finger in, watching his face as he writhes and hisses. Draken isn't usually the one to be fucked. Of course, he doesn't mind one or two fingers up the ass when he's getting blown — but if it's for Mikey, things are different. Mikey, as always, is the exception.

Even when he's lying on a hospital bed with three fucking gun shot wounds. With the flip of a switch he's careening toward submission in a way that's reserved for Mikey and Mikey alone. And right now especially, he wants to hold Mikey close and tell him he's worth it, and that he deserves help, and that he deserves love. He'd follow Mikey into hell if the little bastard wanted him to.

Mikey pumps him half heartedly as he twists his finger in little circles. He waits until Draken has relaxed before pulling out and spitting into his hand. He spreads the saliva with his thumb and presses two fingers into him this time. Mikey scissors him lazily, tongue dancing around the base of his cock, until he loses all patience and withdraws.

He sits up urgently, sliding down Draken's pants completely and wiggling off his own until both pairs are thrown across the room. He's much smaller than Draken, but he's pretty — so perfectly light pink, so perfectly curved, so perfectly thin and veined. Defined abs trail down to the sharp V curve of his waist, light blond hair barely visible at the base of his cock, his thighs skinny but toned and muscular — Draken has seen him like this in his dreams for the past two years. He loves every inch of Mikey, even if it's unspoken, and seeing him like this again (blushing, laid bare, raw, vulnerable, teary-eyed, and desperate) reminds him that his memory only ever did Mikey a disservice. Draken reaches for him on instinct.

"Can I?" Mikey whispers, panting.

Their hands clasp, fingers intertwining, and Draken squeezes a little too tight. He's afraid. With each passing moment, it dawns on him further just how much he can't stand to lose him again.

"Since when do you ask so nicely?" he jeers.

Mikey is too vulnerable for a snarky reply. A rare occasion. Draken lets Mikey peel a hand away — only

one, he'll continue to claim the other — so that he can line his cock up to Draken's hole and guide himself in. Responsibility kicks in and Draken stills.

"Wait," he breathes. "What about a— there's no way either of us have a condom right now."

Mikey grunts, irritated. "What, you weren't expecting any hospital sex?"

Ah. So he's not too vulnerable for snarky replies after all.

"I don't blame you for not trusting me," Mikey adds genuinely. "Have you fucked anyone?"

Draken shifts his hips, his body aching in frustration and pain. "Well— no. Have you?"

Mikey goes silent and Draken's stomach drops. He's not sure if he's jealous or sad. Or both. He can't hide the way his face twists, displeased.

"Who?" he rasps.

Mikey brings their intertwined hands to his lips and kisses Draken's knuckles. It's gentle and tender — a little sad even. But then he cocks his head, his sharp words contrasting his soft behavior.

"Are you gonna let me fuck you or not?"

"Fine."

And just like that, Mikey's pushing in slowly, sinking into the heat of Draken's body, relishing the way his head tilts back and reveals the black dragon tattoo beneath his loose strands of blond hair. Draken grits his teeth and trembles, a drop of sweat trickling down his temple.

"Ahh-h fuck, Mikey. Fuck. Fuck."

Mikey hates how pleased the sight below him makes him feel. His conscience, as askew as it may be, nags him — this is wrong, this is wrong, this is wrong. But, fuck, it feels so good. Mentally even more than physically. He's felt so out of control his whole damn life, and watching Draken — all one hundred eighty-five centimeters of muscular, threatening prowess — fall apart on his cock... Well, the delicious taste of control invigorates Mikey like a sweet cigarette.

His hips circle slowly, rolling into Draken instead of slamming, with gentle, deliberate thrusts. Mikey's free hand grasps Draken's knee, as his other remains locked against Draken's palm. They can't tear their eyes away from each other. And yet, it's not awkward. It feels so right.

Together they quietly moan, hum, pant, sigh — succumbing to the rising temperature of the room. Mikey wishes so desperately that he could lean down and flick his tongue across one of Draken's nipples, just like he used to. He does everything he can to ignore the gnawing anger in his gut and focus instead on the flush of Draken's face and the way his cock bounces with each gentle thrust.

It's not enough.

Mikey needs more. Not a faster pace. Not a harder thrust. More. He sucks on the fingers of his free hand and sneaks it behind him.

Draken is too euphoric to notice what Mikey's doing. He feels too good, too full, too pliant. It's not until Mikey's groans become high pitched whimpers — breathy little whines — that he realizes exactly what his old friend is doing.

Mikey is lazily rolling his hips into Draken, his slicked cock sinking in and out of him slowly. His eyes are closed and his eyebrows scrunched. Blond hair cascades across his shoulders and sways with the movement of his body as his head tilts toward the ceiling. His hand, shaky and warm, grips Draken's with remarkable strength. And then — and then — his free hand disappears behind his back as he scissors himself, working himself open, with the slow twists and curls of his own saliva-lubed fingers.

"God, Mikey," Draken groans, with no choice but to begin working his own cock. "Shit."

Mikey opens his mouth to speak but a whimper tumbles from his lips instead. His eyes open to glaze over Draken, pupils blown wide and hazy, and when he finally manages to speak it's only one word. Breathy, demanding, high pitched, whiny.

"Switch."

Draken has to grip the base of his cock to stop himself from spilling over. Mikey looks too good like this — scratched raw, but commanding as ever.

"Y-yeah," Draken mutters, finally letting go of Mikey's hand so that he can pull out and reposition himself. "Yeah, Mikey— fuck, baby, go ahead."

Mikey swats Draken's hand off his cock so that he can wrap his fingers around it, positioning it directly under him. And then, he sinks.

The stretch is too good. It hurts, but Mikey whimpers. The pain feels more deserving than the pleasure and it leaves Mikey thoroughly satisfied — in some grim kind of way. It also feels like it's not enough. Mikey pulls his shirt up, stuffing the bottom hem of it into his mouth, and bringing a hand to circle and pinch his nipple.

It's so pretty and pink against his porcelain skin and Draken finds himself compelled to sit up and kiss it— but as soon as his abdominal muscles contract, a spark of pain jolts his system. He swallows the hiss that threatens to escape his lips and raises his gaze back to Mikey's face instead. He's whimpering and the hem of his shirt is soaked with drool. He's starting to bounce.

Draken can feel his eyes rolling back. He's so lost and blissed out, his mind gone blank.

"Fuck you're so fucking tight," he croons. "So good to me Mikey, so good."

Mikey gives a particularly harsh twist to his nipple and whines into his shirt, bouncing as fast as his shaking legs allow. The hospital bed creaks, and if Draken was in his right mind he'd be concerned — they could be caught at any time. He can't even begin to fathom the consequences.

Needless to say, Draken's not exactly in his right mind.

Mikey sniffles and sputters, dropping his shirt from his mouth and moaning.

"Fuck Kenchin, god there— that's— there, right there—"

Draken relinquishes his self control and thrusts up to meet Mikey's movements. He's barely lucid enough, but he wraps a hand around Mikey's cock and pumps him messily. They're spiraling, getting sloppy, drowning in pleasure, immune to reality and losing self awareness on a creaking, shaking hospital bed.

"T-tissues," Mikey stutters.

Draken flings an arm for the side table, fumbling for the box and grabbing it just in time for Mikey to rip it from him.

"Fuck, 'm gonna—"

"Ahh-h, shit Mikey—"

"I— K-Kenchin, please—"

Mikey throws his head back and jolts, tongue hanging and body shaking as he comes into the tissue paper. Draken fucks him through it, willing every cell in his body to withhold his own high until he can pull out. He can barely last. His torso sears with pain as he tries to lift Mikey off, but thankfully Mikey catches on and pulls away, half coherent.

Draken jerks himself rough and fast and hard until he's seeing stars, hips stuttering, Mikey's name a quiet whimper on his lips. Yeah, the tissues were a good idea.

Clarity creeps in and the room slowly returns around them, quiet aside from their labored breathing. Mikey throws his tissue to the side.

"Fuck," he pants. "Fuck."

He folds over, propped up enough to avoid Draken's injuries, and captures his lips with his own. He doesn't close his eyes. He just kisses and drinks him in.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, lust subsiding as he returns to his previous emptiness. He crawls back over to Draken's side, flopping down on the bed and staring mindlessly at the ceiling. His lip quivers.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Kenchin... I'm sorry."

Draken struggles to catch his breath. He wants to argue, yell at Mikey for sacrificing himself, call him an idiot and curse, but all that flows from his lips is a cracking voice and a choked whisper.

"Don't leave me."

Mikey doesn't respond. He simply turns to the side and buries his face in Draken's shoulder. Silence settles. A few minutes pass before he finally speaks, voice low and hushed.

"I don't know what to do."

Draken sighs. He pulls Mikey's face from its hiding spot so that he can see his eyes — they're red, puffy, and filled with grief. It crushes him.

Draken combs his fingers through Mikey's disheveled hair. It's longer than it used to be.

"Just ask for help," he whispers. "Just once. Say it."

Mikey stares back into Draken's eyes, emotionless and unmoved. Draken frowns.

"Admit it," he demands, his whisper growing frustrated. "Just say it. Just once."

Mikey's stoic facade cracks as his lips begin to quiver.

"Help— h-help me, Kenchin."

Something within Mikey snaps — hearing his own voice say the words awakens his repressed grief. He sobs. Draken pulls him in, warm hands gripping onto him with all the strength he can muster. He swallows a lump in his throat and kisses the crown of Mikey's head, cradling him in the dim light of the moon.

"Yeah, okay Mikey," he sniffles. "Okay."