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“Sing with me, Yuu-kun. Even though it's just a dream of a night.”
Warm fingers run across his lips, cheeks, sinking down on his neck, chest, hips. They're frantic, desperate — not touching, but literally testing out all of his skin, almost checking if he's truly alive, as eyes big with pleas and admiration look at him behind thick lenses. Liquid blue eyes stare back into fierce emerald ones, lips crashing and teeth clashing, ungracefully, hands pulling at clothes and hair like they're their last anchors in a stormy ocean.
The outfits Anzu made with so much care are all wrinkled, full of ugly crests, soaked with sweat. Makoto bites down a moan on Izumi's lips when his back hits a wall, lost as they are in the backstage, still able to hear the sound of the waves underneath them; it fades off, though, when Izumi pulls back, his heavy breaths being all he can focus on. He's all he feels, all he sees, all he hears, and it makes him sick; but he dives on his kiss-bruised lips again, biting, swallowing the keens that escape them.
It's a dream of a night, something they won't remember tomorrow. A midsummer night dream that gets them intoxicated with magic, spells making their eyelids heavy, their minds clouded; Makoto drinks all the poison that drips from Izumi's pink lips, sweeter than honey, more bitter than any drug could be. His whispers don't make him shiver in disgust, but in a sick, sick pleasure; and the still gloved hands on the bare skin of his hips, he wants to feel them everywhere, to let this flame be consumed as fast as it can, a young flare so bright it could make the fireworks ashamed.
A dream of a night, Izumi mutters on his neck. Something that won't leave guilt, marks, or memories. That will vanish with the dawn, leaving just faint echoes of what it had been, of what it could have been. Of what they could have been, in another life, another time. It's a language neither of them understands anymore, but they pretend to be fluent speakers; all lips and whispers and tentative touches, Makoto arching his body to guide the fingers where they're needed the most. No fairy lights, no vivid illusions in the dark of the backstage — just muffled whines and thumping noises when Makoto's back hits the wall again, and again, as Izumi drops on his knees, the fancy outfits long forgotten.
A dream of a night that will leave scars, and sleep paralysis when they'll be done. But it's okay, it really is okay, as long as they both forget about it.