Riki has always been touch starved.

Ever since he was a kid, he's never gotten much physical affection. Maybe the occasional handshake, a shoulder bump from his friends...but hugs? Three a year, max. His parents were business people, gone most of the time, so he stayed with his grandma. His grandma didn't even want a grandson, but she loved her daughter too much not to "help." Helping didn't mean spending time with him, though. Most days she just left Riki in the living room to watch TV while she read the newspaper, the scratch of the pages against the table the only sound in the quiet house.

Which, of course, meant he didn't get affection from her either. He got so desperate he couldn't sleep without hugging his teddy bear—not even now, at nineteen. When he was younger he even asked his teachers for hugs, but he knew how weird that looked from the way their eyebrows lifted in surprise, so he stopped after a while.

So Riki became the quiet kid. The one everyone thought didn't care about anything. The emo, nonchalant guy who just wanted to be left alone. But in reality? He wasn't like that at all. Sure, he was calm and nonchalant and maybe had a slight gothic aesthetic (gothic; NOT emo), but that didn't mean he didn't care. He wanted friends to hang out with, their laughter filling empty spaces. Parents who actually loved him, whose arms would wrap around him without hesitation. People he could hug without feeling judged. He wanted to be soothed, praised, touched in ways that felt right.

But because of his reputation, no one ever tried. They thought not touching him was being respectful. And it was, in a way. But it left Riki desperate. Desperate for love, for affection...for anything that would make him feel less alone.

Until he came.

He was everything Riki dreamed of. Nice, attractive, smart. And most of all, he hugged Riki the first time they met. A genuine hug, warm and solid, not a forced one. Riki could tell the difference immediately—the way his arms fully encircled him, the gentle pat on his back, the faint scent of citrus shampoo. That one hug made him feel safe. He never wanted to let go. But the problem was, after that, Riki couldn't even say hi to him. He would just shrug, look away, act cold. It wasn't shyness—it was the complete opposite. He cared too much, and suddenly he didn't know how to act. It made him look mean, but he never seemed to mind. Still, Riki hated it.

So most of the time, he just watched him. Not in a stalker way—he was respectful. But every time he was in the room, Riki's eyes followed him. His grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes. His perfect symmetry. His arms that looked like they were made to wrap around Riki's torso... Riki might have been in love.

And then his touch starvation turned sexual. He didn't know how or when. Maybe puberty, maybe loneliness. Whatever it was, he hated it. Riki never watched porn—he stumbled on a video once and thought it was disgusting. But now, he had sexual thoughts. About him.

He loved thinking about him—it made his day better. But now it just made his day...heavier. Lustier. One time, he caught himself staring too long during math class, and suddenly he realized he was hard. The heat of embarrassment flooded his cheeks as he quickly shifted in his seat, Thank God no one noticed, but the memory burned in his mind like a brand.

It hit him worst in the middle of class. A random thought, one he didn't even want: his lips on Riki's neck, his arms pinning him down. The image was so strong his body reacted before he could stop it. He dropped his pencil, the sound echoing loudly in the quiet room as his face burned with shame.

He hated himself. Absolutely hated himself. So he raised his hand and muttered that he felt sick. The teacher frowned, worried, and sent him to the nurse.

Riki lied through his teeth—said his stomach hurt, said he was dizzy. The nurse believed him, the coolness of her hand against his forehead a brief touch that made him crave more, and told him to go home and rest.

But before he could leave, his teacher stopped him at the door. "Riki, wait. You don't look well. Take someone with you, just in case."

And, of course, he picked him. The classmate he thought was closest to Riki.

So there they were. Just the two of them, walking together in silence. The afternoon sun cast long shadows beside them, the sound of their footsteps syncing on the concrete sidewalk. Riki's head spun with conflicting emotions. His chest ached with a hollow feeling that wouldn't go away. Every step felt heavier. He wanted to speak, to say anything normal, but instead all he could think about was how close he was, how warm his arm looked in the sunlight, how badly Riki wanted to lean into him and never move again.

By the time they reached Riki's house, his chest felt like it was caving in under the weight of unspoken words. He let him follow him inside—the familiar smell of lemon polish greeting them as the door opened—just for a moment, just until he could sit down. But as soon as the door closed behind them with a soft click, something in him cracked.

His body started shaking before he could stop it, and suddenly hot tears spilled down his face. Riki buried his hands in his hair, the dark strands sticking to his damp palms, trying to hide, but the sobs came out anyway—years of loneliness, shame, hunger for affection, all crashing over him at once. His calm and nonchalant demeanor shattering like glass against a hard floor.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," he choked out, his voice breaking into fragments. "I just—" He looked up at him through tear-blurred eyes, vision focusing on his concerned expression. His lips trembled with the words he'd been too scared to say until now.

"Touch me," he begged through the tears, voice small and desperate. "Please... I want you to touch me."

The room went quiet except for Riki's ragged breathing, his words hanging in the air like something fragile and dangerous.