
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6669571.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Devilman
  Relationship:
      Asuka_Ryou_|_Satan/Fudou_Akira
  Character:
      Asuka_Ryou_|_Satan, Fudou_Akira
  Additional Tags:
      Crossdressing, Feminization, Humiliation, Internalized_Homophobia, Self-
      Hatred
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-04-27 Chapters: 1/2 Words: 5442
****** The Unobtainable Blissfulness of Mankind ******
by houohken
Summary
     While any onlooker or peer would see Ryo as something to aspire to,
     Ryo, himself, saw himself as nothing but a series of disgusting
     mistakes.
Notes
     the reason it's listed as underage is because anyone who knows the
     characters knows they're in high school, i don't really know their
     exact ages but i think akira is 17 and ryo is 18 in canon but that's
     when the events of devilman take place, and this is clearly set way
     before that
     because it would require an omniscient narrator, which i usually
     don't like writing, i'm gonna say right now that ryo's "dysphoria" is
     entirely based on the idea that his actual body has both breasts and
     a dick, which is a big part of where his desire to be more feminine
     comes from in this fic--*he's not trans*. because of this, i'm not
     tagging it with dysphoria, since what he's feeling isn't even real
     and i also don't wanna give people the wrong impression about this
     fic. i feel like this would be obvious for those who've read
     devilman, but i'm gonna say it more clearly just to make it easier to
     understand for anyone who's feeling left in the dark. this isn't
     essential information for anyone to enjoy the fic, but it's a little
     easter egg, i guess, for people who wanna know What's Actually Going
     On
     also, a lot of their relationship history (since there is none in the
     vanilla devilman manga) is going off of The Canon In The English Dub
     For The OVAs which i'm sure everyone loves, where akira mentions that
     ryo's been his best friend for years. a lot of ryo's memories, in the
     fic, are meant to be hinted that they're being fabricated, since
     they're unclear, especially in the beginning. a lot went into a
     fanfic about a dude wanting to dress up like a chick.
     also also, this was going to be one big long thing, but i decided
     after a bit of thinking that it'd be best for the reader and for
     myself if it was two separate chapters. chapter 2 should be up in
     about two weeks after this has gone up, and with chapter 2 going up,
     i'm gonna be adding more tags for the fic since idk what all they're
     gonna do when they smex >////
Ryo never brought it up, because he didn’t want to needlessly worry his friend,
but bullying was becoming a bit of a problem for him. Or, rather, it was
developing a bit of a problem for him.
He hadn’t known how long the bullying had gone on, when it had started, but it
had definitely picked up momentum around the time he‘d met Akira, who,
ironically, was the brightest light in Ryo‘s life. He’d been going to Akira’s
school for around two years, so the bullying had been especially worse since
having switched. Ryo wasn’t really surprised, seeing as how so many delinquents
attended the school in the first place, and especially so seeing as how so many
would pick on other students for the most trivial of things. Some students were
mocked simply for being in the same space as the opposite sex--one boy was even
teased for having bangs that covered his eyebrows. These people were the
embodiment of the term “petty”.
Ryo’s appearance was one of contention, it seemed, and even girls would be
jealous of him for his natural femininity--this, of course, made him stand out.
He’d never had a problem with appearing less masculine, because Ryo was a very
unique young man, and maintaining an unconventional appearance was something
that came naturally to him. He was aware of his long lashes, he was aware of
his pale skin, his slender limbs, and his longer nails, and he was aware of
what this meant. He’d taken a sort of pride in looking like this, and it was an
entitlement that Ryo had never stated aloud, but he knew had existed in his
subconscious. There was something fulfilling about the way girls would glare at
him for being prettier than them, a sense of validation that Ryo wouldn’t know
about until certain thoughts began creeping up on him. Regardless, he couldn’t
necessarily help the body and face God had given him.
Being different in any sort was practically asking one for all sorts of
negative attention, especially as a teenager, and while Ryo was aware of this,
Ryo also thought he could handle it. He thought the unspoken satisfaction he
got from such a thing would outweigh everything else that came along with it,
and boy, was he wrong. Everyone had a breaking point, and Ryo assumed that he
simply didn’t, since this sort of thing had been going on (supposedly) for
years.
Not much was different now than it had been in the beginning, retrospectively
speaking. He’d been called a fairy, he’d been teased for his complexion, and,
more often than not, his gender had been blatantly mistaken. Despite Ryo’s
sexuality, the slurs and abuse directed towards him for such things didn’t
necessarily sting him in the way they should have. Ryo had known since he was
younger that girls made him uncomfortable, and as he’d grown into himself and
been an onlooker to other boys doing the same, he realized where that
discomfort had stemmed from. The fact that Ryo would rather find intimacy with
other boys was one that he’d, surprisingly, accepted--him accepting this fact
didn’t stop him from degrading and demeaning himself, and insisting he could
change it, and insisting certain someones would hate him indefinitely, should
they find out. The harmful words on this front were coming from within his own
mind, meaning that the degenerates outside his perspective could do nothing to
worsen it, or change it.
“Ryo,” his friend would speak up, concern evident in his tone. “Why do you let
those nasty guys say that sort of stuff about you?”
Ryo would just shrug, and give Akira a knowing smile--this smile could have
meant anything, but Ryo was impossibly hard to read, given his
inapproachability and mood swings, and he’d liked to keep it that way.
“Well--doesn’t it bother you? Being called those things--but I guess you’re
handling it better than I would. I get flustered at any kind of teasing! I wish
I could be more cool-headed like you, Ryo.”
Akira would always praise Ryo, and give the impression that Ryo’s personality
and demeanor was everything that Akira had aspired to be. Akira didn’t know how
much Ryo wished he could be someone else, and he’d never tell him.
Ryo had first noticed the effect boys had on him when he was about twelve,
maybe thirteen, when he’d become aware of such things. Seeing other boys
stretch and bend down in the locker rooms before and after gym class had him
staring, and having boys playfully touch him between classes made his heart
flutter. He gripped his sheets and shouted into his pillow in agony the very
first night, when he knew what this had meant.
It may have seemed to be a bit contradictory of Ryo for him to feel this way
about himself, since he was a rather aloof and, needless to say, pompous person
in the first place, sans his insecurities regarding his sexual identity. Ryo,
himself, may have had a hard time discerning why, exactly, he felt so terrible
about such a thing, since social norms and graces weren‘t exactly something he
deemed a priority; Ryo truly danced to the beat of his own drum. The first
reason that came to his mind was certainly regarding Akira, whom he’d
considered a true angel, whom had commandeered nearly all of Ryo’s compassion
and respect--yes, Akira, the single most important person in his life, far more
so than his father, and especially so compared to his mother, whom Ryo had
borne an unrealized disdain towards for unrealized reasons.
Akira was perfect to Ryo: untainted, righteous, and brimming with beauty from
the sound of his voice to the unique expressions on his face--that beautiful
boy that made Ryo hate himself so terribly. Ryo would smile so fondly when
Akira would look befuddled by something Ryo had said, or gaze at him dreamily
when Akira would sing his melodic laugh at something genuine. Ryo had certainly
loved Akira, more than anything else he could imagine, and it was this love
that Ryo would keep to himself until the day he died. It was this love that
tore Ryo apart from the inside-out, like a disease.
Ryo was diseased.
Akira knowing such a thing about Ryo would ruin their friendship, Ryo believed
this to be indubitably true. It was with shame and regret that Ryo carried,
rather than a feeling of having been blessed with Akira playing such a pivotal
role in his life, having been blessed with what was supposedly the most
beautiful emotion one could have during their life. Love was supposed to be a
truly wonderful thing, but this love that Ryo bore, this adoration,
infatuation, and loyalty that lay deep in his heart, was what Ryo had hated
more than anything. His love for Akira, and his hatred of his love, were the
two things Ryo had felt most passionate about.
Ryo had never known such pain. It completely consumed him, and became the thing
he thought about the most--it was an unending cycle of euphoria and despair.
Ryo didn’t want this, and he’d give anything to be like everyone else, just
this once. He’d wished he wasn’t a faggot, and he’d wished he didn’t love Akira
as much as he’d had.
Akira seemed air-headed at times, like he had a slow start at getting common
concepts, and Ryo, admittedly (although with some force, as Ryo was stubborn
regarding his own capabilities), couldn’t read his mind and determine how,
exactly, Akira felt about such taboo things such as homosexuality, considering
that Ryo had never asked him, and probably never would. Even considering the
contradicting suppositions, that Akira was a compassionate soul and was one
that understood Ryo the best out of anyone else, Ryo couldn’t help but convince
himself that the only possible outcome, should Akira learn his secret, could be
negative, and as negative as could be. This was simply the safest, even if,
practically speaking, it wasn’t the smartest way to go about things.
This was the only way to ensure Ryo’s happiness, which is something he couldn’t
even have in the first place.
Akira undoubtedly acted a certain way towards Ryo that he didn’t towards Miki,
or his other male classmates, which was to be expected, seeing as how the two
of them were best friends. Akira would give Ryo a different sort of smile when
they were alone, he would blush excitedly when Ryo invited him over to spend
the night, and when Akira began taking care of those rabbits in the hutch after
school, Ryo was the first to know about it. Sometimes, when showing Ryo things
he’d never had the chance to show anyone else, he’d sidle close to Ryo, and
give him a modest, almost imploring expression, as if he were asking if Ryo was
interested in what he was showing him--or, rather, if this lack of distance was
okay. Ryo, again, chalked this up to them simply being such good friends, his
own disapproval with himself projecting onto Akira, and chalking up the rare
instances where their fingers would brush against one another by chance, and
Akira’s face lighting up with a faint pinkness of the cheeks and a stutter,
merely a coincidence, and his own delusions.
It couldn’t have possibly been anything else.
Perhaps it was, indeed, Ryo’s own fixation on what was wrong with him that
prevented him from seeing any of the positives regarding the situation, but
even outside of this internalized conflict of his, he naturally had a hard time
understanding the emotions of other people, and, much to his dismay, Akira fell
into that category. No matter how much he knew Akira, no matter how much time
he spent with him, and no matter how much Akira had opened up to Ryo, confided
in him, and been his honest self, Ryo could only see his emotions in a textbook
fashion. He had no idea what these emotions meant, or how they affected Akira,
or why certain actions brought that heavenly smile, and why others snuffed it
out like a candle. This lack of basic empathy was one that only affected Ryo
when it came to Akira’s involvement, and while it explained why he couldn’t
predict Akira’s potential for accepting him and his love, Ryo despaired further
at knowing there would always be a barrier between the two of them.
“Ryo,” his friend spoke up softly. They were sitting rather close,
uncomfortably so, from a certain perspective, and they’d enjoyed, what Ryo had
considered to be, a lovely silence between the two of them. “You seem so
reserved all the time. D-don’t take this the wrong way, but sometimes, I feel
like I don’t really know you as well as I should. Actually, I feel like I don’t
really know very much about you at all! That’s kinda weird, since I still see
you as my best friend.”
Ryo’s heart sank.
“Just--you can tell me anything, okay?” Except that he couldn’t.
Should there have been a proper chance at mutual love, Ryo would have ignored
the barrier, and had Akira in the fullest way he practically could, but for the
time being, Ryo wracked his mind with anguish at his circumstances. Not only
was he a disgusting queer, but emotions, themselves, seemed so foreign and
alien to him. Why? Had he always been like this--?
Regardless of how stripped of intimate knowledge Ryo had ultimately been, Akira
was a delicate boy. He was an angel, and Ryo was a monster for wanting to
darken and soil him with such unholy, disgusting desires. Not a moment went by
where Ryo didn’t feel such overwhelming guilt for touching himself at night to
fantasies of Akira beneath him, sweating, and his name being moaned from those
sweet, pink lips. When his mind was particularly active, Ryo had hoped with all
his might that Akira couldn’t read his thoughts--the part of him that wished he
could, wished that Akira could see the carnal urges Ryo had, could see the
depraved things Ryo so desperately prayed he could do to him, and seeing him
flabbergast and turn the deepest shade of red at the realization that only
Akira could reduce Ryo to such a state, only further solidified Ryo’s
humiliation.
Ryo would often cry from how much his heart ached, as embarrassing as such a
statement had been. He’d cry, knowing that Akira could never know, and he’d
cry, knowing how disgusting he was, and that he continued to feed into it. As
fulfilling and erotic his daydreams about Akira were, he’d often considered
getting castrated from the guilt he felt for masturbating to his best friend,
another boy. More than once, Ryo had tried to cause pain to his nethers, to
stop himself from feeling so aroused--he didn’t mutilate himself, but he’d
wished that he could. He’d wished he’d had the courage.
Ryo was an ugly, filthy coward.
Aside from Akira and himself, it didn’t matter to Ryo what others thought of
his indignity. When bullies threw slurs at him, they simply brushed over Ryo’s
shoulder, and he wouldn’t even validate them with a glance. Nothing they could
say to Ryo, or about Ryo, could possibly bother him--especially since they’d
never truly know that everything they said was right. The words were ones he’d
tell himself every night, and it didn’t matter if they were being validated by
outside influences, because those outside influences, themselves, did not
matter.
What did bother Ryo, however, bothered him far more than it reasonably should
have, as if Ryo‘s mental stability and sense of reason were prominent
characteristics he‘d had. Ryo, again, was relatively confident with himself,
even in regards to him wishing death upon himself for something as despicable
as loving other boys--outside of that, he was a bit of an ass. When he was
asked if he’d wanted to be a girl instead of a man, though, those words would
cling to his mind like a parasite. When he was berated for looking like a girl,
sounding like a girl, and acting like a girl whenever Akira was around, no
matter how little truth there was to these accusations, Ryo’s mind would stop
for a split second, and his heart would begin racing. At first, he didn’t
address it, for one reason or another, and when it had brought itself up to
him, he didn’t understand why he was having this response.
He didn’t really try to intentionally look like a girl, despite him doing
nothing to really try to look more like a man. His hair was of an average
length, not much longer than Akira’s, but Ryo could remember the moment he was
consciously aware of an irrational fear of makeup. Ryo already didn’t like
being around Miki, if not for previously stated reasons, then for the fact that
her personality was atrocious, but when the three of them would be in the city
together, Ryo was aware of his hesitance when prompted to enter particular
feminine stores--clothing being something understandable, but makeup being an
entirely different sort of issue. It was as if he was insecure, which Ryo
certainly was not (self-hating, he was, but Ryo insisted that he was on top of
it, saying this to himself even as he‘d been in tears and begging his accursed
erection to stop taunting him), but if he had been insecure, it wouldn’t have
been with his masculinity--or would it?
“Ryo!,” his friend called out excitedly. “Miki wants us to head back to her
place when we’re done--s-she wants me to try on some of her makeup.” A great
blush was evident on his face, and there was anxiety in his eyes.
“Why?”
“I dunno! Girls are just weird like that, you know? But who knows, maybe it’d
be fun! If no one at school finds--”
“Don’t let her do something stupid like that. You’re not a little kid; guys
don’t wear makeup.”
He’d spent so long ignoring the bullying, occasionally retaliating if he knew
he wouldn’t be caught or punished, but after several months, his mind began
lingering more and more on what they were saying regarding his supposed
womanhood, and this began to manifest himself into cognizant worries--worries
he could actually, physically, legitimately point out and address, and Ryo
didn’t like this. Ryo didn’t believe himself to be a transsexual, and when his
dangerously wandering thoughts had led him to even consider such a thing, he
knew that this was becoming nothing short of a complex, and one that had
brought itself into existence so suddenly, and seemingly randomly.
Ryo was scared of being a woman. Scared, and dangerously tempted by it. Was it
because being a woman made it safer to enjoy the company of men? Did being a
woman make it okay?
Ryo had no generalized or specific dysphoria--not that he would have known what
it was, unless he’d had it. To a degree, however, on slight occasions, he’d
feel as though there were two weights on his chest, and his posture would be a
little screwed, or laying on his back would make his breathing more labored--
but these were merely ghost-pains, illusions, nothing tangible. Once, he
supposed there was meant to be something more to his chest and his physique,
and that he was simply born without, as though God had made a--he’d swallowed
upon the suggestion, his blood turning cold--mistake while he was developing in
the womb. Ryo wouldn’t allow himself to ponder further as to what this illusory
sensation was, because he didn’t need another reason to keep himself up at
night with misery.
Thankfully, he’d never dreamt that he was a full woman, or at least, from the
dreams that were clear and deep enough for him to remember. Still, he’d dreamt
that he had the upper body of a woman, and the lower body that of a man, and
that was equally as frightening. Regardless, this convinced him that he didn’t
exactly want to be a woman, per say. It cleared his greatest suspicion, but
only further complicated matters.
Of course, he’d deny this, much like he denied the bullying when asked, much
like he’d denied himself his love for a certain boy, and much like he’d denied
how much he loved the vibrant shade of red on his own lips, once he’d let these
invasive thoughts catch up to him and let him fall even further from grace,
once he‘d finally given in to his desires, and even further from what had been
expected of him when he was born into this world as a boy. The bullying planted
the seed, and his faults and failures and depraved wrongness as a human being
allowed the seed to grow and consume his being.
Secrets were something Ryo kept well, and even though the closest person to him
was Akira, there was much that Akira didn’t know about him. Akira never knew of
Ryo’s mother, and he also never knew of Ryo’s apprehensiveness when she was
brought to question. Akira even seemed oblivious to Ryo’s similar
apprehensiveness whenever Miki’s mother would be doting towards him in the way
most competent mothers should. Ryo was a quiet, introverted boy, but this was
only enhanced when he’d be invited over for dinner at Miki’s place; while Akira
didn’t know of Ryo’s mother, he did know he was alone a lot of the time, so Ryo
knew that Akira extending these invitations was out of concern for his friend.
Akira never seemed aware of the glares Ryo would give the women around the
table, or even when Ryo would shirk away from Mrs. Makimura’s motherly touch.
These were habits he’d displayed even before he began doubting his gender. Once
he’d known where his loyalty and desired lied, he figured this was just
association with his disinterest in sex with women; however, if he’d thought
back far enough, he’d know that he considered his own mother to be of the same
category and caliber as Mrs. Makimura and her daughter--disgusting annoyances
that merely got in his way. Ryo had certainly known a mother’s love, but there
was always that layer of disdain, and of jealousy, that overlaid what warmth he
could have had regarding her. These feelings would flare up especially, and
unreasonably, when any woman in particular was engaging Akira, and, had he
given into his urges, he would have certainly hurt Miki or her mother for so
much as looking at him.
Would Ryo continue to hate himself even if he did have breasts, and even if the
place between his legs was different? If he spoke in a womanly tone, and had
long, flowing hair, and became the exact thing he was starting to crave, would
he continue to hate himself? Was there no hope for him to be happy?
Eventually, the clearest question regarding his identity had presented itself
to Ryo, and upon the realization that his subconscious was asking this of him,
he’d spiraled even further down the rabbit hole, and deeper into hell.
Curiosity killed the cat, and Ryo was ever so curious when he’d wondered what
he’d look like if he were a woman--if he‘d been born a woman.
It began with something as simple as makeup, his lashes one day seeming much
darker and longer, his eyebrows seeming more filled and shaped, his lips
seeming just a bit plumper. He began to be less and less hesitant when it came
to entering stores marketed towards girls, so that he could study and get the
things he needed to “fix“ his appearance, and he found himself looking at said
girls in his classes more often than he used to--not out of lust, but out of
the same envy they’d had for him, out of the need to look more like them. As he
had once been above all the rest, and seen himself on an untouchable pedestal,
he began seeing himself below girls, and wishing he’d had what they had, and
doing his best to obtain it.
He wouldn’t let himself go as low as to calling them “real” girls, no matter
how despicable and detached he became. That would imply he wanted something
more, something he couldn’t have, something that was far worse than just
imitating what he desired--and something his dreams told him wasn’t true.
Ryo had enough sense to not wear anything like that out in public, obviously,
the only exception being mascara, since his eyelashes were naturally long and
people thought he wore it anyway--black mascara was chancing it, but brown
mascara simply made him look more awake. The first night he wore lipstick in
the safety of his own room, his father away on another dig, he almost threw up
with angst and fear, his stomach knotting and growing colder and colder the
more he‘d realized what he‘d done. However, after he’d applied it, and then
wiped it off to apply it more accurately because Asuka Ryo didn‘t settle for
less than perfection, it took him a bit to leave the bathroom and step away
from the mirror. He’d stroked the face in the reflection, and then his own, his
eyes never leaving the bright red paint. His lips were so big, so luscious, so
delicious, and he knew that had he worn something on his eyes to balance out
his intense mouth, he would have certainly looked like a woman. A “real” woman.
He could take photos like this, and people would see them, and ask who the
beautiful woman was. Who “she” was.
He hurriedly washed his mouth to remove any traces of the lipstick and rushed
out of the bathroom. He didn’t touch any other makeup products for a week, and
he went to bed aroused.
Once he’d become comfortable with wearing makeup, however, he began to yearn
for more, and, gradually, his restlessness and anxiety began to fade away,
although there was a (reasonable, according to Ryo) degree of self-loathing
that he felt would never leave. After all, he was beginning to abandon his
manhood, which he‘d already sacrificed by touching himself to thoughts and
images of other boys, but now he was just falling further and further from the
ideal. At first, it was just once a week, usually towards the end, where he’d
spend some time in the bathroom at night, looking at himself in the mirror,
staring at the bizarre amalgam of man and woman. As his obsession with
womanliness grew, as did his obsession with his features that he could
accentuate in order to appear more feminine, so that he could become closer and
closer to that which was impossible to obtain, and become more likely to accept
his faults as a human.
What had become a weekly occurrence gradually become a frequent ordeal
throughout the rest of the house, especially when his father was away. He’d
spend a good deal of time sitting in his washroom, staring at what he saw being
reflected back to him, and, rather than washing it all off before he’d leave,
he’d drift off into his bedroom, or even the living room. That, especially, had
been quite the thrill, given that his father could have come home at any
chance, and seen something hermaphroditic in the house, replacing his good,
honest boy. When he was in his bedroom, he’d be laying on his bed, occasionally
stroking himself at the thought of being mistaken--genuinely, sincerely
mistaken for a girl, being spoken of as the other gender.
He’d spill into his hand when he imagined Akira asking him to be his
girlfriend.
His attraction for Akira was something he’d accepted shortly after the feelings
began to bud in his heart, and said attraction for Akira was often the reason
that Ryo would demean himself for his interests and his personality. While
recently, he’d been comparing himself to women and striving to become such, Ryo
had always compared himself to Akira--would Akira like if he did this? Would
Akira hate if he knew that? Most of Ryo’s actions were judged by the Akira in
his mind, as Akira was on an even higher pedestal than he’d once deemed
himself, and in his mind, Akira’s judgments were harsh, and unwavering. Ryo
knew that, with certainty, his love for the other boy would shatter their
friendship, and Ryo was tainted by this unshakeable desire to kiss this boy, to
hold his hands, and for this boy to view no other.
Something so harmful was so deeply ingrained in Ryo’s soul, and that was what
made it so particularly detestable and disgusting. His desire to look like a
woman made him even more detestable and disgusting, and as Ryo lay in bed at
night, wearing his makeup and caressing his member, his heart was heavy with
guilt and pain.
This was wrong. This was terribly, truly wrong, and Ryo didn’t see himself
stopping any time soon.
As these feelings and thoughts matured, and were given the opportunity to
develop and be explored, rather than repressed and shunned, Ryo found quite a
deal of relief in knowing that his identity, itself, wasn’t being threatened.
The best experiences with masturbating, that he’d found, had been while he was
wearing his makeup, and while he was imagining Akira seeing him as a woman--
this, along with the gradual association with arousal that the thought of being
more womanly gave him, lent to the realization that this was becoming a fetish,
reevaluating what his dreams had already confirmed. These thoughts had been too
frightening, new, and worrisome for him to actually dissect in the beginning,
but as they’d had time to flourish, these new means with which to express and
relieve himself had opened up a new world to Ryo, and while he was ever-
conscious of how this impacted him, and how it completely went against his
purpose in having been born a man, he was becoming more and more confident in
himself.
Ryo was already pompous, but actual confidence, especially in regards to
something like this, was definitely something that had been missing in his
life.
“You seem a lot happier lately,” Akira had commented on their walk home from
school--Akira had invited him over, with less subtle tenseness as he would have
otherwise, explaining that the Makimuras had left town to visit some relatives,
and allowed him to stay behind to look after the place. Akira commented
innocently on how they seemed to treat him more like a live-in nanny, rather
than part of their family, but he didn’t seem to particularly mind their
rudeness. Ryo had seemed to falter for a bit at the invitation, wanting to say
yes, but instead, after some brief deliberation, turned the offer around to
have Akira come to his place instead.
“Have I?,” Ryo turned to look at him, with a more honest smile. Feeling more
confident had helped him feel more empathetic, and less at a loss for words, so
he was able to pick up the way Akira’s face lit up at finally being able to
judge his friend, and Ryo, for once, was able to discern why these feelings had
occurred.
“Yeah! You seem a lot easier to talk to now, too, did something happen? Did
those guys stop picking on you?”
Akira’s inability to notice such things made it easier for Ryo to begin to feed
into his own curiosity, confusion, and shameful desires regarding his formerly-
concrete gender in a safe and unsuspecting environment. Granted, there was
always the chance that Akira would eventually realize and become aware--and Ryo
was certainly taking that risk by inviting him over on the spur of the moment--
but Ryo was anything, if not secretive. The emotional barrier was beginning to
drop, but that didn’t mean Ryo’s entire life was laid bare for Akira to see,
and pick apart, and kick into the dirt.
In the event that Akira did find makeup products in Ryo’s washroom, which he
wouldn’t, unless Ryo had purposely left them out with the intention of Akira
finding them and hating Ryo for the rest of his life, Ryo had the clever excuse
of them belonging to a new woman his father was seeing. As for why they were in
Ryo’s washroom, and not his father’s, well, Ryo could come up with an excuse if
he’d needed to, not that he was expecting Akira to look so deeply into it. Ryo
was simply being paranoid.
One thing that Ryo did fear, however, was a new interest that Ryo had taken
with his appearance that Akira had more of a chance of finding. It had taken
him quite a bit of nerve to experiment, and to grow comfortable with it, much
like with the makeup, but once he’d tried it out for the first time, he hadn’t
been able to part without it. Leaving the house with his face painted, even
subtly, was asking for ridicule and shame, but wearing something underneath,
something that the general public had no way of knowing, filled Ryo with a
sense of exhibitionism that wearing makeup in the living room had given him.
Part of his new-found confidence could very easily have been attributed to this
expression. It certainly made Ryo happier, even if his stomach twisted and
turned cold every other moment at the prospect of someone somehow knowing, but,
like the makeup, the more he did it, the easier it became to bear, and he was
soon getting similar sexual gratification that the possibility of being found
with the makeup gave him.
It was certainly risky, inviting Akira over, but his friend would only be there
for a few hours. They’d entertain themselves with manga, or board games, or
simply by talking, and in that limited time frame, it was very unlikely that
Akira would realize Ryo was wearing lingerie under his clothes.
“Hey, uhm, I don’t want to overstay my welcome, but, could I ask something?”
Ryo looked at him with the same smile he’d given him earlier in their walk.
“Could I spend the night? It’s been forever since we last did that, it’d be
fun!”
That familiar coldness started in his stomach, and soon spread to the rest of
his body. Ryo broke out into a cold sweat, and nausea overpowered his senses,
Akira terrified and asking what was wrong. They’d had to stop for a bit while
Ryo threw up in a public restroom.
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