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It's not Takato holding the gun, but his character. Junta doesn't care. Takato's tuition and advice has saturated him the way the relentless rain has soaked his clothing. It hangs on him, heavy, weighing him down, rivulets of water tracing cool lines on skin.
The gun matters. It's not a prop, it's a threat. It holds bullets that could rip through flesh, send blood, scarlet, hot, spurting, each pulse stealing Takato's life, taking him away.
So Junta grabs Takato's wrist and squeezes the fragile bones, fighting to make Takato drop the gun, stop this…this…
Oh. That face. So close. Those lips, parted, inviting. Even through the drenching, cleansing beat of rain, he smells Takato's arousal and fear. It's heady, intoxicating. He wants to know what those lips taste like, slide his tongue deep, claim and take and own and possess and—
Takato's breath, panted, gasps, ragged, raw…
Wild eyes, wild scent.
Lips waiting for him.
Waiting…
"Cut!"
Junta jolts out of his haze of lust and longing and feels a hand, Takato's hand, shove him away.
He brushes his thumb over a wrist he knows he's bruised, and Takato wrenches away, stalks away, no grace in his movement, a frantic rush to leave kept under control by an iron will.
It's over.
No. It's finally begun.
He takes his first breath.