Disclaimer: I do not own Persona 4.

A/N: Title is from the lovely song "Doot, Doot" by Freur. It's responsible for this whole damn story, which is actually many years overdue.

There's the strong smell of sweet watermelon lingering over Souji's head, intermingling with the humid warmth of the August heat, the silent sounds of muffled crickets chirping in the bushes, and, more noticeable than any of that, the overwhelming heat of Dojima's thigh pressed into his own.

It's been a nice day.

Everybody's already gone home, their shoes long gone from the placemat at the front door and Nanako cuddled deep into her summer blankets upstairs. The usual air of tension hanging over Souji's neck is gone, replaced instead with a pleasant contentedness steaming over him from the heat and Dojima's lack of suspicion against him. There was no Nanako to interfere when the fighting started, no glares of distrust when Souji feigned unawareness when talk of the murders arose, and no fatherless household deep into the night today. Instead there was a watermelon and laughter and Nanako giggling as her tiny legs hung off the patio.

"You really have made some great friends," Dojima says softly next to him. The sincerity surprises him, especially that he's not making snide remarks about affiliating with the likes of Kanji or the boy who convinced him to smuggle swords into the Junes food court, instead smiling out at the soaring cicadas. Souji nods and shifts on the porch until he's cross-legged.

It's nice to have an evening like this now and again, where coexisting works. Where all of his friends can cram into his house and lay in the backyard while they share a gigantic watermelon. All things considered, murders as well, things could have gone so much worse, like Nanako shying away from him and the school ostracizing the quiet city boy. And these fleeting moments of Dojima's approval versus his usual skepticism of Souji's friends and his time spent after school, they're easy to revel in.

The world is pleasantly hot, and it feels like it will stay that way for years. The heat is palpable, warm enough to soak through Souji's shirt and create hazes over his eyes. The idea of a cold winter seems like an impossible prospect, the chill of watermelon already long gone from his mouth. He licks his lips and still tastes the sweet fruit, a reminder of just a few hours earlier. How long has he been sitting on this porch with Dojima?

In front of him, only a few feet away, a cluster of fireflies glow in a swarm of yellow light. A tiny breeze, warm like the gusts of heat behind a bus, ruffle the trees and slide through the bushes in a fluttering wave that never reaches the porch. Inaba gets warm in the summer like nobody ever warned him for, and the long pants hanging on his legs seem like too much. He shifts on the groaning wood and listens to the steady sound of melodic insects creating symphonies.

"I guess we'll have to do this again," Dojima chuckles. "At the beach next time, huh? It's been a while."

Souji can picture it. Maybe it'll be next year, when he's sick of the city and misses his friends and the way he could sit by the riverbed for hours without a single distraction of honking traffic or city pollution to lure him away, and all of them will kick the sand and break open the watermelon. Yukiko blushing in her swimsuit while Kanji charges into the water, Nanako's cheeks wet from the slice of watermelon too big for her mouth and Dojima laughing over her. Maybe the murders will be over with and the lies and late nights home will end, and Dojima will trust him. He'd like that.

The heat is getting to his head, burrowing in his skull and fogging up the common sense. He's pleasantly tired and loose-limbed, and when Dojima pops open the cap on a beer bottle not a foot away, he finds himself wondering if Dojima feels just as dizzy in the hot air.

The thing about nights like these, nights where they get along, is that it makes Souji wish they always did. His uncle is cool, and under the gruff brooding and poor fathering skills, he's funny and caring and doesn't know what to do with the leftover love left behind when his wife passed.

Souji stops. Those are the thoughts that go too far, like the ones where he wishes he could see Dojima happy again. He wonders if it's the arousal talking.

Arousal? Souji rewinds, considering it, and stares at his lap. His fingers are tingling, like they're recovering from pinpricks of electricity, and his midsection is as well. Yes, the heat is definitely getting to his head.

It's giving him ideas, ideas like what it would feel like to kiss Dojima. If he'd protest and wipe his lips, or if he'd sink into another's touch, even if it's nephew's. If he'd kiss like he smokes, with slow, deliberate drags to savor every tendril, or roughly with a possessive fervor that years of apprehending criminals drilled into him. Souji wishes he knew sometimes, if only to know more about the enigma Dojima keeps of himself.

Souji looks over at him. The air has gotten warmer, muggy enough to create a surreal film over the world, and a dark patch of sweat gathers on Dojima's backside. He watches as the neck of Dojima's beer bottle gets held captive by his fingers, leading up to his mouth as his lips wrap around the tip and he swallows. Souji watches the movement carefully, eyes memorizing the way his throat fluxes with his gulps. It's so warm.

Something in the air smells sweet aside from the wafts of hard beer tickling his nose, like summer flowers and melon seeds. At the foot of the porch, dropped unceremoniously in the grass, is a generous chunk of watermelon shell. It looks like it might be Kanji's, who easily devoured a fourth of the entire thing and left the remains on the ground with the dirt. It makes the air sugary, makes the spots where juice dribbled down everybody's chins on the porch floorboards sticky under his fingers as he shifts. Dojima is quiet next to him, swilling his beer back and forth in his bottle. His thigh is still pressed into Souji's, a warm stripe of clothed leg heating up his entire body. Souji feels inexplicably too warm.

"Thanks for this," Dojima says, turning his face toward him. There's a hint of a smile on his face, and the last remainders of the setting sun catch the right hemisphere of his face, lighting up the dots of stubble and licking up his cheekbone. He has too many wrinkles of a man his age, too many lines caused not by raucous laughter but interminable stress, but under the tug of a grin under his mouth, some of the lines fade. He looks good this way. "Nanako's been so different since you've been here. Happier."

She's a good girl, Souji thinks. His friends are to thank too. They've all taken a shine to Nanako, to spoiling her with Junes lunches and doing her homework for her, and she shines under the attention exactly like a girl her age should. Dojima sighs heavily.

"Sometimes I think about how things would be different if you weren't here," he says, tone burdened. He shifts, and his pants stick to the sugary floorboards as he readjusts. "If I'd still be too hung up on catching Chisato's killer to..."

He trails off, pulling at the fabric of his shirt where the sweat clings to his back. The cicadas are out, loud and blaring in the trees, and Souji notices that Dojima's tie is loose on his neck. He barely ever sees him this way, relaxed and calm without the effects of too much alcohol or chain smoking to thank, but his shoulders are free of tension and his hands are soft on the neck of his beer bottle. Everything about Souji feels too hot right now, too warm in the film of mugginess, and he feels mesmerized by the easy flow of their conversation, by the curve of his uncle's neck, the rumble of his voice. He swallows down on a dry mouth and tastes watermelon.

He curls a hand around Dojima's knee, right where his leg starts leading into his thigh. The fabric there is warm and wrinkled under his touch, and his fingers move on pure impulse as they curl there. His heart is beating in his neck, a steady pulse that seems to match the insistent shouting of the cicadas blanketed by the leaves of the still trees, and he's sure Dojima can hear it, no way he can't when it's pushing itself out of his neck―

"Souji," Dojima murmurs, and he says it softly. It isn't the sharp yell or demanding grumble that comes with chastisement or interrogation, rather the gentle sound of curiosity and maybe even suppressed warnings. Souji knows how wrong this is, feels it in the unearthly heat radiating from Dojima's skin into his hand, and still wants to test the waters. Dojima could use the unwinding, and so could Souji, and in the thick hot air of an August night with not a single breeze to push at the sweat on his forehead, all of this feels like second nature.

It's not the first time he's let himself think about it. He's thought about Dojima's muscles, the way they would push through his shirts and define his body. He's thought about the way his mouth curled around a cigarette, how he'd twine his tongue around it to keep it in place when he spoke. He's thought about how he looks on the couch, exhausted and spent after a long day, how he'd probably be soft and pliant and tired in all the same ways after good sex. Thoughts are harmless, after all. The hand on Dojima's thigh, the one Dojima's staring at like a hundred detective exams couldn't drill in enough morality into his head to deny the tipsy ideas taking shape in is head, isn't as harmless. The beer bottle nestled next to his uncle's hip is only half empty―already half empty―and in it seems to be all the bad ideas that are potentially flashes of his future here, on this porch, itching in his hot clothes and ignoring the sting of the lingering mosquitoes. Dojima takes another swig.

"Do you know what you're doing?" he says, voice pinched. He's still looking at Souji's hand, eclipsed in the shadows of the darkening night, even as he sets aside the beer and watches Souji dig in his fingertips. Souji doesn't. Of course he doesn't. He's acting on impulse, from the things his body is telling him are going to feel good, and Dojima's letting him. It's encouragement, so Souji slides his hand higher.

The heat's going to his head even more, because suddenly he's looking at Dojima and Dojima's looking straight at him, eyes clear. He's almost expecting the gloss of slight inebriation, or the cloud of shame, or even the subtle veil of anger of his eyes, but they're empty. All that's left is something soft and raw that Souji's never seen in his gaze before. Is it curiosity? Is it want? Is it a silent warning bell telling Souji to stop now before things get murky?

If it is, Souji's ears are deaf to it, because suddenly their noses are touching and Souji can count tones of gray in Dojima's eyes, can measure the length of his eyelashes for his permanent memory to file away. The night is hazy and Dojima's leg is startlingly warm under his grip, but he feels like if nothing else, he'll remember this tomorrow, the way his pulse insistently hammered in his chest and their noses pushed together.

He hopes to god Nanako is asleep. Oh god, he hopes so. He feels like a simple shove, whether it be the noise of a screeching car or a light flickering on at the house next door or Nanako's inquisitive voice calling through the living room would be enough to break the spell of whatever tension is suspended between them. Maybe it's lack of tension. He isn't sure yet, so he drags his fingers up Dojima's leg until he reaches the seam of his pants at his crotch and Dojima makes a noise, desperate and frustrated, not an inch away. He's so close, and Souji has to look. Every crevice, every scar, every bump of skin is almost blurry in front of his eyes as Dojima reaches forward to grab his elbow.

"Shit," he mutters, low and dizzy, and Souji feels his breath on his mouth as he exhales. "'M going to hell."

Suddenly Dojima's lips are on his, and then they're kissing, Dojima's last shred of restraint melting into whole-hearted need as their lips slide together. It's not hesitant, not when both of them are lax and pliant off the stifling heat and cheerful atmosphere, but it's gentle. Still unsure, still testing limits.

Suddenly there's a hand, rough and calloused, cupping Souji's cheek through the brush of their mouths, and Souji mirrors Dojima to let his thumb drag down the scratchy stubbles of facial here collecting on his chin. Dojima is tender, surprisingly so, not pushing nearly as hard as he does with his words, his lips gentle as he angles their heads together. The air feels warmer still and Souji struggles to breathe, his uncle pulling every last coherent thought from his mind and viable gulp of air from his lungs. This is so wrong, so undeniably immoral that his very bones shake with it, but Dojima's mouth is soft as it peppers open-mouthed kisses on his lips that taper off carefully, all of them slow and warm.

They pull away from each other, enough to let the air push between their mouths and the aftermaths to settle in. Souji's hands feel sweaty on the floorboards and his mouth is tingling. He wants more, wants to feel Dojima arch and move under him, and the darkness cast over Dojima's eyes is unmistakable. Gone is the stress and the knitted eyebrows, replaced with a guilty pleasure like sneaking Nanako's snacks from the fridge. They always do taste the best. Souji understands completely.

"Did you―I mean," Dojima's fumbling with his words. His hand finds his own hair, scratching at the scalp there, like he isn't sure what side of himself to pull out for the conversation, whether it be cop Dojima or guardian Dojima or a new version of himself all together. Souji's left hand is still on his thigh, pinky finger lingering over his crotch, unable to let go and slither back into his own personal space. There's something that could be either a deep blush on the high spots of Dojima's cheeks, or a trick of the dimming light. "Your mother would skin me alive."

It sounds like the creeping of remorse, like despite the stirring of his dick under Souji's finger and the way his knuckles are white on the porch, ethics are taking over. Souji doesn't want them to, not now when this feels like the first time they've really ever communicated, like their skin can have all the conversations they're so awkward to have with words, and he moves in for the kill. Dojima looks at him and Souji tries to make his eyes communicate the unspoken it's okay, and then he leans in and guides Dojima's mouth against his own.

He can't resist, can't deny himself twice when Souji's offering, and Dojima twists into his grip and kisses back. It's wetter now, warmer than before and less tentative, their mouths angled together. The first kiss was the experiment, the bad idea cautiously tested, but the second is full of certainty, full of familiarity like their lips already know each other well. Something is stinging him in his back through his thin shirt, but Souji's too occupied to slap it away. He has other things to concentrate on.

Dojima barely tastes of watermelon anymore, flavors of smoky cigarette drags and musky beer sliding over Souji's senses instead as he slips his tongue past his lips. He doesn't remember adding tongue to the equation, he barely remembers the fist wrapped around his sweaty shirt either, but he's done thinking. He's been thinking too much for months, thinking for a whole group of people who require his leadership and his advice, and now it's finally time to hibernate his brain and let the rest of his body awaken. Dojima keens against his mouth, a low, pleased sound, and Souji feels every inch of himself respond, flesh tingling and mouth electrified.

"'S too hot," Dojima's murmuring on his mouth, lips slick as they kiss in clumsy strokes and slide together. Souji nods urgently along with his complaint in agreement, sticky hands pulling at Dojima's tie as he shifts in the porch. This porch is too damn small, and their bodies are too cumbersome on the edge of the floorboards. He pushes at Dojima's shoulders until he's down, laid against the sticky floorboards propped up on his elbows, and his knee hangs off the edge and his torso barely fits, but it's enough. He doesn't want to waste time anymore, not when they've spent the last few months with their bodies defensive and their words too sharp, and he fits himself over Dojima's chest with his legs between his knees. It all feels hot, muggy, humid, too thick to stand, and Souji's only viable solution is to take off more clothing.

He makes it to his belt when Dojima interrupts, yanking him in by the neck and biting down his jaw. It hurts, his teeth leaving marks and grazing a trail to his collarbone, but every sensation only pulls hisses from his mouth and stuttering bucks from his hips, and Souji ruts their tortuously clothed cocks together in an effort to encourage. It seems to work, Dojima's only response a low groan that falls from his throat, and then they're kissing again, mouths fused together as Dojima's fingers slip between their bodies and pull at his belt. Souji lifts his hips and returns the favor, and halfway to unzipping Dojima's pants there's suddenly a hand in his boxers grabbing his erection, and Souji loses touch with reality for a few seconds,

When he comes to and blinks away the sparks of pleasure, Dojima's hand is stroking him, wringing soft whimpers from his lips while Souji fumbles to regain his composure and pull down Dojima's pants. Dojima knows what he's doing, has the experience of age and the sureness of a detective, his hands firm as he strokes up and down, up and down, probably in the same way he's done to himself every night since Chisato died. Souji wonders if that's what Dojima's thinking about right now, if his mind is running on broken records of Chisato's voice and how much she'd disapprove, and Souji hopes to god he's not. If he is, Souji is eager to distract him, and that's how he ends up with Dojima's cock in his grip as he thumbs the head and builds up a rhythm.

Dojima responds with a rough bite to Souji's lower lip to stifle his cry of surprise, and it only revs him up further. Their bodies are slick now, hot where Souji's hitched up his shirt to roam over his chest, hot where their legs are nestled together, and the sweat on his forehead builds. They kiss and their tongues are warm when they touch, no longer timidly, and it's almost shocking how easy it was to go from foreign hands to familiar touches, how it feels like ages ago when Souji slid his hand onto Dojima's thigh and waited for the worst to come.

Dojima speeds up his hand and Souji stops thinking again. Enough of the thinking already. If he does, if either of them do, things will stumble to a halt because after all, this is his uncle who's under him and they have things like family and blood in common, but no matter how many fatherly allowances or parental advice Souji's received in the past few months, none of it could stop him from watching the way Dojima's arms moved under his shirts and how deep his voice became when he was exhausted. And if the way Dojima's bucking into his touch is any indication, Dojima's been thinking about it too. Maybe small things, like Souji looks nice in that jacket today or he looks nothing like this mother, things that would have ultimately led to this alongside the stifling heat and the tingles in the atmosphere.

Dojima's mumbling things against his lips, fragments of sentences like so wrong and c'mon and breathy groans that all run straight to Souji's midsection where the heat is starting to centralize in prickles. He's going to have so many bug bites, so many red marks that will itch like crazy for days, but this definitely seems worth it if only to have the image of Dojima's bruised lips and hooded eyes under his gaze. He's sure he looks the same, plus grazed cheeks thanks to Dojima's stubble, and both of their hands seem to fall into sync as they stroke each other's cocks in fast, urgent pumps. Souji thought it'd be strange to have the weight of another man in his hands, especially when it's the girls who have taken to him here in Inaba, but it feels natural to mirror his own favorite twists of the wrist and curls of the fingers on Dojima's length. If he's inexperienced, Dojima's steady influx of moans are proving the contrary.

It starts building up, all of it, from the incessant chirping of the bugs to the hand on his cock to the pleasure boiling in his belly, and Souji arches and gasp in efforts to reach the peak. He never thought he'd like this, the rough hands, the firm body, not when he's surrounded all day by creamy legs and soft stomachs, but Dojima works for him in all the ways he shouldn't. They kiss again, lips fused together to muffle the loud sounds threatening to disturb Nanako, and all it takes is one, two more strokes and Souji's nearly tumbling off the patio as he comes.

The pleasure comes in waves, like overwhelming pushes of the tide, and it's not till he shakes the incoherence away and shudders back to life with the slow, lazy pulls of Dojima's hand on his sensitive cock that he realizes that Dojima's still hard under his still grip. He keeps stroking, slower now, and Dojima's sticky hand joins his to stroke together, faster, firmer, and the rest is a blur until Dojima spills over his palm and his mouth opens in a soft o of silent satisfaction. It's even hotter than before, and Souji remembers to breathe just in time.

A hand tangles haphazardly into his hair, pushing it back from his sweat-dotted forehead, and their chests heave together for a few minutes. Maybe more than a few. All he knows is that the sun has set, the lingering glows of pink dusk faded from the evening and morphed into a solid darkness. Through the porch light, Souji sees the curves of Dojima's face in shadowy contrasts over his cheekbones. He wonders if this'll happen again, outside of the hazy warmth and the carefree summer, or if this night was a fluke in the heat of the moment. Maybe they'll both want it for months to come and will ignore it, if only to preserve morality and keep the guilt of wrongness at bay. Dojima's cop intuition makes it the obvious choice for the future.

"Mmm," Dojima murmurs against his hair, pushing at the floorboards until they both slide upwards, back to kneeling on the porch and zipping their pants back up. Dojima rubs his shoulder blades, sore from the hard porch, and Souji watches him, waits for him to say more. "I don't know what came over me."

He laughs, a throaty chuckle like he just watched Nanako sing the Junes song and squeal over the idea of a visit. It would almost be a laugh dismissing the idea of ever recreating the event, except that's when Dojima's hand slips over his own and squeezes. Their hands are both warm from sweat, damp as they twine together, and Souji smiles at his lap.

It'd be easy to blame the night, the way the air was smoky with warmth and the beer made too much of an impact too fast. But there, under all the suspicion and the doubt and the need to be familial, is the lingering attraction that burns in both of them like a hot summer night. Now and again, they need the refreshment, like a slice of watermelon, to cool down and unwind.

They look at each other and Dojima's smiling, just a quirk of his lips like maybe the aftermaths will properly settle in tomorrow, and Souji smiles back. If he has to wait until next summer before it works out like this again, he'll wait for the heat.