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“This isn’t gonna work, Toshi.”
You sigh, defeated, and lean back against the sofa. The fabric of your shirt sticks to your skin, clinging to the thin layer of sweat that’s formed along your lower back. Hours. It feels like you’ve been at this for hours already.
“Try again.” Shinso urges, bending backward, resting the crown his head against your stomach. Even like this–neck craned upward at an odd angle, arms strewn across each of your legs as he fidgets on the tile–he manages to make everything look so comfortable.
You stare down at him and he counters with his own, lazy gaze.
“Please?” He tacks on when your resolve doesn’t waver.
You shake your head, incredulous, and despite the dull aching in your arms, you begin again, gathering strands of hair along the edge of his face. Many of them resist your tugging, defiantly slipping through the spaces between your fingers. Shinso hisses when your nail snags his ear but that’s the extent of his complaining. You groan out an apology and keep at it. Through sheer force of will, you coerce even the shortest tufts of hair into place, clutched securely in your fist.
You tap insistently at Shinso’s shoulder. He holds up his hand and you yank the elastic from his wrist. Double-wrapping the black band around the ponytail (if it could even be called that) is easy. Deceptively easy. As you draw your hands back, you can’t suppress feeling that something is bound to go wrong. Still, you let yourself relax a little when your work holds fast.
Then, half of Shinso’s hair pops out the side of the elastic and you want to scream.
Shinso is calm though. While you huff and puff and curse your aching fingers, he exhales, melting back into you as far as the sofa cushion against his back will allow. The frame creaks a bit beneath his weight.
“One more time?”
You scoff and go to stand up, but Shinso hooks his hands beneath your knees, pushing more of his weight into you. You’re barely able to get your feet flat on the floor before you’re stumbling and sinking into the couch again. Shinso peers up at you, violet eyes wordlessly repeating his previous question.
“No. I’m telling you, I’ve tried everything already, and none of it works!” You scoff and grip the sides of Shinso’s hair, flipping them up in a show of frustration. “Your hair isn’t long enough, so it’s not going to stay up. You’ll just end up with some sort of mom updo like you have right now.”
Shinso rises to his knees and twists around to face you. He keeps his forearms locked along the underside of your thighs, like he’s afraid you’ll try to get away the second he gives you the opportunity.
“Aren’t you the one that likes to preach about not giving up?” His accusatory words stand in stark contrast to the way his lip twitches, the edge of it twisting into the beginnings of a smirk.
You roll your eyes and give what remains of his ponytail a gentle tug. You’re about to launch into another stream of complaints, but then his eyes flutter shut and he sighs, long and drawn out and…pleased?
“Hitoshi,” you practically sing his name, pride bubbling in your chest at having figured him out, “you know you can use words to get what you want, right?”
One of Shinso’s eyes drifts open. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The growing smirk tells you what you already know: he’s lying.
Reaching out, you weave your fingers through Shinso’s hair for what feels like the hundredth time this afternoon. This time, though, you’ve got no immediate goal—no reason to stress yourself out trying to get strands to defy gravity and stay put. This time, you’re content to drag your nail across his scalp, reveling in the way Shinso’s breathing hitches with every imaginary trail you leave painted across his skin.
“If you wanted me to touch you, all you had to do was ask.” You say, dragging your thumb down the side of his face.
Shinso swallows thickly and you can see his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.
“Yes.” He mutters, the tip of his ears flushing to the cutest shade of pink. His grip on your legs tightens, fingers digging in hard enough to make you think you’ll find bruises tomorrow.
“Yes, what?” You tease, chewing on your lip. “And remember to say please.”
“Touch me, please.”
Shinso nearly chokes on the last word, thrown off when you grab a handful of his hair and shove his head to the side. When you lean in and press your lips not-so-gently to the place where his neck meets his shoulder, you can feel the groan rumbling deep beneath his skin. You want desperately to whisper something mocking between kisses—to comment on his neediness or his roundabout way of demanding your attention. You don’t though. Instead, you settle, for leaving playful nips along his collarbone, dragging your teeth across his pulse and relishing in the low sounds they earn you.
Sometimes, you figure, words aren’t necessary.