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Yamato used to like summer, but these days it’s just torture. Torture that he craves and luxuriates in, sure, but torture all the same, the long, hot days drawing out into an endless, wonderful torment.
The torture is centred around Takiishi, of course, because everything centres around him.
Takiishi hates to be uncomfortable, which means he loathes being too hot, which then means that he lounges around their place wearing pretty much nothing, draped over the furniture languorously, like his body has melted into hot liquid, limbs askew and hair piled off his slender neck.
He pads into the kitchen now wearing one of Yamato’s loosest tanks and a pair of shorts that are basically nonexistent, bare legs lit by the stark freezer light.
Yamato flashes him a smile that would probably be charming to anyone else, but slides off Takiishi like rain against a windowpane.
“Popsicle?” he offers.
“Yeah.”
Instead of getting his own, Takiishi simply leans in and takes Yamato’s half-eaten popsicle into his mouth, then slides back off with a loud sucking noise. His mouth glistens wetly, throat bobbing as he swallows. Then, without so much as a glance, he pads right back out of the kitchen.
Yamato holds the popsicle wordlessly, melting ice dripping over his fingers, and feels his soul leave his body.
Delicious, delicious torture.