Work Text:
The soft light of the sunset filters through the curtains, filling the living room with a golden, warm hue. Ippo is lying on the couch with Miyata on top of him, their legs tangled and hands wandering in hair and clothes.
Ippo can barely breathe. He feels a slight tremor in his stomach every time Miyata’s lips brush against his neck. He doesn’t know how long this has been going on – maybe just a few minutes, maybe hours – everything is a blur. He can’t even remember how it all started. He just found himself there with Ichiro Miyata, his friend and rival, his idol and the object of his deepest and dirtiest desires, desires that Ippo would never have the courage to reveal to anyone.
He could never tell a soul about the nights he spends jerking off while he thinks of him, about the tapes of his boxing matches that he rewatches on loop until they’re ruined, about how his heart races when he sees him again after a long time, and how his body shivers with each encounter.
But more than all of this, he could never confess how much he admires and loves him. The times he’s cried when the emptiness of his absence grips him like a venomous vice, and the fear of never being able to face him in the ring as they both promised, haunts him. The way her cold, confident voice captivates him. How he jumps whenever the phone rings at home, hoping it’s him – but it never is. After all, why would Miyata call him? They’re not a couple, and in the worst of times, Ippo isn’t even sure they’re friends.
Any further depressing mental musings about how confusing, complex, and painfully one-sided their relationship is are interrupted by Miyata’s fingers slipping into Ippo’s hair at his forehead, gently pulling it back. Ippo tilts his head back under his direction, and Miyata’s teeth begin to gently nip at the throbbing vein in his neck, drawing a sharp gasp from him that becomes the first of a series of deeper, more urgent breaths.
No, he definitely doesn’t want to think about anything right now. He just wants to enjoy it. There’s so much to make up for, so much attention never given. And Ippo tries to convey this, tightening his grip on Miyata’s shirt, as if to make him understand that he wishes this damn shirt didn’t even exist. If he had some balls in him, he would touch him. Really touch him, like he’s always wanted. Skin against skin.
Miyata stops tormenting the now purplish spot on Ippo’s neck; as Ippo lets out another low moan, Miyata he can’t help but smile against his skin, amused by the way Ippo subtly squirms, unable to hold back the soft sighs.
"You're sensitive," he murmurs, his voice a little rough and seemingly amused by the realization. It’s as if he’s discovering sides of Ippo that he likes, and he wants more. Well, if that’s the case, Ippo certainly won’t hold back.
He searches for his gaze and finds it: Miyata looks at him with those eyes that seem to pierce his soul, and whatever Ippo had intended to say fades away; he loses himself in the moment as Miyata leans in to kiss him again. Their lips meet with a sweet intensity, and Ippo lets go another smothered moan against the other’s mouth, one hand gripping the fabric of his shirt as if it were the only lifeline left in the world.
He lets him in without resistance, welcoming Miyata’s tongue as it slides wetly inside his mouth, owning every inch of it. Ippo lets him for a while, kissing back with abandon as their tongues intertwine and caress each other.
Meanwhile, Miyata slides his fingers along Ippo’s sides and back: the clothes still separate them, but Miyata’s hands are warm, his body hard and tempered by years of training and fighting, just like Ippo’s. It’s the most amazing feeling ever, having Miyata above him, all for him, just for him.
Miyata wanting him like this, just as much as Ippo wants him. A realization that’s almost enough to make him feel physical pain: it’s like he’s been hard for hours, and his erection demands desperate attention.
He holds him tight, as if afraid to feel him slip away from his hands and, as if reading his mind, Miyata push his thigh right on Ippo’s groin, granting him enough relief to keep him on edge, not letting him lose control. Ippo writhes in pleasure.
“Mi-Miyata-kun” whines Ippo between kisses, trying to hump the other’s thigh.
Miyata pulls his face just slightly away, looking down at him, his thumbs gently brushing over Ippo’s flushed cheeks. Ippo returns the gaze and, once again, falls silent. Miyata is so handsome. With his flushed face, dark pupils, and one corner of his mouth lifted in that unreadable smile of his.
“Yes?” teases Miyata. His voice is an intimate whisper, a promise. He lets his hand under Ippo’s shirt and caresses his side, making the muscles shiver at the touch.
A swarm of butterflies flutters in Ippo’s stomach as he presses his face against Miyata’s shoulder, as if suddenly embarrassed by what they are doing.
Miyata, pleased by the sight, moves his hand from Ippo’s side to his back, lightly scratching it as his fingers trail down slowly toward his underwear; his other hand takes possession of Ippo’s disheveled hair and pulls his face closer.
Ippo barely suppresses a growl of frustration: from that position he can’t ride his thigh like he needs to, and Miyata’s hand won’t get inside his underwear. Why the hell isn’t Miyata touching him?
In fact, knowing Miyata, he should have expected that he would tease him a little. Still, he finds himself begging for it.
“Wh-why are you like this?” he stammers, blushing further, grateful that his face is still pressed against Miyata’s neck.
Miyata lifts his head slightly.
“Because I love hearing how responsive you are” he whispers in his ear, before nibbling it gently, eliciting another a hoarse gasp from Ippo.
He can’t hold back anymore: he grasps Miyata’s hips, violently pulling him closer. He doesn’t care about showing off a self-control he doesn’t have.
“Please, Miyata-kun...” he cries, eyes searching the other’s with a mix of desire and love.
Miyata stops to look at him and smiles softly, and he’s so beautiful that Ippo thinks he might actually pass out.
“Alright” Miyata whispers, and then kisses him, slowly and deeply, like he wants to imprint this moment in their minds forever. Their breaths mingle, the air gets hotter.
And there it is: Miyata’s hard cock pressing against his while Miyata rocks them together, grinding with vigor. They erupt in gasps and moans that crash into each other’s mouth; they keep kissing messly and Ippo rakes his fingers through Miyata’s hair, disheveling it and relishing in its softness, almost whining when Miyata grabs his thighs and lifts them by his own sides.
Ippo gets the message and closes his legs around him by sheer instinct. It’s both crazy and wonderful, the way his body moves on its own, like they’ve already done this a thousand times before.
As Miyata sucks on his tongue, Ippo gets bolder, and his hands wander down Miyata’s back, exploring, shaking. Then he starts unbuttoning his shirt. Every time Miyata moves or fidgets, Ippo lets out little desperate sounds, like he can’t control the amount of desire and yearning he’s kept to himself for years.
When they finally part to breathe, Ippo starts trailing kisses down his neck, and Miyata’s hoarse pants fill his ears. Then, throwing any doubt, fear, or insecurity out of the window, he lets it out. He lets out the one thing he’s always been terrified – but at the same time desperate, eager – to say out loud:
“I love you” he whispers on his skin.
It’s a moment of pure vulnerability, so he lifts his face to look at him in sheer anxiety, only to find that Miyata is blushing. Which makes him even cuter in his eyes. Miyata widens his smile and leans down until their noses brush.
“I didn’t hear you” he murmurs.
He grabs Ippo’s butt, resuming that sensual, intimate dance that sends them both in a frenzy; a string of lewd pants escapes from Ippo’s mouth, while the friction gets more and more intense, sending shivers down his spine.
He has never done anything like this with anyone before. From the way Miyata moves, he supposes that his rival might be a bit more experienced. He doesn’t mind being guided by him at all, but he finds himself feeling unexpectedly jealous at the thought of Miyata like this with someone else.
Miyata brings his lips to Ippo’s ear again. “What was that?” he insists.
Ippo swallows. Oh, to hell with it.
“I love you” he breathes, meeting his thrusts and finding a glorious, painstaking rhythm.
“What?”
“I love you,” Ippo repeats, without worrying much about sounding exasperated. And Miyata must have decided he’s made him suffer enough, because he starts fiddling with his own belt. Ippo’s eyes go wide, heart jumping on his throat.
Their eyes meet. Ippo can’t bring himself to look down between their bodies.
“May I?” asks Miyata, suddenly a bit uncertain.
Two words and Ippo nods furiously.
They get rid of their pants and underwear in no time, and take a little time to admire erections. God. How is it possible that even Miyata’s cock is cute? All red and throbbing for him like it has a life of its own. Big, though not as big as Ippo’s. Not that he didn’t expect this: ever since he hit puberty, he has been subjected to countless teasing from his peers because of his exaggerated size, and Takamura, Aoki, Kimura, and the others at the gym are no exception.
The thing is, his mouth waters at the idea of touching Miyata. Everything they’ve been doing up until now was great, hot and overwhelming like no other thing in his short life but touching each other like that would be a whole other level of intimacy.
The mere thought makes his dick twitch. And Miyata must be thinking the same thing because, locking their eyes together, he says:
“I want it in me”
Just like that. Sure and stoic, like he is in every little thing he does.
And yet, Ippo can’t believe what he just heard. He must have misheard.
Miyata caresses Ippo’s cheek gently, his thumb brushing over the closed eyelid and tenderly rubbing his face. Ippo feels his stomach drop. He lets out a trembling sigh, and when he finds the courage to open his eyes again, there’s not a single trace of doubt within him.
He— He can’t even think about it. But he wants it, too. He wants to fuck him.
He’s dreamed of it so many times he lost count. But he really wants it. Wants to feel Miyata’s flesh all around him, hot and pulsing as he moves inside him. He wants to make him scream.
“Okay” he blows out, because it’s really the only thing that manages to come out of his mouth. “Okay”
Miyata smiles again, licks his own palm without tearing his eyes away from Ippo’s. Ippo lies back down, watching as Miyata’s hand gets closer to his hard-on, excruciatingly slow.
He savors the anticipation of his touch and…
He wakes up in his futon, sweaty and aroused, the sheets scattered around him and the moonlight filtering through the windows. He runs a hand over his face and lifts himself up on his elbows, grimacing in self-pity at the erection forming a tent on his own pajama pants.
Damn it. It seemed so real this time. So tangible. Miyata’s noises in his ears, his hands everywhere.
… Yeah, right. There’s no way that could happen in real life. In no parallel universe Miyata could ever return his feelings. He barely tolerates his presence when they meet at the gym or at Takamura, Aoki, or Kimura’s matches. At most, he respects him as a boxer. That’s all Ippo can ever aspire to. Nothing more.
He will never be the object of his desire.
He lets out a sigh and lies back down, restoring to what he always turns to in these cases: closing a hand around his cock and jerking his blues away. This time, though, he can’t stop a couple of tears from falling. He’s not the kind of guy that cries after an orgasm, but the thing is he hasn’t seen Miyata in a month and hasn’t spoken to him in even longer, and maybe all this longing in the silence of his room is getting out of hand.