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Looking at Satoru has always been one of Suguru’s favourite activities. He’s indulged in it so much over the years that the accumulated photographic evidence, courtesy of his so-called friends, is genuinely embarrassing. And recently, his staring problem has gotten exponentially worse.
It all started a little over two months ago, in early January. Not the staring—the cause of it. In January, with both Suguru’s birthday and Valentine’s Day coming up, Satoru decided to take his love of sweets to another level and taught himself how to make chocolate bonbons.
He started with store-bought chocolate melting wafers and a complicated arrangement of ingredients, like almond paste, cocoa butter, cream, honey, sugar, glucose syrup, and various kinds of nuts. He ended up with bonbons so pretty it seemed like a waste to eat them. Satoru ate a lot immediately after making them, because taste-testing is important, Suguru, and put the rest in pretty boxes or baggies to toss at his students when he feels they deserve a reward.
Suguru releases a helplessly affectionate sigh whenever he thinks about the fact that Megumi gets pelted with dark chocolate exclusively. Satoru really is such a softie.
The bonbon-making process requires precision and seems plenty intricate to Suguru, but Satoru got bored of it pretty quickly and advanced to making his own chocolate from scratch. He’s acquired special equipment, like a digital thermometer and a melanger. Satoru has worked his way up from cocoa powder, to cacao nibs, and finally, roasted beans. He’s been muttering something about fermenting his own beans, but Suguru predicts that Satoru’s interest in chocolate-making will fizzle out before that can happen.
Suguru isn’t really involved in the whole thing. While Satoru is busy in the kitchen, Suguru tends to handle both of their reports or grade student papers, sitting somewhere with a good view of Satoru bustling around in an apron. Suguru enjoys the evenings when their home smells of chocolate. He greatly enjoys chasing the sweetness lingering on Satoru’s skin, fake-complaining about the barely-there traces of bitterness in his mouth.
For once, the winter hasn’t been too busy, especially with Suguru and Satoru sharing their workload both as teachers and active special grade sorcerers. They have time to hang out, like they did back in their school days. And like in their school days, Suguru has time to look.
“There’s chocolate on your cheek,” he tells Satoru, probably sounding as dreamy and lovesick as he used to back then, too.
Satoru, who is using chopsticks to gently roll bonbons through some kind of reddish powder, snorts. “Yeah, thanks for noticing. It’s been there for half an hour.”
Suguru decides that his excuse, which is that he hasn’t been looking at Satoru’s face, doesn’t need to be voiced. “Oh? Any particular reason why you haven’t done something about it?”
Satoru looks up, steady hands pausing in their work, and licks his lips. “Guess.”
Suguru laughs, hopelessly charmed. He abandons grading, even though Yuji’s essays tend to be enjoyable reads, and goes to stand behind Satoru, arms around his waist, chin on his shoulder. He side-eyes the dark smear of chocolate placed strategically close to the corner of Satoru’s mouth.
“Would you like my help with that?”
“Hmm, I don’t know. What have you done today to deserve a sweet treat, Suguru?”
“I’ve written your post-mission reports from the last two weeks, asshole.” Suguru squeezes him tight in admonishment—and loses himself a little in the feeling of warm flesh shifting under his hands.
“Calling me names now? You’re not helping your case at all.”
Suguru hums, distracted. He nuzzles the skin under Satoru’s ear, then slowly trails his lips towards the chocolate smear. “Want me to properly convince you?”
He slides his hands under Satoru’s apron—it’s tiny, made mostly of frills, and serves absolutely no purpose, since Satoru can shield himself with his technique—and under his shirt. Satoru’s belly is soft, giving a little when Suguru presses in, tugging Satoru closer, no space left between them.
Satoru makes a disapproving noise. “Hey, watch it. This is delicate work.”
Suguru appreciates that, he really does. He’s genuinely supportive of Satoru’s interests. It’s just that he can’t help his fascination with the subtle layer of fat that Satoru’s developed, mostly on his lower abdomen and hips.
It’s new! Of course Suguru is obsessed with it. It’s the result of all that taste-testing, but also of a slightly slower season and home cooked meals shared together as often as they can get away with. It’s leisure, and care, and softness manifest, right there for Suguru to squish and play with.
And it probably won’t last long. As soon as the cursed summer marathon begins, Satoru will burn through his reserves and go back to being whipcord lean. Which is also very, very attractive, but surely, Suguru is allowed to appreciate the novelty while it lasts.
(He wonders, secretly, if Satoru will get a little chubby when he’s older. In his forties, fifties, sixties, if he lives that long. Suguru might not live long, might not be there to appreciate it. All the more reason to indulge himself now.)
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, not sorry at all, licking a stripe along the curve of Satoru’s jaw. When he reaches the chocolate, Suguru pretends to take a chomp out of Satoru’s cheek, then sucks the skin into his mouth, slobbering all over it.
Satoru’s shaking with suppressed laughter under his hands, still focused on his bonbons. “I keep telling people that you’re the menace in this relationship, and no one ever believes me.”
Suguru presses his laughter into Satoru’s wet cheek. “Because it’s not true. We’re the same, you and I.”
“No, you’re definitely worse. I at least am honest about my terrible qualities. You trick people into thinking you’re the nice, responsible one.”
“Not my fault it’s so easy. I’m just naturally more charming than you.”
Satoru elbows him for that. “Okay, get your hands off me. I can’t focus like this.”
Suguru stays plastered to him, getting a surer grip on the softest parts of his waist. “You don’t need to focus on this. Why are you making bonbons, anyway? Got lazy?”
He can feel Satoru grin against his cheek. “Maybe I want to feed you balls on White Day.”
“Oh? These are for me?” Suguru ignores the terrible joke—best to offer no reinforcement—and takes a closer look over Satoru’s shoulder. “Huh.”
The bonbons look like little marbles, a swirl of dark chocolate and blue—something, rolled in reddish powder. Very pretty. Definitely inspired by both their techniques. Suguru didn’t expect to get anything on White Day, since Satoru was the one who called dibs on Valentine’s. Why Suguru thought his favourite menace would respect tradition, he has no idea.
Satoru clicks his tongue. “If that’s all you have to say about them—”
“You spoil me, Satoru.” Suguru makes sure to purr the words right next to his ear, and feels incredibly smug about the shiver this elicits. He places a soft kiss there, then, with great reluctances, relinquishes his hold and steps back. “I’ll let you work.”
Satoru shoots him a look over his shoulder, his pout clearly indicating that he’s not too happy about Suguru leaving him to it. Too bad. Suguru’s not going to have a hand in ruining his own gift.
He goes back to the dining room table, covered with paperwork, and collapses gracelessly across the tatami, before compulsion forces him to sit up and assume proper posture. He picks Yuji’s essay back up, juggling three pens. Red for corrections, blue for praise, and purple for extra commentary, a system he’s stolen from Satoru. Suguru has three pages left of this one before he needs to move on to whatever insane ramblings Nobara wrote this time. Suguru should enjoy Yuji’s work while it lasts, but his eyes keep straying to Satoru. Specifically, to the way the apron hugs his sides and belly, cinched in tight at the back. It’s a wonder Suguru managed to squeeze his hands under there.
He shakes his head sharply, bending close to the sheets of paper in his hands. If he can focus for half an hour, he’ll get it done, but if he lets himself get distracted, he’ll be stuck here long into the night.
It’s so unfair. Suguru is sitting only a few steps away from the most beautiful man in the world, who is currently sticking the tip of his tongue out in concentration as he works on his sweets. It’s not unreasonable to want more out of this moment, Suguru decides. He and Satoru have never even gone on vacation together—missions in touristy places don’t count—never had the opportunity to just be and enjoy each other.
The fantasy takes hold of him and refuses to let go, mixed sickeningly with nostalgia for Okinawa, for Satoru’s sun-bright smiles and carefree laughter. Suguru wants to do things he never got to back then, to taste salt on Satoru’s skin and feed him local delicacies, watch him get sunburnt and soften around the edges with proper rest and good food.
Maybe, just maybe, he’s a little too preoccupied with that particular idea. But, again, it’s the allure of novelty. Probably. Mostly.
Exactly as he feared, Suguru spends hours grading one and a half essays, caught up in his fantasies and thoroughly distracted by Satoru-watching. It’s funny that between the two of them, the guy with the Six Eyes is not the one with the staring problem. At one point, a steaming mug of tea appears at Suguru’s elbow, and he only just manages to capture Satoru’s retreating hand to kiss his knuckles.
When he finally pens his final remark for Nobara (“please, for the love of jujutsu, back your arguments up normally, without picking a fight with the reader”), Suguru drops his pens with a clatter and falls backwards onto the tatami with a dramatic groan.
“What time is it?” he asks the ceiling.
“Seven minutes to midnight,” Satoru answers, laughter in his voice. “So if you wanted to grab your White Day gift for me…”
Suguru tilts his head back to lift an unimpressed brow at him.
Satoru, still in that damnable apron, leans back against the counter, arms crossed, grin shit-eating. “Unless you’re a really, really shitty husband and didn’t get me anything.”
“We aren’t married yet. Also, dream on.” Suguru stretches his arms out, then rolls to his feet. He walks into the kitchen, past Satoru, to rummage through the one cabinet Satoru never opens. It’s full of Suguru’s spicy food, sauces and crisps, powdered ginger and jalapenos. Suguru extracts a neatly packaged box and hides it behind his back as he turns around. “This is one competition I refuse to lose.”
When they first started dating, they tried one-upping each other with every consecutive gift. When things escalated to the point where Satoru bought Suguru a house, they had a talk about it and decided to scale down. These days, they mostly exchange gag gifts, sex toys, and favourite food items.
“You would have lost it years ago if we’d implemented a proper points system,” Satoru says, not for the first time. He extends both hands towards Suguru. “Gimme.”
“It’s not midnight yet.”
Satoru rolls his pretty, pretty eyes. Suguru is so lucky that he gets to stare at them almost every day. With the way they’ve set up the lighting in their home—warm, dim, mostly near the floor—Satoru walks around without his glasses or blindfold.
Suguru’s dreamy haze sharpens into alarm when Satoru reaches behind himself, towards the knot of his apron.
“Ah,” makes it out of Suguru’s mouth before he can swallow the noise down.
Satoru freezes for a fraction of a second, then crosses his arms again, grin growing wider and wider, about to split his face in half. “Suguru. Did you want to unwrap me yourself?”
His voice is criminal when it gets this low. Suguru swallows, throat suddenly dry. “Maybe.”
Satoru beckons him with a tilt of his head, putting the long, pale column of his neck on display. “Hand over the gift, and I’ll let you.”
“You drive a hard bargain.”
Satoru plucks his phone from his pocket and holds it facing Suguru. Three minutes till midnight. They remain at a standstill as the seconds trickle by, watching each other. Suguru catalogues the changes in Satoru’s expression as it slowly shifts from smug and teasing to impatient. Hungry.
When the phone’s screen finally shows four zeroes, Suguru is the first to move. He walks up to Satoru, kicking his legs apart to make room, and leans in close. Like this, they’re on a level, and Suguru can look Satoru in the eyes without tilting his head up.
“Suguru.” It’s a whine, no other word for it.
Suguru grins. He presses the package against Satoru’s chest and lets him tear into it, eager fingers ripping off the little bow and heart-patterned paper. When the gift, a box of handmade mochi, is revealed, Satoru pauses to stare at it. His eyes flick up to Suguru’s, warm and loving. Delighted. A tension Suguru wasn’t even aware of leaves his body in a rush. The gift is not a bust.
“Mochi?” Satoru asks, biting his lip. “So you also want to feed me balls. I’m into it.” His expression shifts then, mock-serious. “Are you sure you want to feed me more sweets, Suguru? I’m gonna get fat.”
Suguru frowns. There’s no way Satoru doesn’t know the effect his tiny weight gain has had on Suguru. He must be teasing.
“Maybe that’s exactly why,” Suguru teases back. “More of you for me to squeeze.”
“So cheesy.” And yet, Satoru’s cheeks are tinted pink. He plucks one of the sweets from the box and brings it to his mouth. When he takes a bite, some of the white powder sticks to his lips. “Mmm, not bad. Not bad at all.”
“They’d better not be. I crossed three prefectures for them.”
Satoru finishes the mochi, sets the box a safe distance away on the counter, and licks his lips. “Your turn.”
The bonbons are right there, in arm’s reach, but Suguru doesn’t even glance at them. Instead, he crowds in close again, arms curling around Satoru’s back to find the apron’s knot.
“This is highly inappropriate, Geto-sensei,” Satoru murmurs against Suguru’s mouth. “Your gift is just over there.”
“Nah, this is the real gift.”
He undoes the little bow at the back of Satoru’s neck first, careful, unhurried, enjoying the heat of Satoru’s skin against his knuckles, the prickle of his undercut. Suguru lets the top of the apron flop down, then reaches for the second knot, untying it just as slowly.
“You’re really milking this,” Satoru accuses, but he sounds a little breathless, and his ears are getting redder by the second.
“I’m appreciating my gift in the way he deserves.”
“Smooth.”
Suguru doesn’t feel smooth. His fingers tremble with excitement, and he’s sure his own face is bright red. The moment the apron is undone and he can toss it aside, his eyes snap to Satoru’s waist and belly. Suguru’s hands immediately follow his gaze. He kneads the supple flesh. When Satoru’s shirt rides up, exposing skin, Suguru can’t stop a delighted giggle from escaping.
Satoru throws his arms over Suguru’s shoulders, sinking one hand into his hair. “What?”
“I just—look.” Suguru keeps a firm hold on Satoru’s hip. With his other hand, he pushes the shirt up higher, over Satoru’s navel, then places both palms on the soft skin and presses upwards. “You’re so pale, I feel like I could be groping a really big piece of mochi. It’s the right consistency, too.”
Satoru blinks at him, slack-jawed, then stares down at himself. “Suguru, are you fat-shaming me?”
“The exact opposite. In fact…” Suguru kisses the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, and drops to his knees. “Let me show you.”
Level with the stretch of pale flesh that he’s been obsessing over for days, Suguru wastes no time. He grips it with both hands, shaping it to his liking, then closes his teeth around a roll of skin, just like he did with Satoru’s cheek earlier.
Satoru’s hands card through his hair and pull him closer. “Is this your reason for all the staring? And here I was, waiting for you to tell me I should go on a diet any day now… or to confess that you’re jealous of my gains.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Suguru sees Satoru lift an arm in a silly flex. Suguru wants to laugh, at him and with him, but he’s too busy leaving suckling kisses and gentle bites all over the exposed part of Satoru’s abdomen. Thus preoccupied, Suguru doesn’t answer, but he does muffle a snort in Satoru’s happy trail.
There is no way that Satoru thought for a second that Suguru wasn’t completely, embarrassingly gone for him. That something as significantly insignificant as this could have made Suguru want him less. The very suggestion is an insult, and Suguru will not let it slide.
“Guess I need to show you how wrong you were,” he mumbles, pausing to dip his tongue in Satoru’s navel, earning himself a shiver. “Want me to make my case here or…?”
“You sure you want to kneel on the tile, old man?”
Satoru sounds so adoring as he says it, Suguru has to look up. Their eyes meet. Satoru’s smile grows lopsided, halfway between teasing and hopelessly fond. Suguru has no idea what his own face is doing. He feels like a devotee kneeling at the altar of the only deity he’s ever believed in. The press of his hands, the tingling of his lips, the heat of his gaze feel like worship.
“I’ll do anything you want,” he decides, putting his fate in Satoru’s hands.
Satoru snorts, ungodlike, and tugs him up, then tangles their hands together and walks backwards towards their bedroom. “If you’re in this kind of mood, I want to be lying down. You get so…”
Suguru watches, spellbound, as Satoru’s cheeks grow darker, as his Adam’s apple bobs with a heavy swallow. He lifts their hands to his face and kisses Satoru’s fingertips, tasting sweetness.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he teases, pulse thundering in his ears.
He loves this feeling, the all-encompassing want, the struggle to focus on forming sentences. He can’t wait to put his mouth on his favourite person, who deserves every loving caress, to take into his mouth something that is good and right, so familiar Suguru aches at the memory of feeling Satoru’s pulse on his tongue, tasting the bitterness of his release.
Suguru wants, and wants, and wants. For this and nothing else, his appetite never wavers.
When they fall into bed, flinging clothes every which way, Suguru keeps licking and biting at Satoru’s belly, watching the skin redden under the onslaught, obvious even in the dim light of their bedroom. Satoru laughs, and laughs, and laughs harder when Suguru all but makes out with his navel, making ridiculous slurping sounds.
“What are you doing?” Satoru’s back bows off the bed, his legs kick out, and he sounds so light and young that Suguru wants to keep him here forever, anchored in happiness.
“Is this not how you eat mochi?” Suguru hooks his thumb into Satoru’s belly button and pulls, licks across the stretched skin then slips the tip of his tongue inside.
“Ah, fuck. What the fuck?”
“Shh. Let me.”
“Do you see me stopping you? I—mmm.”
Suguru presses his grin as hard into Satoru’s flesh as he can manage. “Don’t worry. I won’t waste a single bite.”
Satoru’s still-clothed cock jumps against Suguru’s throat, which is as good as permission.
“If you really take a chunk off,” Satoru warns him, “I’m biting you back. You can’t be the only one who gets to eat.”
Suguru laughs. “I’m nowhere near as sweet as you, but sure, it’s a deal. You can have any part of me you want.”
He means it in too many ways to count. In too many ways to consider himself sane. But that’s fine, Suguru thinks, and he clenches his teeth over a roll of skin, delighting in Satoru’s hiss, in the hands that threaten to tear his hair out, yet press him down, closer, deeper.
“I want all of you,” Satoru gasps, “and you’re already mine, so stop thinking in metaphor and get me off.”
Again, Suguru laughs. Talking with his mouth full would be bad manners, so he gets to work instead.