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Haru wakes up first, just a quarter before seven, sunlight filtering in through the blinds that Makoto didn’t quite fully close the night before. Beside him, Makoto still sleeps soundly, the quilt partially falling off the slope of his back, naked except for the necklace Haru gave him which he never takes off, even in the bath. It has gone over to the wrong side in his sleep, the tear-shaped pendant resting awkwardly on the knob at the top of his spine.
Haru reaches over, forefinger tracing the dark blue crystal inlaid within the wood, before gently tugging on the nylon chain and arranging the pendant back towards the correct side.
Makoto stirs at this and turns to lie flat on his back. The pendant now lies crookedly on his clavicle. Haru continues to trace the skin beneath the nylon, following the line of Makoto’s collarbone, reaching up to touch his pulse, feeling the steady beat beneath his fingertips.
Makoto wakes up at this, eyelids fluttering. “Mmm, Haru?” he mumbles, blearily opening one eye. “What time is it?”
Haru keeps his hand on Makoto’s neck as he glances at the digital clock on their bedside. “Around six forty-five.”
Makoto rubs his eyes and yawns, stretching his arms as he starts to sit up. “Time to get up then?”
“Yes and no,” Haru says.
“Huh? What do you mea—?” Makoto starts, only for Haru to cut off the rest of his question, in the best way he knows how. Makoto’s mouth is warm and tastes faintly like mint, because he is the type of considerate human being who takes one of those Oracare mouthwashes before going to sleep to ward off gross morning breath.
“Oh,” Makoto says breathlessly, when Haru breaks away. Makoto looks soft and just this side of dazed, as if Haru kissed him for five minutes without surfacing for air. “Okay then.”
“Come on,” Haru murmurs, and impatiently tugs the quilt off the rest of Makoto’s body before lying back down on the sheets.
Makoto laughs, light and easy, and rolls over, his forearms settling on either side of Haru’s head, ankles catching. Pale yellow stripes of sun fall upon the light brown of Makoto’s hair, messy bedhead spikes sticking out in seventeen different directions, drooping a little as he leans down slowly. With the vestiges of sleep almost completely gone, Makoto’s eyes are bright- a clear, familiar green that Haruka continues to see, even when his own eyes flutter closed.
Makoto’s kisses are warm and gentle, like the first rays of sunrise on one’s skin, and Haru kisses back, fingers fanning over the blades of Makoto’s hips.
“Good morning, Haru-chan,” Makoto says, when he moves back, thumb touching the corner of Haru’s mouth.
“Drop the chan,” Haru grumbles, more out of reflex than any real annoyance, and rubs his cold toes on Makoto’s calves.
Makoto laughs again at the action, so Haru just pulls him back down again to shut him up.
There’s a certain comfort to be had in lazy morning make-outs, like carving out a temporary dimensional pocket in the universe to just feel— the absorption of warmth from each other’s skin; the short pulses of pleasure from the slide of each other’s tongues; the half-anchored flex, as they stretch out their limbs, muscles rousing from rest.
Haru hasn’t even been awake for five minutes, and already it’s a wonderful day.
*
RinRin is being an attention whore again as usual, nipping at Haru’s shins and making three separate attempts to cause Makoto to stumble between rooms in her constant demand for food and belly rubs.
“She always has to be the first, doesn’t she?” Makoto says, as he sets down the omelette and fried rice on Haru’s placemat.
“It’s because you spoil her,” Haru answers, giving the ginger cat a scratch behind the ears. RinRin’s the third of five cats they have, all strays that Makoto never had the heart to leave alone. Makoto found her out in the cold and half-dead last winter, and nursed her back to health. Haru had been away for an on-site meeting out of town at that time, and was unfortunate enough to step on her tail when he got home. For a full week, he was subjected to hissy fits, little vicious nips on his toes while he’s sleeping, and hairballs on all his right shoes. The harassment only stopped when Haru let her polish off the rest of the mackerel on his breakfast plate one time. It was then that Haru came around to calling her RinRin, as a joke, but the name stuck, and she won’t respond to anything else.
Makoto hands Haru a coffee mug, the one Nagisa gave him from one of his out of town trips with Rei. It’s one of those mugs that reveal a design when hot liquid is poured into it, and Haruka can see the outline of a happy dolphin slowly forming, framed by two geysers of water. In Makoto’s hands, his black mug turns green and the shape of an orca can be seen beneath his fingers.
Breakfast is normally a quiet affair, with Makoto reading the paper, and Haru surfing the internet on his tablet. Occasionally, Makoto runs his lesson plans through Haru, looking for opinions and suggestions, which Haru answers only half the time. Makoto is a full time teacher at the local montessori for special needs students and he loves his job. It allows him to do what he does best— taking care of others and making them smile. It doesn’t hurt that special-needs teachers are handsomely paid, which Haru thinks is only fair, as modern-day saints like Makoto are difficult to come across these days.
After breakfast, they each prepare a bento lunch, backs turned towards each other on opposite counters as they work. Haru arranges the bento like a canvas, rice tightly packed, carrots and other solids cut into a variety of shapes, the occasional nori strategically laid out for an aesthetic boost.
Makoto finishes first, and patiently waits for Haru to put the final touches on his. Haru places a tiny carrot nose on the penguin-shaped Hanpen fish cake and takes a second to observe his work before putting the lid over it.
“Done?” Makoto asks, and Haru nods.
They exchange bentos.
“I wonder what you made for me this time,” Makoto muses, as he picks up both Haru’s and his bags on the way to the door.
Haru takes the car keys from the hallway drawer. “Not mackerel,” he answers, and steps out of the apartment.
“Yeah, because that’s what I made for you,” Makoto says, walking out after him.
Makoto waits for Haruka to lock the door and they walk shoulder to shoulder, the back of their hands brushing. It’s a lot like their high school arrangement, except this time, the places are reversed. Whereas in high school, they had one destination and have separate origins; now, they come from the same place, separate for a while to different destinations, and return together.
This time, home is synonymous to each other.
*
Haru is a graphic designer for one of Tokyo’s biggest real estate conglomerates, specializing in mall chains and hotels. He’s in the business development department, and often gets assignments on projects based out of Tokyo. In fact, one of his very first projects was for an oceanside bed and breakfast in Iwatobi, wherein he designed the promotional brochures and restaurant menu deck. His boss only requires him to be in the office three days a week, as opposed to five, since Haru can easily work anywhere as long as he has his laptop, graphic tablet and an internet connection. More importantly, it’s an arrangement that allows him more time to abuse the pool privileges of their condominium’s clubhouse, so in terms of professions, he can definitely do worse.
He finishes the layout on the mall poster for the Autumn festival, checks the clock, and picks up his bento for lunch.
*
Haru takes a bite out of mackerel and Japanese fried rice, and makes a face— Makoto got a little carried away with the spices again.
His phone rings, indicating a text message. It’s from Makoto, Haru knows, because it’s five minutes past twelve noon, and lunch break for the school started 15 minutes ago.
This bento reminds me of Nagisa, Makoto texts him. It’s so cute; I couldn’t eat it for a while.
Are you eating it now? Haru texts back.
The reply comes after a minute. Yeah. But not before sending an MMS to Nagisa.
And?
And let’s just say Rei now has “beautiful bentos” in the list of things Nagisa wants out of him.
Haru smirks a little at this and takes a sip from his water jug. Did you eat the fishcake penguins head first?
Yeah, though I had to close my eyes while doing so. But it’s good with the sushi rice.
I used extra pink sugar, Haru texts back, and goes back to his food. After a few seconds, he reaches for his phone again and adds: You’re gonna get diabetes if you keep at it. He doesn’t remind himself that that’s what he said yesterday. And the day before that. He’ll keep adding extra pink sugar anyway.
I love you too, is Makoto’s reply. Haru takes another bite of his mackerel and finds that this time, it tastes perfect.
*
As usual, Makoto is chatting up the young mothers of his charges by the time Haru comes to pick him up. Today, Makoto has a box of something in his hand, most likely another sweet offering from one of the moms. It’s not an unusual sight- his students’ parents often bring him bits of pastries and other sundry items to thank him for being so wonderful with their kids. Makoto has protested many times, but the school administrator just tells him to accept them- it’s not like he’s accepting bribes to raise a student’s standing, as each student is graded proportionately to their tested abilities, and seriously, if there’s anyone who deserves to be spoiled, it’s Makoto.
Haru doesn’t honk the horn as he slowly pulls up into the driveway. He doesn’t need to. Like a wave going back to the sea, Makoto turns towards him, his eyes immediately lighting up.
He gives a small bow to the women, probably apologizing for cutting their conversation short, and walks towards the car as Haru pulls over. Makoto places the box carefully in the backseat before going back to slide into the passenger seat.
“What did you get today?” Haru asks, and hands over a large plastic cup of wintermelon milk tea.
“Date and walnut cake from Mrs. Yamato,” Makoto answers brightly, as he accepts the cup from Haru and takes a sip. “How was your day?”
“Oh, the usual,” Haru answers tonelessly as he slows to a stop at the red light. The traffic counter reads 90 seconds, so Haru shifts the gear to neutral and puts up the handbrake. “My client is being ridiculous, and wants a bajillion fonts on his 10-page menu. How was yours?”
“Oh, Kazuya-kun wowed everyone in the class with his dinosaur imitation. He even remembered to make stubby arms for the T-Rex,” Makoto says animatedly. He grabs his book bag and fishes out his clear file case. “Asami-chan drew my portrait as a make-believe sea creature; it’s so amazing. See?”
Haru looks at the paper Makoto presents to him. He doesn’t know what the heck it’s supposed to be but it is definitely not Makoto at all. What it is, however, is a remarkably detailed, finely sketched portrait of what seems to be the result of a drunken one night stand between a green-eyed frog-kraken hybrid and a grossly deformed merperson with a monochromatic tail.
“Makoto. She drew you with frog legs and a check board fishtail,” Haru deadpans.
“She says it’s so I can live on both land and sea,” Makoto says thoughtfully.
Haru looks back at the portrait. Nope, it still looks like something Makoto would run away screaming from. “She drew you with six frog legs.”
“I’m a special sea creature,” Makoto insists. “Arachni-amphi-orcasaur or something.”
Haru just shakes his head. “This isn’t going to pass Rei’s seal of approval.”
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” Makoto quips, and stows the paper carefully into his file case. “Asami-chan is only seven years old and she still has difficulty speaking but this level of detail is incredibly advanced.”
As an artist himself, Haru has to agree, even if the drawing was a disastrous and unflattering misrepresentation of its purported subject matter. “I guess.”
“She’s something of a prodigy,” Makoto continues. He pauses for a second, before glancing askance at Haru. “Like you.”
“Like I once was,” Haru corrects. “I’m not, anymore.”
He’s not. It’s Rin who brings home medals now and breaks his own records with each passing year. Matsuoka Rin, the darling of the Japanese Olympic swimming team. Rin, who’s back to being friends with them now, despite the many rough patches in their high school years, thanks to Makoto’s and Gou’s combined efforts.
Still, there have been times when Rin looks at Haru like he’s disappointed in him, disappointed that he squandered his potential. Haru could have done so much more, putting Japan back in the map of the world of competitive swimming. He could’ve been an Olympic athlete- the best of the best, winning medals, carrying glory in his name.
Rin had actually told him “You could’ve done so much better.” Haru had turned the thought over in his head for all of three seconds, before remembering that he’s with Makoto, and that no, he could not possibly do better.
While his dreams may be small, he’s free to live them any way he wishes. Competitive swimming has never appealed to him because it forces him to subscribe to other people’s standards— go faster, fix your stroke, finish x hours of circuit training to condition your body. It turns something he loves into an obligation.
Haru swims because he wants to, not because people expect him to. He swims for no one, but he’ll swim with anyone who’s willing to stay. At the end of it all, all Haru wants is to feel the water around him and share that feeling with someone who can understand. Rin’s purpose for swimming has always been to win, and this is why he couldn’t understand.
Makoto does. He does without trying. Makoto, who sets aside his fears of the ocean to swim with everyone, Makoto whose hand is always ready to pull Haru out of the water. Makoto who can read Haru’s mind, Makoto who has stayed by his side when everyone else has left, who’ll stand by Haru, even if he stands in front of armies.
Makoto understands. And that is all the victory Haru needs.
Makoto doesn’t reply, and it’s only then that Haru realizes the implications in his choice of words. He looks at Makoto from the corner of his eye. Makoto’s expression is strained; he’s still smiling, but it’s one of those smiles that are prelude to an apology, and Haru does not want to dwell on this subject any more than he has to.
“I like being ordinary,” Haru says, before Makoto can say something self-deprecating again. Given enough time, Makoto can convince himself to be sorry for anything, imagined slight or otherwise. “I don’t regret the choice I made.”
The light turns green, and Haru puts down the handbrake, shifts back to first gear and steps on the gas. The atmosphere in the car is tense, and Haru hates it.
“I know,” Makoto whispers after a while. He looks to the side, glancing out the window, watching pedestrians as they drive by. “But sometimes, I still wonder what could have— ”
“— Makoto.”
Makoto stops talking, and stays quiet, wrenching his gaze from the window to look at Haru, his face scared, and unsure.
Haru sighs, and removes his hand from the stick shift to reach for Makoto’s hand, taking his eyes from the road briefly to look into Makoto’s eyes. “I’m happy,” he says, simply and honestly, and punctuates this by rubbing his thumb gently on the inside of Makoto’s wrist.
Two words. That’s all it takes to lift Makoto’s mood, his shoulders relaxing, his eyes going back to their droopy curve, the glow of his smile positively transcendent. The way he looks at Haru, how his whole face looks sunlit from within, so unabashed about showing that he wants Haru, always and without fail, still stuns Haru sometimes, and he wonders for the nth time what he ever did to deserve this.
Because really, while Makoto always says that he’s the lucky one, Haru knows with every fiber of his being that it’s the other way around. A lot of people spend years, decades, looking for the person they want to spend the rest of their lives with, but Haru has had his before he even knew it.
And he’s not going to give that up for anything. Not for medals. Or records. Or glory.
This right here, sitting side by side in a hybrid car, driving home past sunbaked buildings, debating kiddie art, and sharing an extra-large wintermelon milk tea, is the simple, ordinary life he’s always wanted, and there’s nowhere else he would rather be.
*
“The bath is ready,” Makoto calls out softly, just as Haru is finishing his shower.
The clubhouse pool is undergoing water treatment today, so Makoto immediately offered to fill up their two-person tub when they got home, so Haru could spend the rest of the time before dinner getting his daily dose of pruny fingers.
Haru steps out of the shower, and walks towards the tub, trailing water and some soap suds along the way. He settles in, the hot water healing his tired muscles almost instantly. He sighs in contentment. He may have curbed a little of his water mania from high school (he doesn’t attempt to jump into aquariums anymore, at least, though kiddie pools in the yard are fair game) but submerging himself in water is still his primary coping method for most anything— it helps him think, helps him relax, helps him forget. He places his arms on the sides of the tub, and lazily watches Makoto picking up his clothes for stowing away on the hamper.
“We’re having roast chicken later,” Makoto says, as he hangs up a fresh set of towels on the rack. “I hope that’s fine with you?”
Haru shrugs, which is his general reaction to food that isn’t mackerel. “It’s okay.”
“Just checking,” Makoto says, smiling. “I’ll leave you here for a while and go feed the cats okay?”
He makes it just halfway past the door when Haru stops him.
“Wait.”
Makoto turns to him, cocking his head to the side in question. Haru beckons him closer and Makoto chuckles, walking three steps, and bends down to Haru’s eye level.
“Yes?”
Haru says nothing. Instead, he reaches over and palms the visible jut of bone beneath Makoto’s collar, before sliding his fingers under the shirt and tugging him in, clothes and all.
*
The chicken is probably going to be overcooked, and he definitely owes Makoto several shirt buttons, but Haru doesn’t care; it’s worth it just to see Makoto flushed and loose-limbed against the celadon green marble, looking thoroughly debauched after Haru’s done with him.
“Wow,” Makoto says, all hazy eyes, and languid smiles, like he’s freshly unwound, all the stress of the day easing out of him. “That was amazing. I mean, like last night, and then this morning, and now, before dinner and--” His eyes widen comically, going from lazy to panicking in a split second. “Oh my gosh, the chicken!”
He leaps out of the tub, still in his clothes, trailing water all the way, and Haru takes a moment to admire the way Makoto’s wet shirt clings to his torso in all the right ways, before he disappears out the door. A yelp indicates that one of the cats has successfully made him trip across the hallway, most probably Rinrin—Makoto hasn’t been able to feed any of them yet after all.
“The day isn’t over yet,” Haru tells himself, and submerges himself back into the water, closing his eyes. The water is turning cold, but the warmth of Makoto’s skin still lingers on his own.
*
Dinner is an uneventful affair. By some miraculous act of god, Makoto managed to save the chicken, though this isn’t a surprising occurrence anyway; Makoto has a knack for saving situations in that disgustingly perfect, somewhat unconscious way he does most things.
Makoto feeds the cats scraps from the table, careful about not including any small bones. Once he’s done, he looks at Haru, and his hands make an incomplete gesture, like they want to feed Haru next, so Haru quickly shoves a piece of chicken in his mouth to dispel Makoto of that idea.
“You’ve fed everyone except yourself,” Haru huffs, frowning.
Makoto just laughs, and picks up his fork. He spears a piece of chicken and some rice, brings it halfway to his mouth, and keeps it there, while he shoos Rinrin off the table, all while keeping his eyes on Haru.
Haru watches this all with mild fascination. “If you keep staring at me, you’re going to miss your mouth,” he says. “Like on our first real date.”
“Ah, those were good times. Can’t help it,” Makoto answers, so shamelessly honest. “I like looking at you.”
It’s ridiculous- they’ve known each other forever, yet still, Haruka feels blood rushing to his cheeks. “Just eat,” he mutters. “Don’t make me feed you.”
More laughter bubbles out of Makoto, and to Haru’s dismay, he actually opens his mouth and says “Aaaah.”
Haru stares at him. “Are you serious?”
Makoto just nods, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and for all that he should look undignified and stupid with his mouth hanging open like that, he still manages to look unjustifiably adorable, which isn’t a word normally used to describe a 25 year-old man built like a tank. And yet, somehow Makoto owns the word; has been owning it since they were little, even when his limbs grew long, even when his chest and back expanded, muscle replacing what used to be pure bravado.
Haru grumbles but he picks up his fork and obliges anyway.
*
Their kitchen has a simple, no-frills design: a U-shaped counter, a 6-foot refrigerator, a sink, a gas range with an oven, and a microwave. There are no dishwashers, not after Haruka learned how much water those things consume, water that can be better put somewhere else, like their 2-person tub.
They do the dishes together, Makoto washing, Haru in charge of drying, elbows bumping on occasion. Sometimes, Makoto talks, tells endless stories about life and its various banalities. Common topics include his siblings— Ran and her best friend (who happens to be a boy), Ren and his mutual antagonism with Ran’s best friend, and sometimes, Nagisa and Rei’s various misadventures abroad (though Haru has a feeling Makoto screens half the things he hears from Nagisa, knowing their younger exuberant childhood friend has somewhat lost sight of the concept of "too much information" sometime in high school; Makoto's too nice to tell Nagisa that there is really no need to be graphic about what he and Rei did to pass off time while waiting for highway patrol to help fix their car engine.)
They finish the dishes and Makoto heads to the bathroom to take his own shower while Haru levels up Makoto’s sorceress in Dragon’s Crown, their new co-op role-playing game. Of course, Makoto predictably chooses the character class that has a support role. It’s not Haru’s usual style; he prefers classes with maximum damage output, like good ol’ fighters, but there’s no helping it now. Makoto needs the extra levels to defeat the last boss, and it’s the least Haru could do so they don’t end up dying three lifebars in when they try to take on the final stage together.
Haru has just started the boss battle against a chimera when he hears the shower turn off, the rattle of the towel rack following after. The chimera is down to a fifth of its life by the time Makoto emerges from the bathroom, a towel tied around his waist, a few rivulets of water still making its way down his chest, and smelling absolutely wonderful.
Haru suddenly finds himself impatiently trying to finish the game as quickly as possible.
Makoto pads over towards Haru, puts on his glasses, and does a double take when he finally gets a good look at the screen. “Haru…” he sighs. “You do realize my character uses long range attacks right?”
“Yeah,” Haru says, and uses up the last of Makoto’s 4 healing potions before proceeding to mash the square button.
“So why are you beating the chimera with your staff instead of, you know, casting fireballs at it?”
“Don’t want to keep going to the corner to charge MP,” Haru replies flatly, and makes a token attempt to dodge another tail slap. “Also, Rock Press is a close-range spell.”
“Your allies are all dying,” Makoto says, sounding pained. “I have party healing and protection spells you know.”
Haru decides not to reply, and proceeds to use up his last rock press spell, ignoring the fact that the chimera is annihilating his party one by one. He makes no effort to revive them.
“Harrruuuuu...” Makoto whines. “I paid so much gold for that Amazon!”
Again, Haru says nothing, though he does check out the time window for ally revival, finding out he has 40 seconds to finish off the boss or lose Makoto’s expensive Amazon forever (he couldn’t figure out why it’s so important- Makoto could just resurrect more, but he doesn’t want Makoto to be upset over a videogame, and so determines to simply finish in less than 40 seconds).
Lo and behold, 34 seconds after, with the sorceress down to 10 hit points, 0 life points, and most of her equipment broken, the chimera is finally vanquished via a series of thunderbolts (or in Haru’s case, via a judicious key mashing of the circle button). Haru makes a small fist pump in triumph, and turns towards Makoto, smirking.
Makoto looks half-exasperated, half-amused, and justifiably so-- he just watched Haru abuse his carefully customized character before even getting dressed, which Haru now finds to be a very gratifying course of action.
“Welcome to level 45?” Haru tries, when Makoto doesn’t say anything.
Makoto smiles ruefully and shakes his head. “I’ll just get some clothes on and we can play another—”
“—No, don’t bother,” Haru cuts in, and quickly saves the game, tossing the controller carelessly onto a pile of laundry. Makoto frowns slightly at that-- but Haru will worry about putting it back in the proper place later. He has a different game in mind now.
Makoto hasn’t budged from his place, but he’s looking at Haru now, his shoulders stiff as if in anticipation. He knows what Haru’s thinking, of that there could be no doubt, but he’s waiting for Haru to say it.
Haru scoots over to the edge of their bed, lifts his chin and looks Makoto directly in the eye. “Come here,” he says softly, leaving no room for misinterpretation.
It takes a beat for Makoto to react. Slowly, he shifts towards Haru’s direction, and just the way he turns, movement rippling from the heels of his feet to the sharp edge of his shoulders seems deliberate, powerful, responding to Haru’s invitation without words. Gaze unwavering, he takes three steps forward, stopping only when Haru raises up a hand.
Haru reaches around the small of Makoto’s back with both hands, and pulls him even closer. “I beat the chimera,” he whispers, and presses forward, skimming his nose along the ridges of Makoto’s abs, inhaling the citrusy scent of his shower gel.
“You did,” Makoto says quietly, sucking in a breath when Haru nips on the visible vee of his hip.
“So now,” Haru murmurs, and looks up at Makoto from beneath his lashes, mouth poised right above the tucked-in portion holding the towel in place. “I can take my spoils.”
Haru can see it now, the outline of Makoto’s cock stirring against the towel. “Of course,” Makoto breathes. “Anything.”
Haru rewards him with a small smile, and it’s a testament to how rare of a sight it is, because that’s when Makoto’s face flushes, a disproportionate reaction compared to the other indulgent things Haru has done so far.
“That’s right,” Haru says, and tugs the towel hem with his teeth. He briefly watches as the white material slides down Makoto’s legs, before leveling his gaze back to meet Makoto's. He leans back again, loosely gripping the sheets, thighs splayed wide, toes skimming the floor, never breaking eye contact. “Anything.”
There’s no need for words. The towel pools around Makoto’s ankles on the floor, and Makoto follows, falling to his knees at Haru’s feet.
*
They don’t usually fuck on weekdays; not because they don’t want to, but because it always results to them being unbearably sore and lethargic in the morning. Haru especially, since the gods above apparently weren’t satisfied with simply crafting Makoto as the platonic ideal of life partners, and saw it fit to give him a big dick too, the kind that makes Haru call in sick at work the next morning due to an inability to park his butt anywhere for more than five minutes without wincing in obvious pain. Practically speaking, great sex is inversely proportional to work productivity, and if that work involves sitting in front of a laptop for 8 hours, well, Haru is fucked in more ways than one.
Luckily, there are a myriad of other things they can do to get off the edge.
Makoto likes to use his mouth, and for good reason. He’s quite adept at it, fitting his lips on just the right places on Haru’s body- on his Adam’s apple, the knobs of his spine, the inside of his knee. He drags his teeth along the slope of Haru’s neck, biting lightly on the shell of Haru’s ear.
And his tongue. Makoto doesn’t settle for the overt simplicity of licking; he does this thing where he controls the stiffness of his tongue, so that only the tip of it flicks over the pert nubs of Haru’s nipples. It mimics the same pressure applied by a finger, only ten times better, because it doesn’t touch anything else. It’s mind-blowing how different it is, pleasure concentrated to a single point instead of sloppily distributed all over the place.
And that’s just for foreplay.
Right now, Haru’s having the most difficult time trying to keep down his voice, what with Makoto seemingly determined to fry every vital neuron in Haru’s brain via his cock.
With a shaking hand, Haru reaches out, touches the shape of his cock from under Makoto’s hollowed cheeks. Makoto looks up at him at that and if it isn’t for the tight grip of Makoto’s hand around the base, Haru would’ve come right there and then; Makoto looks so good like that- his hair still wet from the shower, his red, raw lips wrapped around Haru’s cock, eyes so vividly green, almost luminous.
Haru might have uttered something like a swear word, crushed beneath a haze of lust, when Makoto pulls out just when Haru’s on the brink of coming, and slows down his pace by placing open-mouthed kisses along the length of Haru’s cock. Haru glares a little, though it’s without any genuine ire; Makoto just chuckles and the resulting vibrations send tremors rocking through Haru’s body, so hot and good.
Makoto draws it out, because patience has always been one of his finest virtues; he applies it in most everything he does, and sex is not an exception. Haru cannot count the number of times he has to physically dig his fingers into the sheets to keep himself from standing up, pull Makoto by the hair and fuck his mouth.
This torturous buildup is getting to Haru-- he can feel himself straining for it, the urgency for completion growing in exponential increments every time Makoto wraps his tongue around Haru’s cock, wet and hot, much too good but never enough.
"Makoto..."
Haru’s legs are beginning to lose all feeling. No doubt about it, Makoto might be a saint by every standard of the word, but his mouth is pure sin when it comes to this; this slow, careful destruction of Haru’s higher thought functions, all other sensations melting away.
Then, Makoto shifts, removes his grip from Haru’s cock, and surges forward, and Haru feels himself sliding further down Makoto’s throat. It’s almost too much, his nerves are on edge, maxed out beneath his skin, searching for that final push.
Makoto, of course, knows this, and gives Haru what he wants; presses the pad of his finger just behind Haru’s balls, and that’s it, Haru’s body goes concave, spilling himself into Makoto’s mouth, his release feeling like it was pulled out of his spine, brutal and sharp.
Makoto swallows everything down, leaving nothing to trace, keeping Haru in his mouth through the last few pulses before pulling out, breathing hard. Through hooded eyes, Haru’s gaze trails from the obscene swallowing motion of Makoto’s adam’s apple, up to the rosy slick shine of his mouth, and to the drop of moisture on the groove of his upper lip.
“Good?” Makoto asks, his cheek resting on Haru’s thigh as he smiles up at him, with that same hopeful inquisitive gaze, like he doesn’t already know the answer. No matter how many times he has done this, proven that he can reduce Haru to a trembling wreck beneath his tongue, Makoto is never smug about it, too busy making sure that Haru is feeling good to gloat.
Haru answers by falling backwards, his back hitting the mattress with an audible thump, limp and boneless. He hears Makoto laugh, and then he slowly comes into view again as he stands up, wiping his mouth with a shirt. Haru is then made very much aware of the fact that Makoto has not come yet. Makoto’s erection hasn’t even flagged the whole time he’s been giving Haru head, and Haru idly wonders what that says about him.
Haru closes his eyes, taking a moment to pull himself together. He is not competitive in bed; no, like swimming, he wants to just take things as they come, feel the moments and let pleasure cascade all over him.
But then, there are times like this, Makoto having worked him up well and good, looking hopefully at him now, still clean and damp from the shower.
It makes Haru want to mess him up, and mess him up good.
He takes a deep calming breath, waits for his pulse to slow down, and sits back up. “My turn,” he says, and presses Makoto into the sheets.
*
Haru has long accepted the fact that his small, prim mouth is not equipped to fully accommodate something as sleek and heavy as Makoto’s cock, and his gag reflex is not very good either. He found this out the hard way; once, during a time Haru no longer cares to remember, he attempted a deep-throating maneuver he read off the internet and ended up nearly throwing up his dinner, causing Makoto to beat himself up over something that is completely Haru’s fault, and shy away from physical intimacy for a good few days.
Luckily for Makoto however, it turns out that Haru’s fingers are exceptionally good at something else other than drawing and cooking.
Makoto makes a low moan deep in his throat, as Haru’s fingers continue their slow, purposeful slide inside him. “Haru…” he pleads, his eyes half-closed and cloudy, his breath coming out in soft little pants. “It’s been so long now. Can I--?”
“No,” Haru interrupts, and stills the movement of his fingers again, causing Makoto to shiver a little at the loss of stimuli.
They’ve been at it for a good twenty minutes now and Haru has pushed Makoto to the edge of release at least three times, always holding it back at the last second. It’s cruel and delicious, the sight of Makoto straining and moaning akin to a visual panacea, chasing away the tiredness in his bones.
“Please,” Makoto breathes, begging.
“You always tell me to be patient,” Haru whispers, and bends down a little to lick the drops of pre-cum from the tip of Makoto’s cock, deliberately tonguing the slit. “So wait.”
“But Haru- ohhhh.” Makoto’s eyes widen, his mouth forming a delicate ‘oh’, toes curling, when Haru resumes the insistent thrust of his fingers.
“You can hold out,” Haru says, almost teasingly, and presses against that spot again, causing Makoto’s hips to jerk up, his barely suppressed shout echoing in their room.
“I can’t,” Makoto chokes out, and his grip around the headboard is so tight, it must be painful. “Let me--”
Haru leans up and kisses him, again and again, swallowing Makoto’s stuttered cries in his mouth as his fingers continue their leisurely pace of opening Makoto up and taking him apart.
“Just a little bit more, Makoto,” Haru whispers when he breaks away. He wants to enjoy this a little more. He can’t get enough of Makoto when he’s like this, desperate and raw, making sweet, thoroughly-fucked sounds with each insistent probe of Haru’s fingers, eyes hot and shuttered, the shadows of his lashes made long by the soft lamp light.
“Haruka…” The sound of his full first name in Makoto’s broken, trembling voice sends a delicious thrill firing up Haru’s spine, and he decides that it’s enough. He shifts his position, and plants a hand on Makoto’s chest, anchoring him down, while his other hand focuses on that single point, his fore and ring fingers keeping Makoto stretched, while his middle finger curls and uncurls gently- knowing that the lightest of pressures cause the most shattering sensations, and it shows: Makoto’s hoarse voice getting higher, his breathing so short and shallow, like he’s running out of air, his whole body going taut, a string about to snap.
“Please, oh please,” he begs. "Haru…”
Haru says nothing and waits. He waits until he sees it, sees the darkening of Makoto’s gaze, his pupils dilated, stilling at the line between blinding pleasure and unbearable agony, the exact moment before that perfect control breaks.
“Now,” Haru commands, twisting his fingers just so, and Makoto makes a sound like a dying sob, spine arching at the force, and comes undone.
*
Haru is usually the one who falls asleep first but that last orgasm has pretty much ruined Makoto, who was barely coherent enough to clean himself up before passing out from sheer exhaustion.
Before Haru turns the lamp off, he takes a moment to observe Makoto’s face, so soft and vulnerable, and drinks in the peace he finds there.
He checks the clock again. It’s thirty seven minutes past eleven in the evening. Sleep begins to settle behind his eyes, and he yawns and reaches over towards the windows, pulls the blinds shut, but not all the way through.
He tugs the lamp switch, and the room is plunged into darkness. He cannot see anything, but it doesn’t matter; he always knows where Makoto is, knows the exact spot to fit himself along the solid dips of Makoto’s body, and so he settles in.
It’s pretty much muscle memory at work now, when Makoto’s arm automatically wraps around Haru’s shoulders. Obligingly, he places his head on Makoto’s chest, and listens to the steady beats beneath, the only lullaby he needs.
He closes his eyes, and falls asleep like that, matching Makoto’s breathing with his own, synching the flow of oxygen to their hearts.
-fin-