Photography, Osamu thinks, is like time travel.
To rephrase— good photography has the power to grasp all the emotions of a single moment and memorialize them within a 4x6 rectangle of glossy photo paper. The first sight of your newborn child, the smell of your mother’s cooking, the sounds of percolating coffee on a rainy morning, just before your lover proposes.
Osamu has always wanted to take pictures like that—to wield magic at his fingertips and send people back in time to that special moment whenever they look at his work.
It sounds stupid, he knows, and he’ll never breathe a word of such frilly sentiments out loud, not even to Atsumu— especially not to Atsumu. Whenever people ask him why he chose photography as his major he brushes it off with some half-baked reasoning about how he finds the technical aspects of it particularly interesting. Which, he supposes, isn’t a complete lie—but all forms of art are equal parts technique, knowledge, instinct, and emotion. This isn’t unique to photography alone. But what is life if not a continuous series of sensory information, and what is photography if not the ability to capture it all?
And the moments Osamu wants to grasp—
Shimmering dust motes that dance downwards onto two toned starlight hair. Clay caked hands curving gracefully around creation for hours on end, painstakingly chasing perfection. Glowing eyes under thick lashes that command the room with nothing more than the sheer intensity and concentration they exude.
A person who will never be his—but through a viewfinder, for that singular moment it takes to focus and take the shot, Osamu holds everything he can see in the palm of his hand.
Speak of the devil.
Osamu raises his eyes from the set-up on the table where he’s been seated, polishing his lenses for the past hour.
“Good morning Kita-san.” He can’t help but allow his gaze to linger for a split second longer than necessary before he returns to the task at hand, attention absorbed in the sensor cleaning brush between his fingers.
The thing about Kita Shinsuke, president of their university’s visual arts association, is that the weight of his stare has an uncanny ability to make someone reconsider their entire life’s choices on the spot. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking. Osamu feels a drop of sweat bead on his temple as Kita’s eyes bore into him, silence falling over them like a blanket before Kita opens his mouth to speak.
There it is .
“He slept in, so I left without him.” Osamu shrugs, setting his equipment down with a small sigh. Cleaning his gear is too delicate a job to finish with tense fingers, lest he accidentally damage his sensor because of the jealousy curdling in his belly from the shape of Atsumu’s name in Kita’s mouth. “He’ll be here sooner or later, probably.”
“Why did you leave without him when you know we have a morning meeting to discuss the annual gala submission?”
As always, Kita doesn’t mince his words—he gets straight to the point, with an ever impassive expression that never wavers. His pointed question makes Osamu wince and glance up at him sheepishly, an apology halfway out of his mouth before he has a chance to bite it back.
The truth is, Osamu left early precisely because of the meeting this morning. He knows better than anyone that Atsumu shines just a fraction brighter than he does—it’s not so much their skill level for their respective crafts, because Osamu has enough pride to know that in that aspect they’re about the same. But Atsumu radiates outward like an earthquake, demanding the entire world’s attention for himself and he has the talent and more importantly, puts in the work to warrant it.
Atsumu’s medium of choice is oil paint on canvas—he’s recognized across Japan for his vivid colour schemes and near prodigal impasto brushwork techniques. The past year especially has been a whirlwind of magazine articles, interviews, and even a hefty grant awarded by the national fine arts council, and the thing is—up until now, Osamu has never felt anything other than pride to be Atsumu’s brother. No matter how annoying Atsumu gets, or how many containers of Osamu’s H ä agen-Daaz icecream he steals, none of their fights ever last for that long, even if they do have the tendency to get explosive.
That is to say, Osamu never knew the bittersweet taste of jealousy before Kita Shinsuke waltzed into his line of sight with glowing moonlight eyes and the power to level horizons in his wake. In the end it wasn’t the fame, glory, or even the money that Osamu selfishly wanted for himself, but just one person.
And he knows that if it came down to it, that person wouldn’t choose him, but Atsumu. The worst part is that Osamu can’t even blame him for it.
“If Atsumu delays our meeting, you’re both on cleaning duty this evening,” Kita says simply, taking a seat across from Osamu before reaching for the stack of paperwork by his elbow. His lashes fan out across his cheek, back of the pen touched to his lips as the two of them sit in comfortable silence, the morning sun filtering in through the window at Osamu’s back to light Kita’s silhouette aglow.
Ah, he wants to capture this moment.
Osamu’s fingers twitch against his camera, knowing full well that there’s no imaginable possibility of getting away with taking a picture of Kita to his face and living to tell the tale, but the lighting is perfect and Kita looks—
“Morning.” He’s snapped out of his thoughts by the sudden voice, looking up to find Ojiro stepping into the club room while stifling a yawn with Michinari and Amamiya in tow. They join Osamu and Kita at the table, animatedly chatting about some topic that Osamu doesn’t have enough interest in to warrant putting away his equipment for. It gets a little easier to breathe with other people in the room instead of just him under the weight of those eyes and he finally returns to his cleaning regime, carefully picking up his sensor for inspection as more members of the association file in closer to the meeting time.
The clock strikes 9 and Kita sends Osamu a pointed look with raised brows, his words short and sweet as they always are. “Cleaning duty.”
“ ‘Samu—u! ” As if on cue Atsumu’s voice comes echoing from down the hallway, the soles of his shoes squeaking against the floor as he nearly slides past the door, fingers catching the frame to stop his momentum. “You left without me, you bastard!”
“If you miss mom so much, move back home. Not my business if you snooze your alarm for an hour.”
“ Asshole , why I oughta—”
Atsumu stalks towards Osamu, raising his clenched first threateningly before freezing in his tracks, slow realization sinking into him as he turns to glance at Kita with rightful fear in his eyes, his mouth drawing into a grimace.
“Good morning.” The look on Kita’s face could almost pass for a pleasant half-smile if it didn’t spark unfathomable terror like Medusa’s stone gaze. “ Cleaning duty .”
“But ‘Samu! He—”
“ And the day after that.”
Atsumu’s mouth snaps shut as he shoots another silent glare at Osamu, who purses his lips to stifle his grin. Even though the cleaning duty punishment no doubt applies to both of them, it serves no purpose other than to put Atsumu in his place—after all, Kita is always the first person to arrive and the last to leave, and everyone knows that he essentially redoes all the cleaning just for the sake of routine. If anything, Osamu would say he’s slightly pleased to stay after hours so that he has the opportunity to watch Kita at work.
It’s possibly Osamu’s favourite version of Kita—clad in his simple black sculpting apron with clay smudged on his cheek, perched on a stool in the corner as he creates something from nothing, hands ever graceful without a single unnecessary movement. For someone like Osamu who grew up with the human embodiment of a fireworks display for a brother, Kita’s silence was akin to the great unknown, both frightening and yet so enticing that Osamu can’t help but be drawn to him like a moth to a flame.
“Now that everyone is present,” Kita begins, casting a meaningful look over their way, “let’s proceed with the meeting. As you all know, the school’s annual fine arts gala is coming up.”
The fine arts gala is a snooty black tie event that their school hosts, inviting a whole slew of rich sponsors to sip wine while humming and hawing over this year’s crop of talent. It’s something of a contest, though the school refuses to use that term for it, but a single artist is chosen to receive a large sum of money and is essentially guaranteed the connections for a prestigious job after graduation.
As the president of the visual arts association, Kita himself is able to nominate one member to represent their group, though members can still be nominated by their teachers or even the headmaster to participate.
“For the association’s submission—“
It’s hardly a suspension-filled moment. Everyone already knows that the only logical choice here is Atsumu, the nationally renowned first year who has both the reputation and skill to actually stand a chance in winning it all. If the association’s representative is chosen as the best work of the night, it would considerably boost their extracurricular funding for the next year and skyrocket their overall prestige, as well as put them in the headmaster’s good books.
Osamu silently collects his equipment, placing them into their respective partitions in his camera case one by one.
“—I want it to be Osamu,” Kita finishes.
Fish-eye lens, macro lens, wide angle lens—wait, what?
“Huh?” He says dumbly, voice drenched with disbelief. “...don’t you mean ‘Tsumu?”
It’s a pointless question. Kita would never make such a frivolous mistake and Osamu knows it, but despite this he can’t begin to fathom why on earth Kita would choose him instead of Atsumu—especially when Osamu was so sure that even Kita’s personal preferences weren’t directed his way.
“No. You’re my first choice for our representative.” Kita folds his arms across his chest. “Participation is optional of course, so make your decision by the end of the week. Moving on—”
Osamu can’t help but gape, acutely aware of how the rest of their members are trying not to stare and he doesn’t exactly blame them—it’s unheard of for Kita to go with a choice that doesn’t follow his usual philosophy of cold, hard logic. Even more peculiar is how Atsumu himself doesn’t say a single thing, leaning his cheek against his hand with his elbow propped up on the table nonchalantly.
The unease in Osamu’s chest flutters along with his erratic heartbeat as he sits back in his chair, thoughts whirling, and tries his best to pay attention for the rest of the meeting.
Following the unsteady aftermath of that morning’s gala meeting, he can’t seem to find his muse, no matter how hard he tries.
Every time Osamu picks up his camera, the picture through his viewfinder is not quite right as if something has tilted the world just a couple degrees off balance, only he can’t put a name as to what it might be. In fact often it’s multiple factors all at once—the lighting is off, the subject pose isn’t fluid enough, the amount of negative space is too overbearing or too underwhelming, or any number of amalgamations that have him grinding his teeth with nothing to show for his time.
As the days go by his mood gets worse and worse, slipping feet first into a pit that Osamu petulantly refuses to call a slump, but it’s hard to deny the obvious when his school projects are returned with less than stellar comments from his professors.
The frustration comes to a peak when Atsumu digs into him about his failures, fixing him with a glare that’s half condescension and half challenge until Osamu finally obliges and throws the first punch. He feels his fist connect with Atsumu’s cheek as all his filters come down, letting out every bit of the fury that’d been building up in his chest over the past couple days and unsurprisingly Atsumu meets him exactly where he is, blow for blow until the other club members succeed in dragging them away from each other by force.
“Honestly, what exactly is the point of throwing punches?” A chill runs down Osamu’s spine at the way Kita’s pupils are near slitted like that of a beast’s as he glowers at Osamu, who is seated with his head hung low. They’d promptly separated him from Atsumu and put him in one room with Kita, and Atsumu in another with Aran. “If you have so much time to be wasting on family disputes, maybe it ought to be spent on your photography instead and you wouldn’t need such pointlessly barbaric behaviour.”
There’s nothing Osamu can even say—he clenches his fists tight on top of his thighs, his knuckles already turning an ugly shade of red that send dull throbs of pain shooting down into his forearms.
Kita sighs before an upturned palm enters Osamu’s line of sight as he stares down at the ground.
When Osamu looks up, the softness in Kita’s eyes is not what he was expecting to see. Slowly, in a manner that feels way too much like a puppy being told to paw , he gingerly places his shaking hand in Kita’s and Osamu knows that it’s not entirely because of the residual bruising, because Kita’s hands are cold under his fingertips and it brings a blush to his face that he won’t be able to explain if Kita chooses to ask.
“An artist’s hands are their life. If you’re going to fight, at least settle it with kicks,” he murmurs, thumbs tenderly pressing into the divots between Osamu’s knuckles. The pain makes Osamu suck in a breath between his clenched teeth but he allows Kita to check his hands over as he pleases. “Doesn’t seem like there’s any injury to your bones.”
“Who knows. Atsumu has a hard head.”
Kita smiles then, a little puff of air escaping his lips that might just count as a laugh. “So do you.”
He lets go of Osamu’s hand, turning to pull a chair over for himself before reaching for the first aid kit on the table next to him and scooting close enough to reach Osamu’s face. The gentleness with which he raises an antiseptic soaked cotton ball to the cut at the corner of Osamu’s mouth is enough to make something painful bloom in the depths of Osamu’s chest—a fiery supercluster that burns in the best kind of way despite leaving him breathless in the face of it all.
Unlike all the other times when being alone with Kita had felt like he was teetering precariously on the edge of a cliff, the silence that befalls the room as Kita delicately tends to his wounds just feels...meaningful. Dazedly Osamu recognizes a loaded softness with which Kita is looking at his mouth, the smell of Kita’s mint shampoo, and it’s like time is curling around the two of them as if this space is a discontinuity separating them from the rest of the world.
Ah, he wants to capture this moment.
Before he can stop himself, Osamu reaches up to grasp Kita’s wrist, thumb at his pulse point, and blurts out, “Kita-san, please let me take your picture.”
After all he has been enraptured by Kita’s profile ever since day one, since the moment Osamu had stepped foot on campus during orientation day and seen a man with two toned hair and piercing golden eyes hunched over an array of art supplies scattered all over the ground, quietly picking up the fallen tubes of oil paints one by one.
It’s impossible to say what about that scene had latched onto his heart as it did, but with his lips parted in blooming awe, Osamu had lifted his camera and snapped a picture.
The developed photograph sits in his work desk drawer at home and every time Osamu looks at it he sees the core of what he wants to achieve with his photography—to take a picture of a seemingly mundane scene and be able to capture everything about it that makes it beautiful.
And Kita, he’s exactly the quiet kind of extraordinary that you have to really look to see—which, Osamu has learned, very few people actually do.
His wrist still in Osamu’s hand, Kita’s eyes widen just a fraction, lips pressing together into the beginnings of a confused frown. “Me? Why?”
“I’ve been in a slump lately and I just think it would help to switch up the scenery.”
It’s not a lie per se, but it’s not the full truth either. Osamu isn’t so daft as to think that he could get away with half truths under the weight of Kita’s uncanny instincts and he steels himself for a rejection, releasing his grip and slowly lowering his hands back to his lap.
Kita stares for a moment of loaded silence, before opening his mouth to speak.
“Well. It’s nothing special.”
In some incredible turn of events, Osamu finds himself with his camera bag slung across his shoulder at Kita’s apartment the next day, trailing after Kita as he leads them both into the living space. Nothing special is an understatement, of course, because it’s Kita’s and anything Kita does is no less exceptional than the next. The apartment is impeccable with nary a thing out of place, and something is bubbling away on the stove that makes Osamu’s stomach grumble loudly.
Kita lifts a brow, his arms folded across his chest. “Hungry?”
It’s beef stew, which Kita plates with a heaping portion of rice, and they both tuck in for lunch. This is perhaps the first time that Osamu has ever spent time with Kita alone like this, intentionally alone rather than a prelude to when the rest of the team will make their entrance, and it feels like they haven’t yet found the dynamic of how Kita and Osamu work yet despite knowing each other for a year already. The food is delicious and Osamu all but inhales it, shovelling rice into his mouth happily.
Is there anything Kita can’t do?
“Kita-san,” Osamu begins, not one to tiptoe around the point, “why did you pick me to be the association’s nominee?”
In response Kita just takes another bite of stew and chews silently, eyes flickering upwards to meet Osamu’s. It doesn’t seem like he has any intention of speaking, so Osamu presses.
“I mean…’Tsumu would have been the better choice.”
”There isn’t an innate quality that makes Atsumu a better selection than you.” Kita reaches for his glass of water and takes a slow sip before setting it down quietly. “Just because something garners more attention doesn’t necessarily make it better or worse. We all just have to do our part, and assume that someone is watching.”
The sudden thought strikes Osamu like a drum, reverberating in the hollows of his chest until it thrums all the way into his fingertips and he can’t help but clench his fists tightly where they’re resting against the countertop.
“Were you watching me?”
Kita just looks at him, eyes large and beautiful like full moons and they honest to god glow, so painfully open that they could tell stories in and of themselves but Osamu doesn’t know the language that they’re speaking. He wants to learn.
“Hmm.” Kita perches his chin atop the back of his hand, leaning in just a fraction, smile small and sly with his eyes half lidded in a way that makes something hot swirl in the pit of Osamu’s belly. “Who knows? Not telling.”
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
Osamu licks his lips, suddenly feeling like his mouth has run dry and he follows suit and leans in as well. “Kita-san—“
“Didn’t you want to take pictures?” And just like that Kita withdraws again, picking up both of their plates to carry to the sink. “Let’s get to it before we lose the natural light, then.”
It hadn’t been his imagination. There’d been something there, a distinct energy Osamu had never felt from Kita before today that makes him swallow hard, butterflies in his stomach, before standing up to follow.
They enter Kita’s work studio, a room with large windows that allow tons of natural light. Osamu runs his fingers along the desk as he thinks about how many hours Kita has spent here, hands covered in clay with soft music playing in the background and the setting sun spilling light in through those windows.
It’d make for a gorgeous picture.
“How do you want me?” Kita asks, eyes downcast as he adjusts one of the tools on his desk just so before heading over to his work bench and taking a seat, peering over at Osamu curiously.
Any way you’ll let me have you, is on the tip of Osamu’s tongue—words precariously on the verge of tumbling out as he bites it back almost desperately. Kita is too far away for him to reach, and even if he were to extend his hand it’d be foolish to think that anyone would be there for him to grab onto. “Please just work as you normally would.”
“Mm,” Kita hums, eyes lingering for a moment that leaves Osamu’s skin prickling before turning to remove a fresh block of clay from the shelf.
The hours pass simply, with the sun beginning to set just beyond the horizon and its glowing light pouring into the room, haloing Kita almost ethereally as he works. They don’t speak—Kita has his earphones in and his eyes are intense as his hands carve away at slabs of clay until the rough shape of something begins to appear from what was once a block of grey mush.
It’s clear that he can see something in that block of clay that others can’t, his fingertips curving so gracefully around his tool that it feels profound .
They’ve spent a lot of time together over the past year in the art room at school, but this—this is completely different. This is looking at Kita’s profile and seeing the way he barely blinks with how hard he’s concentrating, lips falling into this natural little pout that Osamu wants to kiss away until they’re both breathless with it. And just when Osamu is musing to himself about how a meteor could strike the earth and Kita would be none the wiser with how absorbed he is in his work, it’s then that Kita’s eyes flicker over to meet Osamu’s, one split second before the corner of his mouth lifts in a sort of half smile.
Osamu knows he could fall to pieces under the weight of that smile.
“You’re beautiful, Kita-san.” The words slip out with his next breath, and Osamu never thought that they’d feel as comfortable on his tongue as they ended up being.
And to that Kita just smiles, fully this time, with his lashes fluttering closed as his clay covered hands dance around his creation, over and over again until it begins to take shape.
The tension builds like that, with every curve of Kita’s fingers, with every snapshot Osamu takes, the room fills with something unidentifiable that makes Osamu feel like he’s burning up from the inside out. He wonders if Kita feels it, too—the stifling heat in the room despite the chilly weather outside, the thrum of his racing heartbeat, and the way it’s getting harder to breathe because he’s dying to get his fingers on Kita’s skin.
He’s getting greedy, Osamu realizes. First he’d been content just to look, to share a space with Kita every day in the art room, and now he can’t stop thinking about what it’d feel like to touch , which undeniably surpasses photography and branches into something different entirely. This is murky territory that Osamu doesn’t know if he’s allowed to step into without everything falling apart around him—because once he goes, there’s no turning back.
It’s laughable. Since when has he ever been a coward?
Trapped under Kita’s simmering gaze, he feels like one.
“I think I’m about done for the evening,” Kita says suddenly, making Osamu jump. “Did you get the shots you wanted?”
“Oh, yes.” The pictures turned out perfectly, in fact, and it’d been so easy —something about Kita makes him incredibly photogenic, though Osamu had known this since the first day he’d laid eyes on him. “Thank you, Kita-san.”
A silence befalls the room as if Kita is waiting for him to say something else, but when Osamu stops there Kita hums curiously and turns to put his tools away for the night before heading to the sink to wash up. Osamu takes the chance to put his camera and lens away into his bag, nervously fiddling with the placement as he hears Kita scrubbing at his hands in the background.
It’s hard to breathe.
“Well…” Osamu begins, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I guess I’ll—”
“Osamu.” Kita turns, drying his hands on a towel nonchalantly. “If you have something to say, then say it.”
And it really is that easy for Kita to face everything that Osamu hasn’t wanted to say, just like that, while drying his hands as if they were chatting about the weather. They both know the truth about what’s been fluttering about this entire day—all the prolonged gazes, the loaded silences that are beginning to drive Osamu up the wall, and the way Kita removes his sculpting apron, hanging it up neatly before approaching him step by step until he’s standing just a step away.
It’s then Osamu realizes—in the midst of his brain short circuiting—that they have an 8cm height difference between the two of them. At this distance Kita is close enough that he physically has to tip his head to look up at Osamu, and for such a simple fact it certainly leaves devastation in its wake because Osamu is so, so screwed .
“Kita-san—” Osamu starts, swallowing hard as he reaches out, and despite all his idiotic ruminations earlier he finds that Kita is right there for him to grasp. His fingers wrap around Kita’s wrist, much like the day before when Kita had tended to his injuries, but this time Osamu doesn’t let go. “Can I touch you?”
The words are almost a croak with how dry his throat feels, but even that pales in the face of the fire that ignites in the pit of his stomach when Kita steps closer, eyes once again dropping from Osamu’s eyes to his lips and for once Osamu doesn’t pretend not to see it.
He doesn’t know who leans in first. Probably Kita, because the way it goes is that Kita leads and he follows and Osamu would be stupid to think it’ll ever be any other way.
All he knows is that Kita kisses exactly the way Osamu thought he would—unassuming at first, a closed-mouth kiss that has electricity buzzing into the tips of Osamu’s fingers, and then he opens up so pliantly that Osamu can’t help but swipe a tongue against Kita’s bottom lip, which makes him honest to god shiver . Osamu goes from aching to hard in a matter of moments. This has been stewing in the air all day—no, ever since the day before, and all Osamu wants is to get his hands on Kita as fast as he can so he does. No more thinking. No more giving a shit about whether he’s good enough or who Kita prefers between him and Atsumu.
Because right now Kita is shivering in Osamu’s arms and he’s not so strong a man to keep thinking when his tongue is in Kita’s mouth.
He grabs Kita and pulls him closer until their torsos are flush against one another, hands sliding under the hem of Kita’s shirt to grip at his waist. Surprisingly he finds that Kita’s skin runs cold, which only makes him more determined to work Kita up until he’s hot all over. Osamu has always liked a challenge.
So he kisses Kita harder, pressing in and swirling his tongue against Kita’s until Kita draws in a sharp inhale through his nose, his breath hitching and the sound of it feels like sweet, sweet victory.
It tastes even better than that.
He can feel Kita hard against his thigh and he’s sure Kita can feel him too, but neither of them are pulling away. It gives him the confidence to slot his leg between Kita’s, hands urging Kita to roll his hips around his thigh which draws out the tiniest of whines that Kita breathes into his mouth like a dream. All of this has been like a dream, but at the end of the day it all boils down to Kita, with his eyelids trembling and his cheeks flushed, every single bit of him deserving to be kissed senseless.
“Osamu.” Kita whispers his name with warmth and in the same breath nips at Osamu’s bottom lip, eyes suddenly aglow with an unspoken dare that makes goosebumps raise on the backs of Osamu’s arms.
And that’s the thing, isn’t it? Kita is the eye of the storm. Osamu should take care never to forget it.
He pushes forward, backing Kita up against his work table and grips Kita’s hips before lifting him up to sit on it, moving to kiss Kita’s neck. The smell of his mint shampoo is sharp against Osamu’s nose and Kita tilts his head to make room for Osamu, more obedient than Osamu could ever have dreamed of and god if his pants aren’t feeling increasingly more uncomfortable by the minute.
“Kita-san,” Osamu breathes, his brows furrowing from the ache. “Can we—”
Instead of responding Kita moves his hands to cup Osamu through his jeans and a heady groan spills out between Osamu’s lips and into the crook of Kita’s neck. He realizes belatedly, in the midst of Kita popping open his button, that Kita has a line of beauty marks on his neck shaped like a constellation that is now marred by a purple-red bruise where Osamu’s mouth had just been.
It’s beautiful. He wonders if Kita would let him take a picture.
“What are you thinking about?” Kita murmurs, sounding slightly petulant about it, and the edge to his voice is so uncharacteristic that it makes Osamu chuckle. This only serves to make Kita tug on Osamu’s hair in protest, bringing their mouths together again as he slides his hands between Osamu’s unzipped pants, those same graceful fingers that Osamu had been marvelling at moments before now on his heated skin.
“Fuck.” The desperation is his voice cracks at the edges. It feels awfully like being unravelled in the best way, and he moves to slide his hand under the waistband of Kita’s joggers, revelling in the way Kita’s breath hitches when he does so.
Kita is quiet, but he reacts wonderfully in other subtle ways that Osamu picks up one by one like keepsakes—his heel digging into the back of Osamu’s leg, his nails scratching against Osamu’s scalp, and the way his lips tremble as he moves his hand against Osamu’s cock, steady and firm and irresistable.
“Mm, like this—” Osamu tugs Kita closer, slotting their hips together so he can get a hand around them both, and he shivers at the sight of Kita against him. When he moves, stroking them both off, the stimulation of their heated flesh is finally enough that a pitched whine bubbles out from Kita’s lips and Osamu swoops in to swallow it up in a kiss. “Feels s’good, Shinsuke-san.”
Whether it’s the change in position or the use of his first name, Kita reacts , his forehead falling against Osamu’s shoulder as his breath comes out in shaky sighs. Osamu works his hand, drawing it up to the tip and then back down in teasing strokes that makes Kita’s fingers clutch at Osamu’s sleeve and though Kita clearly isn’t one for being loud during sex Osamu thinks that he’s an open book like this—which is really such a concept when all along Osamu has thought of Kita like a language that can’t be read.
Maybe he needs to get Kita like this more often, he muses, moving to pull Kita in for another kiss that’s teetering on the edge of sloppy, with maybe a little too much tongue but Osamu is properly falling apart and he really can’t be bothered with that kind of finesse right now.
“Osamu,” Kita mumbles between kisses, his hand wrapping around Osamu’s as they move in tandem, hips bucking, and Osamu can hear Kita grit his teeth when he leans in to suck another mark right on top of one of the beauty marks on his neck. “I’m close—”
With blooming red supernovas amid dotted constellations etched into his skin, flushed cheeks and parted, kiss-swollen lips, Kita looks nothing short of wondrous in this moment—he’s curled in on himself in a full body quiver that compels Osamu to pump his hand faster, vision all but whiting out around the edges with how desperate he feels.
“You’re beautiful, Shinsuke-san.”
The last thing he registers before his own climax inevitably overwhelms him like a monstrous tidal wave is the way Kita’s brows draw together, lip pinched between his teeth as he comes with a soft cry into Osamu’s hand. The image sears itself into Osamu’s mind.
He wonders if Kita would let him take a picture.
“Don’t be late on Monday,” Kita warns, arms folded across his chest as he fixes Osamu with a stern glance that is in no way less effective despite the events that just transpired. Thinking about it now, Osamu supposes it would be hoping for too much to believe he’d have any more resistance to Kita’s stone cold glare just because they’d gotten each other off once.
But, well, all things with practice and such.
The thought makes Osamu chuckle as he steps into his shoes, straightening up to find that Kita’s glare has softened considerably into something blatantly fond , and even with all the practice in the world Osamu knows for a fact that there’s no way he’ll ever stand a chance against that look.
“What are you laughing about?” Kita asks, reaching out to cup Osamu’s cheek with his hand, and Osamu can’t help but lean into it.
He presses a chaste kiss to Kita’s palm. “Nothin’. Thinking about your stew. It was good.”
Kita blinks, taken aback for a moment before he lets out a laugh. “Okay. I’ll make it again then. Should I do pasta with it next time?”
“No. Rice is the best.”
Next time . Such delightfully uplifting words that make Osamu smile lazily, assuring Kita that he’ll make up with Atsumu properly and that he’ll put some more antiseptic on his wounds when he gets home. He goes to leave, opening the front door of Kita’s apartment, and then turns back one last time.
“By the way, Kita-san.”
“I’ll do it. The gala submission.”
The look Kita gives him is impassive, as if he knew with full confidence that this would be the outcome all along. “Is that so? I’ll put in the paperwork then. Do you have any ideas for what your subject will be?”
Osamu hums noncommittally, drawing closer to place a gentle hand on the side of Kita’s neck, the tip of his pinky finger tracing teasingly along the collar of Kita’s sweater. He notices the edges of his already-fading marks just barely peeking out, and makes a note to himself to replace them when they’re gone.
“Yeah. I was thinking maybe stars.”