Twenty-four hours ago, Kurosawa would barely let himself hope that Adachi might appear on the roof. Now, Adachi laughs as Kurosawa’s fingers easily find places that are ticklish as he squirms. It makes Kurosawa’s heart feel full, to hear Adachi’s joy like this, to see it so clearly in his smiling face as Kurosawa pulls the duvet over them.
“Good morning,” he repeats, their knees bumping, and then, “Merry Christmas.” Adachi is breathless and laughing, hands doing their best to fend Kurosawa off. Kurosawa’s determined, though, and Adachi doesn’t so much push him away as pull him close when his fingers tangle in Kurosawa’s shirt.
He can’t not kiss him. Adachi is finally in his bed and he is smiling and it’s so easy to close what little distance there is between them in the dim light under the blanket and fit their mouths together.
A sound of surprise, and Adachi’s mouth is soft and open beneath his. Kurosawa touches the tip of his tongue to Adachi’s bottom lip, waits for the answering sweet-slick slide of Adachi’s own before pressing further. Adachi clings to him, fingers tightening, and Kurosawa moves a hand to the hem of his shirt, his fingers touch bare skin. Adachi shakes against him.
Hair askew on the pillow, Adachi laughs, pink-cheeked. Kurosawa blinks at him.
“Still ticklish,” Adachi says. He bites his lip, eyes slipping away and then back. “Your touch should be more firm.”
Kurosawa blinks, and then smiles. Watches Adachi’s own smile grow in response. “Is that so?” He slips his hand more firmly beneath the hem of Adachi’s t-shirt, palms his waist and the curve of his ribs. He leans in, presses a kiss to Adachi’s cheek, then his jaw. The mole behind his ear. Beneath his hand, Adachi’s chest rises and falls more rapidly, and when Kurosawa pulls back to look at him again in the morning light, he is beautiful.
For years, Kurosawa has wondered what Adachi would look like just so, beside him in bed, beside him in life, sunlight pouring in. He has wanted and waited and he had thought almost--almost--that it could never be, and yet.
“I bet I know what you’re thinking.”
Kurosawa laughs. “If that’s still a problem, I--”
Adachi’s hand on his mouth stops him. It’s warm and a little sweaty. Kurosawa’s briefly tempted to lick it. “You really like me.”
He shakes his head, and Adachi removes his hand. “Not quite,” he says, leaning down to kiss him again. And again. Another to Adachi’s jaw, and he’s encouraging him to tip his head back against the pillow, neck pale and smooth. He presses his mouth to the racing flutter of Adachi’s pulse and finds Adachi’s hand in his hair, fingers gentle. Kurosawa looks at him. “I was thinking how beautiful you are. How lucky I am.”
Adachi stares, and then he’s laughing again, pushing Kurosawa’s face to the side before curling his fingers around the back of his head and pulling him down. “You’re so cheesy.” But then he’s kissing him, mouth soft and eager, and Kurosawa feels like he is filled with light down to his toes.
Nothing in his imagination could ever have held a candle to Adachi sleep-warm against him, fingers sliding in his hair as Kurosawa holds him against the sheets. He’s hardening; Kurosawa can feel him. He groans, shifting his weight until they’re pressed together. Adachi jerks against him, and pulls away with a sharp intake of breath.
Eyes gone wide and dark, Adachi bites his lip--Kurosawa wants to do it for him--and nods. His fingers shift at the back of Kurosawa’s head. His hips shift beneath Kurosawa’s hips. “Yes,” he says, and then again, “yes.” He pulls Kurosawa to him, and Kurosawa goes.
Skimming his hand up under Adachi’s shirt, Kurosawa finds a nipple as he sucks that bitten lip between his own. Adachi thrums beneath him, a whine rising from his throat. The sound sends a thrill through Kurosawa and he shudders, slipping away from Adachi’s mouth to kiss his jaw, his neck. He wants, badly, to suck at the skin there, leave a mark of himself for anyone to see. He doesn’t. It would embarrass Adachi, and the last thing he wants is to make that smile go anywhere.
Instead, Kurosawa pushes himself up until he’s kneeling between Adachi’s thighs. Adachi blinks up at him, flushed and well-kissed. Kurosawa tugs at the hem of his t-shirt. “Can you take this off? I want to kiss you.”
“You were kissing me.”
He loves him. Kurosawa bends over him, kisses him once, decisively. “I want to kiss you everywhere. Okay?”
Adachi nods, his own hands going to pull up his shirt as Kurosawa sits back. Up on his elbow, shirt halfway off, Adachi pauses and looks at him. “You, too?”
Absolutely. Kurosawa can absolutely do that. He loses the shirt, can’t help but grin when he catches Adachi staring.
Adachi’s eyelashes flutter and he licks his lips before jolts into motion, pulling his shirt off and tossing it to the side. “Sorry,” he says, laying back against the pillow, “I--”
Kurosawa shakes his head. “Don’t apologize. I like that you want to look.” He raises an eyebrow. “I hope that you want to touch?”
“Yes, please,” Adachi says, almost before Kurosawa can finish. Laughter breaks between them, and Kurosawa doesn’t think he has ever felt so happy as he does now, lowering himself chest to naked chest with Adachi. His hands on Kurosawa feel like a miracle, and when their lips touch again Kurosawa loses himself.
There was a time this seemed like an impossibility. For seven years, he’d stood by and watched and wanted, hands empty and heart full. And then not a miracle, but magic. Not impossible, apparently, only improbable. Heart beating and blood pounding and hard against Kurosawa, Adachi isn’t a fantasy. He’s real. Kurosawa has watched him so long, has imagined Adachi with his bedhead and his smile, bare toes curling in the sheets. In his sheets.
It’s almost too much.
He kisses down Adachi’s neck, mouths at his clavicle. He pauses to nip lightly, and grins when Adachi jerks against him, fingers tightening against Kurosawa’s shoulders. Kurosawa kisses the spot--slightly red--and thinks about Adachi’s collar hiding all manner of things just out of view. Oh, Kurosawa can’t wait to go to work with him. To see him enter the room and know what those hands passing out copies feel like on his face, his chest, his hips. To smile at him and see Adachi duck his head and bite his lip and know he did the same thing in Kurosawa’s bedroom, eyes shining. Everyday moments, mundane things made more because it is Adachi.
When he kisses Adachi’s nipple, Adachi shivers. When he licks it, he whines. Kurosawa should have known he’d be expressive, responsive. When he feels something, it shows; Kurosawa has made a study of him. Now there’s so much more to learn.
He kisses his way across Adachi’s chest, breathing in the smell of his skin. He’s soft and hot, and Kurosawa follows his flush downward, savoring the feel of Adachi against him. A kiss near his navel, and Adachi’s breath hitches, stomach jumping beneath Kurosawa’s mouth. Kurosawa looks up, and finds Adachi’s eyes on him. They’re wide, dark. His lips are red and bitten. Across his chest, Kurosawa’s gaze catches on the rising red where he’s nipped and sucked and been unable to help himself. He grins.
Folded over Adachi, between his thighs, Kurosawa can feel the heat of Adachi’s cock through his borrowed sleep pants. His mouth waters, and he brushes his fingers across the top of Adachi’s waistband, firms his touch when Adachi gasps.
“Kiyoshi,” he says, hooking his finger beneath the waistband, “can I?”
Adachi nods, and Kurosawa feels full to bursting. They touched the night before, kissed and stroked and held each other through the first tremor, the last aftershock. He’d wanted to put his mouth on Adachi then, to take him in his mouth and taste him on the back of his tongue. He hadn’t asked, wanting only for Adachi to enjoy the moment, afraid of triggering more anxieties.
In the morning light, though, he feels brave. Adachi already is. He shifts on the bed, hands going to his hips to help Kurosawa pull the pants down and off. It leaves him in his underwear, and Kurosawa bends, nuzzles his face against the curve of Adachi’s cock through the cotton. He can smell him--musk and salt--and his mouth waters, his own hardness barely registering.
“Yu--Yuichi.” Adachi’s hand is tentative on his hair. Kurosawa noses at him. Mouths at him. Adachi’s hand grows heavier, fingers curling into his hair, against his scalp. “Yuichi.”
“Can I blow you?” He looks up at him.
Adachi stares. And then he licks his lips and swallows. “You want to?”
Kurosawa stares. He’s above Adachi in a breath, Adachi blinking rapidly at him. “Yes.” Kurosawa kisses him, then again. Again, until Adachi’s melting against the sheets. “I want to do so many things with you, Kiyoshi. Everything. Not just these things. Everything.”
Adachi’s eyes shine when he nods, and Kurosawa kisses him one more time, a slow taking over of his mouth until Adachi is clinging to him.
It’s easy to forget his goal like this, Adachi’s arms around him. Adachi hard against him. Last night they’d come like this, wrapped in one another, bodies pressed tight, and it had been better and more than anything Kurosawa could have imagined.
He wants his mouth on him.
Kurosawa doesn’t take his time. He kisses Adachi, and then he’s back with his hands at Adachi’s hips, fingers hooking in the waistband of his underwear. Adachi nods when he meets his eyes, and Kurosawa wants to remember him just like this; mostly naked in Kurosawa’s bed, kiss-bruised, trusting Kurosawa, wanting him.
Adachi shakes his head. “It’s you who’s amazing,” he says, and Kurosawa can’t help but laugh at the words, joy too big to fit inside him. “Don’t laugh!”
“You make me so happy, I can’t help it.”
Adachi stares for a moment, but then he’s smiling back at him, and his fingers are on Kurosawa’s at his waistband.
And then he’s naked and blushing and Kurosawa wants to touch every inch of him. One day he’ll know what it’s like to kiss the inside of Adachi’s elbow versus the back of his knee, the mole on his neck versus the one on his hip. For now, he settles between Adachi’s thighs, takes the opportunity to kiss one and then the other, to follow it to Adachi’s balls and the base of his cock, the neat patch of hair there. He kisses the base and breathes in, opens his eyes to find Adachi watching him, mouth slick and pink and open.
Neither of them look away. Kurosawa moves his hand, presses another kiss to the shaft. He makes his way to the head like this, their eyes locked, before he fits his mouth over the head and watches Adachi’s mouth form something wordless, soundless, before he closes his eyes and sucks.
Adachi keens. His hand finds Kurosawa’s hair again, and Kurosawa’s heart pounds, it races. Adachi’s cock is in his mouth, precome on his tongue, hand in his hair. The sheets will smell like him. Kurosawa will smell like him. The thought makes him groan, and Adachi’s grip in his hair tightens, Kurosawa’s name slipping out in a stuttering breath.
He pulls off to look at him, turns his head to press a wet kiss to the dip of Adachi’s hip. He’s hyperaware of the shape of his mouth, the space Adachi could be filling. He strokes him once, rubs his thumb across the head. Watches Adachi’s eyelashes flutter, his lips thinning as he presses them together and swallows.
Kurosawa waits patiently, and then he licks up his cock and takes him in again, works him with mouth and hand until Adachi is tight as a bowstring and then between one breath and the next, he lets go. Adachi comes with a bitten off sound that leaves Kurosawa’s torn between disappointment he can’t hear him better and elation even as he swallows. Adachi flushed and breathless, cock softening; this is his doing. This is his privilege.
He mouths at the base of Adachi’s cock, moves to kiss his stomach and sternum. Adachi’s hand in his hair hasn’t moved, but has gone gentle now, and when Kurosawa settles above him, his face is soft, eyes bright. He is beautiful. Kurosawa is in love.
Adachi pulls him in for a kiss. Kurosawa goes eagerly.