Chapter Text
“Man am I tired,” Yokozawa Takafumi let out a long-suffering sigh as he toed off his shoes in the genkan.
Grabbing a beer from the steadily depleting six-pack in his fridge, he made his way to the couch that seemed to beckon to him from the living room. Said furniture groaned under his weight as he abruptly sank down onto it, already glumly contemplating the pack of instant miso soup that would end up constituting his dinner.
It wasn’t that he couldn’t cook; it was a necessary skill he had familiarized himself with while taking care of certain parties intent upon self-destruction; it was just that in his current tired state, even the simple task of making instant soup seemed like an insurmountable barrier. He stretched out his legs, which of late had taken to feeling perpetually cramped.
“I should really start taking better care of myself,” he mumbled to himself as he massaged his aching shoulder. The week had certainly taken its toll on him. The ache in his muscles brought about by previously effortless trips to bookstores around the city was now an uncomfortable reminder of his twenty-eight years.
He should probably make himself a proper dinner, he thought dimly. The bone-deep tiredness that had settled over him, however, seemed to have other ideas as he felt himself sinking deeper, deeper into the softness of the couch cushions…
He awoke to a hand brushing the hair from his forehead.
“W-what the hell-?!”
He jumped up in shock, only to find Kirishima gazing down at him, brow furrowed worriedly.
“What’re you doing here,” he groaned out, sleepiness seeping back in now that the initial shock of Kirishima’s sudden appearance had faded. Even if it was only his lover, though, it seemed impolite to yield to the strong urge to flop back down onto the couch, so Yokozawa settled for sitting down instead.
“I called you to tell you I was coming over. If a certain someone would answer phone calls from their significant other…” the older man said, and the other’s mind instantly flew to his adorable, ten-year-old daughter who never got the time she deserved with her father.
“Hiyo-”
“-Is at my mother’s. Apparently they wanted to make some paper crafts I was debarred from attempting after my first few gallant attempts,” Kirishima chipped in smoothly, before Yokozawa could give him a proper earful.
The younger man snorted. “I could just imagine you fiddling around with those scissors and posing a threat to everyone in the vicinity.”
A faint smile rose, unbidden, to his lips at the picture.
“Oh, come on~ We can’t all be as good with our hands as you~” the editor simpered, making his way over to his lover where he was sitting on the couch and aiming for a hug, which Yokozawa deftly dodged.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he groused. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Kirishima to touch him, but fuck if he was ever letting him know. The guy didn’t need another boost to his already oversized ego.
“Awww~ I come all the way here because I want to see you, and this is the thanks I get?” That damn amused lilt was back in his voice, which invariably meant that he was sharpening his claws to dig into the black-haired man good with his teasing.
“Whatever, just shut up. I’m making dinner,” Yokozawa said, getting up and making his way to the kitchen in hopes to put a speedy end to the teasing that always managed to rile him up, and wincing involuntarily at the answering ache in his muscles.
He froze as a pair of strong arms wrapped snugly around his waist.
“Hey, don’t wear yourself out ~too~ much. Can’t have you breaking down on me before we finally get to the good part.” the taller man said into the fabric of his shirt, the material barely concealing the smile in his voice.
The grey-eyed man twitched, flustered. “W-who the hell said anything about getting to the good part?”
“Why, I did, of course. Are you saying you don’t want to?” Kirishima stood, pressing himself up against Yokozawa.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” the younger man bit out through gritted teeth. ‘Who the hell would want to do anything with you? And let go of me.”
“No can do. I love it when you act like you don’t want it~” his lover said, and he could almost hear the teasing smirk in the chestnut-haired man's voice. “But for now, just be quiet and let me take care of you.”
Without so much as a by your leave, Kirishima pushed him down on the couch. Yokozawa let out an undignified squawk as he tumbled onto the soft cushions.
“H-hey, what’re you-?!”
He barely got the words out before he was being flipped onto his stomach, a pair of strong arms pinning him down. His mind rushed to the first time they had been in this position, when the taller man had pinned him down like this on the morning after Yokozawa had gotten magnificently drunk and ended up forcing his workplace superior to look after his sloshed ass. A hot flush crept up his neck as he recalled the many, many times after that.
He was abruptly jerked back to reality when he felt the older man bracing his knees on either side of his waist and pressing him down flat onto the couch.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he snarled, struggling ineffectually against the other man's hold.
His squirming was brought to an abrupt end when Kirishima dug his fingers into a tense knot of Yokozawa’s back and a reflexive, pleasured grunt escaped him. He immediately buried his face into a cushion in embarrassment, the back of his neck flushing pink.
“Are you serious?” he groaned into the cushion as Kirishima continued to work his magic on his aching back, involuntary noises leaving his throat when he worked on the more tense spots. Damn, the guy was good. The brunet felt a familiar, uncomfortable stirring in his stomach as he wondered just who else Kirishima had to practice upon.
“It’s just a massage, relax.” his lover said, voice as even as ever, until it took on that smug tone, “Or were you expecting something else, Takafumi?”
As he spoke, he simultaneously dug his fingers into the twin tender spots on the shorter man's shoulders, who arched up reflexively with a small cry.
“I’m sure whatever you’re thinking of can be arranged~”
“----!” Yokozawa bit his tongue, flushing a darker red. It’d be rude to bitch out the guy who was literally reducing his tense muscles to putty in his hands. It would just be rising to his bait, too. And even if he’d never admit it, it felt amazing. It was just what he had needed to rid himself of the stress amassed by shouting himself hoarse at meetings, traipsing all around the city and constantly handling sales reports.
His thoughts began to drift, and, almost subconsciously, he felt the question slip past his lips.
“Where’d you learn to do that?”
Shit. He wanted to clamp his hands down over his mouth and grab the question back from where it now hung, palpable, in the air. But Kirishima only laughed.
“Oh, Hiyo gets aches and pains all the time, so of course her Papa is called upon to act as Superman.”
He wanted to deny the undercurrent of relief that swept over him at his lover's explanation, but as it was, he just buried the shameful parts of him deep, and smiled faintly as another part of the older man's reply registered with him. He privately thought that Kirishima’s relationship with his daughter was adorable, and eagerly seized upon any tidbit of information he could get about them.
Before he knew it, his mind began to wander again as his muscles relaxed, completely at the mercy of the other man's deft fingers. A part of him hated feeling this way, completely vulnerable, but it was eclipsed by the part of him that told him that there was nothing shameful about it, it was just a massage.
“Tilt your head up a bit,” a silken voice murmured in his ear. Yokozawa’s body, pliant after the massage, complied bonelessly.
A hand suddenly caught his chin, and before he could blink, soft lips captured his own.
“Mmmmph!” The salesman's body jolted in surprise as Kirishima slid his hand up to the back of his head, entwining his fingers in the dark strands of hair while the other cupped his cheek. His hands slid up to the other's chest in a vain effort to push his away, catch his breath, regain his senses, something, but now he was coaxing Yokozawa’s mouth open with his tongue, deepening the kiss, and the grey-eyed man felt like he was melting. He closed his eyes, his blush now bright red in shame at the effect his lover’s kisses had on him.
All at once, he became conscious of a hand creeping along his chest. He felt the buttons on his shirt being skillfully undone, and the shock finally pushed him to break the kiss and turn over to face Kirishima. When he caught sight of the man's expression, though, Yokozawa averted his gaze, ashamed, from the dark one that was looking at him with such open want as the taller man unabashedly worked his way through the buttons still holding his partner's shirt closed. Even as the younger man scrambled for words, a reprimand, though, he couldn't help but feel an inkling of pride that the other man looked as affected as he felt, hair mussed, cheeks pink.
“D-don’t just spring things like that on people, damn it!”
Kirishima ignored his ineffectual chastisement, looking at him with the same intense, steady gaze until he was forced to return it.
“I was worried about you, you know. When you didn’t answer your door. So I just let myself in.”
The ink-haired man looked away, discomfited, his blush darkening by the second. He knew he should just accept the sentiment graciously, but he just couldn’t rein in his reactions when it came to the brown-eyed man.
“Yeah, yeah, it’s not like I could have died or anything,” he muttered, suddenly feeling guilty for having made his lover worry. He was annoying, and presumptuous, and hugely self-satisfied, but Yokozawa knew he genuinely cared.
Any beatific emotion he might have felt was instantly erased when Kirishima’s thumb teasingly brushed over his now exposed nipple, making it harden instantly.
“H-hey, where do you think you’re touching?”
“Just exacting payment for my services~” the editor said, thumbing over the other one too, causing a muted shiver to course down the younger’s spine.
“Just shut up…” he ground out, embarrassed beyond measure by his partner's brazen antics.
“Is that your way of telling me to get on with it?” the taller man smirked, leaning forward to mouth at Yokozawa’s collarbone, and really, Yokozawa had had enough of being played with.
He surged forward, annoyance at Kirishima’s antics mingling with the desire to shut him up, leave him speechless, animating his hands in a burst of courage as he tugged open the button on Kirishima’s pants and pulled down his fly.
The teasing smirk on the older man's face morphed into something more desirous, darker, as he pulled the grey-eyed man back in for another searing kiss, hands wandering…
“I sit there every time I come over, you know.”
Yokozawa yanked his hands away from Kirishima as if he’d been burned. He knew that voice. And there was only one other person who had a spare key to his apartment.
Sure enough, as he hastily fixed up his clothing, he dared cast a glance up at his guest. None other than Masamune now stood in the genkan, his customary bored expression in place, except for the half-smirk the salesman could see building at the corner of his mouth.
His face and ears felt like they were on fire. Seriously, had neither of them heard the door open?
“What the fuck are you doing here?!” he barely managed to spit out as he forced himself to meet the gaze he could feel burning into him.
“Meeting a friend,’ he holds up the convenience store bag, presumably full of Chuu’hi and beer, “But you seem to have occupied yourself… otherwise.”
The dark-haired man spluttered, torn between an insane urge to lock himself in his bedroom forever and summarily kick Masamune out of his house.
“Your assumption would be correct,” his lover said out of the blue, and fuck, Yokozawa had forgotten that he existed.
But there he was, reclining gracefully on the couch with his legs crossed. He hadn’t bothered to do his fly back up. His voice was still light, conversational, but now had a steely undercurrent that Yokozawa, along with Kirishima’s subordinates, had learned to be wary of. “So if you would kindly leave us to it…”
If there was a limit to how acutely embarrassed it was possible to be, then Yokozawa was sure he’d discover it today.
Masamune snorted.
“With pleasure. Trust me, I’ve seen it all before, and there’s not much to anticipate.”
If Yokozawa hadn’t been attuned to his partner’s little idiosyncrasies, he might have missed the way his grasp tightened on the arm of the couch.
Masamune threw his friend a final glance. “We’re meeting up for drinks. Very soon.”
“Whatever, just get out,” the addressee grit out. The brown-haired man turned, briefly raising his arm in farewell as he left.
He swore he could hear him laughing his ass off in the hallway.