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The stupid community pottery classes were supposed to be a convenient excuse to avoid the weekly after-work drinks that Ninomiya couldn’t really afford on his newcomer’s salary. It gave him a way to politely decline the social expectation without leaving a poor impression of himself so soon after being hired as a junior researcher for the small regional broadcaster. He had moved for this job, uprooted his life – and emptied his bank account – to make this happen, even when people said he was too old now to be chasing a young man’s dreams.
He was only in his thirties, but as he woke each morning with too little sleep and discovered too many new aches, he began to worry that people might have had a point. He’d always wanted to work in Production, but his family and their financial situation made it necessary for him to enter the workforce straight out of high school. Once he’d started going from casual job to casual job, it was a difficult cycle to change; it made him undesirable to potential permanent employers and completely precluded any thoughts of going back to school or taking unpaid internships in his desired field.
Nino had made his peace with his lot in life, even after he moved out of the family home in his twenties, he wasn’t bitter or regretful; he just got on with it.
Then out of the blue, he received a letter inviting him to interview as a junior researcher for a tiny station he had to look-up online. He ignored it as a scam for more than a full day before he ran into a friend at the dentist who mentioned that he’d remembered how Nino had wanted to work in TV and had recommended Nino to an acquaintance. And, by the way, had Nino heard back from them yet?
He didn’t even care that he would never hear the end of it from the other man, Nino took the chance as soon as he got home. Sure, he owed much to Aiba Masaki’s incredible luck and his uncommon loyalty to his friends, but Nino had got through the interview process on his own terms; by his own merit.
It wasn’t everything he’d ever dreamt of. Not yet. He was too new, too far from his goal – which was pretty fuzzy at this point anyway. But it was at least the right general area.
Dream adjacent, Masaki called it.
But the wages were low, the work hard when it wasn’t monotonous, and the hours long. Pretty standard for the youngsters usually employed in his position: still living at home, being treated by more seasoned staff because they remind Eiji-from-accounting of his grandchild. Nino isn’t cute anymore, not like that, and he’s still trying to get a feel for the personnel politics of his new workplace.
And maybe it would help, if he went more often to the weekly staff piss-up, but he can barely scrape together rent, and trying to match his bosses drink-for-drink would have left him sitting in the dark going hungry more than he already does.
Finding the evening pottery group had been a lifeline. It was local, so he got to meet some of his neighbours – mostly homemakers and retired couples – who were welcoming and quick to invite him over for a home-cooked meal or to leave Tupperware full of baked goods in his mail slot. It got him out of the house for two evenings a week, which saved on utilities a fraction. Best of all, the class itself was free except for the cost of ‘materials’, so if Nino kept working the same lump of clay over and over, never firing a single piece, it paid for itself in the unused electricity at home after a fortnight.
He told colleagues that it was a new hobby, and that he’d made a commitment to the class, which was enough to pacify most of those who wondered why he rarely came along on the Wednesday night bender. If some teased and wondered loudly if some bored housewife had caught Ninomiya’s eye, well, Nino assured them that none of the neighbourhood ladies would look in his direction when they were all falling over themselves for the instructor. His work-mates would laugh and offer their congenial condolences, and Nino would laugh right along with them.
It wasn’t a lie; Nino knows how closely some of the unattached attendees follow the teacher with their eyes (The married folk, it seemed, were heart-warmingly loyal). He knows because he does it too.
It was only supposed to be an excuse. Then he told himself it was worth it for the free meals and the kind hospitality of his neighbours. And once he used it as an excuse, he couldn’t not attend. Sakurai was one of the senior staff that Nino has fallen in with quickly, but he was a stickler for meeting societal and workplace obligations. He was also big on keeping prior commitments, and it just so happened that his mother also took the same Wednesday class. Nino got the distinct impression that Mom Sakurai would report his absence to her son.
That little line of self denial lasted until the first time he went to the Sunday night class, blowing off the chance to sit at home and do nothing in favour of walking half a block to the community centre because he’d been thinking about Ohno Satoshi’s hands since the previous Wednesday and couldn’t wait for the next.
Maybe it was a little pathetic, for a man in his thirties to crush on a kind-of teacher, but it was also interesting. And maybe he needed to make his own entertainment, he thought, when the jar on his sill rang hollow and empty with the few 5 yen coins he had freshly amassed in the months since moving. And Ohno was certainly entertaining – quietly fascinating in a way that was more than just his looks.
There’s a way about Ohno that makes it clear he isn’t comfortable addressing the class, but once his hands begin moving over the clay, once he can talk through it, he is life and focus and humble talent all rolled into one. He’s kind and encouraging, but he doesn’t pander; when Nino noted that his attempt at a rice bowl (that he didn’t intend to finish anyway) looked like one half of a coconut bra, Ohno had doubled over. For the rest of the lesson, every time he looked in Nino’s direction, at the abomination of a bowl, Ohno had had to stifle a fresh giggle, clutching his side and complaining that it hurt.
It’s not all lewd comments and longing looks though. Ninomiya talks to Ohno a lot. The teacher doesn’t volunteer much information about himself, but he answers any question the class puts to him, and by week eight, Nino knows an awful lot of esoteric facts about Ohno Satoshi, and a few of the basics.
He’s older than Nino, only by a few years, and Nino doesn’t know whether to be surprised or not because Ohno’s round face and soft pink lips make him look younger, but sometimes he furrows his brow or twists his expression in thought and the lines on his face make him look like a little old man. He’s built small like Nino too, though Ohno is stronger than he lets on: he arrives to every class with about 20kg of raw clay in the duffle bag over his shoulder but he totes it into the room like it contains only spare gym clothes.
Does Ohno even go to the gym? Or is carrying around 20kg of weight wherever he goes exercise enough? Nino adds these questions to the growing list he keeps inside his head to ask Ohno about later. It joins others such as: Why does Ohno use a fish motif whenever he is demonstrating design? What shampoo does he use that the scent of cotton overcomes the earthy smell of clay?
On the Sunday, he arrives at the community centre ten minutes early. Nino took a page out of Ohno’s book and started wearing the same outfit to each class after he’d spent hours cleaning the grit out of the filters of his washing machine at the end of the first lesson, he’s in a muddy pair of joggers and an old t-shirt so pulled and threadbare three different classmates have threatened to supply him with bags of their husbands/sons/grandchildren’s old clothes so that he could properly dress himself.
Ohno is in an obscure band t-shirt and a pair of old blue jeans. They have clearly been worn and washed for years as Ohno’s working clothes, and Nino admires the fit of them as Ohno digs through his bag to get the clay out ready for class. There is a very distinct handprint just a little off centre on the right rear pocket, where Ohno had forgotten to wipe his hands on his apron recently, and Nino has never been so jealous of wet dirt. It almost makes Nino wish he’d put a bit more care into picking the outfit he wore every time they met. Almost.
“Oh Nino, you’re early today?” it was said like a question; much of what Ohno said came out that way, quietly mumbled like he couldn’t quite trust what his eyes saw and wanted to check with somebody else. Ironic really, for someone with such an artistic eye. Or maybe not. Maybe Ohno really did see the world with the colour and embellishments -- the intricate details -- that he drew and sculpted, and it was mundane reality that he was unsure of.
“We both know you give out all the best clay at the start of the lesson and I just wanted to snag the good stuff today.” He grinned, he’s learned that Ohno doesn’t mind his absurd humour, he’s even started playing along, much to the collective amusement of the class.
“You’re not going to actually finish anything anyway, right? Why does it matter?”
Nino is a little surprised that Ohno has caught on to his thrifty clay usage, but Nino isn’t embarrassed by his frugality. “It’s all part of my plan to get my hands on all of your clay.”
“What will you be working on today?” He asks, measuring out Nino’s clay from the block on his desk.
“I don’t know. What does Sensei recommend?”
The teacher ignores Nino’s irreverent tone to consider carefully. “A sake cup.” He answers at length, just as the first group of locals arrive for class.
“Just one?” Nino chuckles. “That wouldn’t use very much clay at all.” Suddenly he rather likes the idea.
“That’s the point though, isn’t it?” Ohno observes. “And at least it’ll give me something to judge your technique by; I’m supposed to be teaching you, you know.”
There’s a burst of noise from the new arrivals to the room. Echizen-san is a retired grandmother of eight with a shock of pure white hair and a wicked tongue. “I think Kazu-kun wants a bit of private tuition, sensei.”
Matsushima is her best friend, and Ninomiya’s direct neighbour to his left. “You’d better make it two cups kiddo.” She adds from across the room, “Or you won’t be able to offer sensei a drink back at your bachelor pad.”
Nino doesn’t mind the friendly teasing, but he is keenly aware of how uncomfortable Ohno becomes at the exchange. “Enough of that ladies.” he chides the older women fondly. Ohno has his eyes fixed on the bag in front of him, head bent, his expression is hidden by the angle and the sweeping fall of his styled black hair. There’s a blush creeping up Ohno’s neck though, Nino can see it. “You might bully me right out of this class.”
Their hands touch as Ohno presses the raw clay into Nino’s palms, and Nino tries to offer a reassuring eye-roll, but Ohno doesn’t lift his head any further than his wrists until Nino has retreated back to one of the pottery wheels. He picks one closer to the back of the room than normal, giving the embarrassed instructor some extra space.
It is the first time Nino has sat down with the intention of completing something in Ohno’s class, and as a result, he spends less time making conversation or people watching; his attention given completely to the cup taking shape at his fingers. It’s a small, imperfect object, yet it takes Nino the whole two hours to finish, and he is the last to move his project to the shelf, ready to be fired later.
Ohno is cleaning up, moving from task to task like he can’t quite decide what to put away first even though he must have done this hundreds of times before. Nino has never stayed after everyone else before, but he’s feeling rather accomplished and proud of his sake cup, and there is a part of him that is waiting for Ohno to say something about it; to acknowledge the feat. Ohno-sensei had been the one who said he intended to judge Nino’s work after all, yet the teacher had barely spoken to Nino all evening.
Nino lingers, watching Ohno to see how best to help for a moment, before grabbing a washcloth to wipe down the tables.
“Ah, you don’t have to-”
“I know.” Nino interrupts his protest with his best I’m-Just-That-Awesome smirk. “Did you see? I finished my cup.”
“I saw.” Ohno glances over at the piece, talking to it rather than Nino himself. “Just in time to learn the glazing part before our last lesson next week.”
“Ye-Wait. What?”
“The course is nearly over Ninomiya-kun.” Ohno looks at him, and maybe it’s just Nino’s imagination, but he does look a little sad. “There’s only Wednesday and next Sunday left. Well, Sunday doesn’t really count, as it’s supposed to be an exhibit of everyone’s work for the last quarter.”
“Oh, so it’s just done for this quarter then? They’ll be a new course starting up?” He’s trying not to sound desperate or hopeful or desperately hopeful and he’s sure he’s failing.
Ohno dashes his hopes pretty quickly though. “Yes, but not here. Matsumoto-san is the planning coordinator for community outreach programs like this in Mikata, and I just go where he sends me.”
“Huh. I guess I’m just going to have to commute to your lessons after this week then. Or I won’t get any value out of that clay I paid for, and I do kind of want to make a matching pair for that cup, now that I know I am clearly a natural genius at it.”
“You have very talented hands.” Ohno-sensei agrees solemnly, and it takes every ounce of willpower Nino has not to make some crude joke in the moment. “But funding for the program is based off the address of the students; you wouldn’t be able to sign up for another course without paying for it.”
It’s not just the idea of paying his way that twists Nino’s features into a frown, nor the thought that he might have to find another way to get out of enforced socialising at work. Hell, if it was just about that Nino has been twice as social since starting the class and it’s entirely because Ohno is good company.
Nino doesn’t say anything, and for the first time, Ohno seems uncomfortable with silence. “If you really want a second cup though… I could… I mean, you do have a lot of clay left over, so if you like…”
Ohno rambles, talking slowly and full of uncertainty, but he doesn’t sound nervous, not in the same way that Nino does, with his heart thumping in his ears as the teacher takes an unconscious step closer like he’s searching for the words and he’ll find them in Nino’s orbit.
“Ah, I don’t own this equipment, but I could lend you my pottery wheel sometime. Anytime.”
“Really?” He’s only skeptical because he’s not sure if Ohno thinks Nino is just so into pottery now and he’s trying to nurture Nino’s talent, or if -- like Nino -- Ohno is looking for a way to see the other man again. He hopes it’s the latter though.
“Yeah.” Ohno nods. He wanders away a little to continue cleaning away the supplies he brought with him, but he says on the topic. “I could give you my number, and you could just let me know whenever you wanted to use it. Or I can leave it with you for a while. Most of my own claywork are sculptures anyway; I don’t use the wheel very often….”
Not exactly what Nino was hoping to hear, but he’ll take it. “Thanks for the offer Ohno-sensei.” He hands his phone over to the teacher before the man has a chance to change him mind.The other man still has to lock down the building, though he unexpectedly walks Nino to the entrance. “I’ll call you when I’m free to start working on the match. Of the cup, I mean.”
“Right. I’m pretty free when I’m not running a class, so, you know… just let me know if you do want any… uh, private tuition.”
The heavy door is yanked shut before Nino fully processes what was said, and his jaw falls slack with the rush of ideas Ohno’s parting words put in his head.
It’s a short trip home, and Nino spends much of the night staring at the newest contact in his phone.
Ohno hadn’t saved his number in Nino’s phone, instead he’d placed a brief call to himself, leaving it to Nino to secure the information. He listed the man under the moniker of Oh-chan, just because he could. Then he typed up a quick message. It was late, but there was a new burning question he had to ask.
‘Sensei, do you offer private lessons to a lot of your students? Do you charge a day rate, or is it hourly?’
He adds a winking emoji, just so Ohno will know he is joking and waits over an hour without a response before he gives up and goes to bed.
Monday comes, and with it, the knowledge that Ohno Satoshi has written a response at nearly three in the morning. It wasn’t much of a reply really, just the word ‘NONE’ in all caps. It doesn’t really lend itself to furthering a conversation, and Nino figures Ohno is just as quiet through text as he is aurally.
He decides to strike while the iron is hot, borrowing from the philosophy of a different craft, and writes to ask if Ohno is free tonight. He’s been doing some research, and the cups will pair better, he explains, if he glazes them together. It’s true enough. It’s also true that Nino wants to see Ohno alone, wants to know if there is more to the way Ohno watches him sometimes, like he’s mapping Nino’s shape to mould later.
With the classes soon to end, he can’t help but feel rushed. He’s been enjoying the scenery in the class so leisurely, taking his time to bask in the gentle thrill of getting to know someone and slowly developing an interest in them as a person. He’d flirted a little, though he’s not sure if Ohno played along out of interest or indulgence yet, but he intends to find out.
This time, Ohno’s answer takes only moments to arrive: ‘Tonight’s good. Your place? Or mine?’
Ohno knows where he lives because Matsushima had included Ohno-sensei in all her after class invitations to try her home cooking, and Ohno had even accepted a couple of times, but Nino hasn’t invited anyone inside his own place since he moved in.
Nino thinks about his tiny apartment -- the only place he could get the Key Money together for at such short notice -- and the boxes stacked three high in some places because there was no way the contents of his previous place would ever fit inside the much smaller space. He remembers the near empty fridge and the haphazard piles of research materials for work that litter what little space is left.
Weighed against the requirement to bring a token gift to wherever Ohno lives, the decision is an easy one.
‘Send me your address’ Nino replies.
He speeds through the rest of the day on a wave of productivity that is borne of not wanting to leave anything undone in his pursuit of leaving the office on time. Technically, Ohno’s address is in Chofu, but he’s closer to Mitaka City Hall than Nino, and the drive over is brief, even against traffic. He doesn’t waste time going home and changing, though; he is willing to risk his suit for an extra hour under Ohno’s care.
Nino is immensely gratified when Ohno opens the door to him, and noticeably drags his eyes over what he is wearing. Until he spoke. “You’re going to work in that?”
Nino isn’t the self conscious type, and Ohno has never seemed judgemental, but the irritated tone caught him off guard. “I brought cream pastries.” Nino says, because he can think of nothing else, handing over the modest box he’d picked up from Toho Bakery on the way over.
Inside Ohno’s apartment there is a starling amount of visible space. Probably because of a startling lack of furniture in the main living area. There are dust sheets over much of the floor, an easel set up near a large window, with canvases in various states of completion stacked nearby. The entirety of one wall is taken by a metal shelving unit that is full of sculptures, models, pottery and other curios Nino cannot begin to identify.
It’s set up like an atelier, and in the centre of the room, Ohno has set up a pottery wheel in front of a solitary stool. Ninomiya feels his mouth go dry suddenly, reminded of some Hollywood movie he barely remembers the plot of. Was it Spirit? Spectre? Something like that anyway. Or maybe it was a porno because all he really remembers is that it got pretty dirty in more way than one when the two leads sat at a potters wheel together.
He has no plans for reenacting any such event this evening, but the image it inspires behind his eyes is a pleasing one.
Ohno doesn’t feel the need to make small-talk for the sake of small-talk, and after offering Nino a drink, he gets right down to the matter at hand. Or the matter in his hands, Nino amends mentally later, when Ohno has him kneading the clay on a kitchen countertop that had seen better days.
It’s actually pretty labour intensive; Nino never realised how much work Ohno did before each lesson making sure the clay is ready to use, and he works up a sweat quickly. Ohno had lent him an apron, and Nino had rolled up his shirtsleeves past his elbows and undone the button on the collar, but the large movements required of him pull on the loosened tie, trapped awkwardly under the apron.
“Uh… Ohno-sensei? Can you help me out here?” He asks. So far, Ohno hasn’t done much more than explain what he expects Nino to do, and then watch him do it. Mostly he just comments that Ninomiya has a good grasp of the technique.
But at the first call for aid, Ohno is alert. “What do you need?” He is immediate, his focus sharp on Nino, poised to spring into action.
“My tie is in the way, but my hands….” He takes them off the clay for a moment. It’s not wet yet, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t handling what is essentially a ball of dirt, and it seems so unproductive to stop and wash his hands just to move a thin strip of silk when there’s an extra set of hands sitting across of him.
“Want me to move it out of the way?” Ohno is already moving around the counter, fingers ready to pull the cloth free.
Nino shrugs. “Just take it off.” He suggests. That way, he won’t have to worry about it coming free later, he thinks.
He didn’t really consider how oddly intimate it might feel, with Ohno so close, slowly, nimbly working free the knot of his tie all the way. Nino swallows, holding his hands stiffly away from them both. Then Ohno is sliding the tie out from under his collar, the sound of silk gliding over cotton conjuring very specific sensory images that Nino tramps down until Ohno meets his gaze then.
His eyes are dark, his tongue peeks out one corner of his mouth to smooth over where his teeth had worried over his lip a second before and Nino can’t help himself from mirroring the action.
Ohno notices, Nino can tell by the way his eyes narrow at the sight and Ohno’s fingers curl tighter around the fabric in his hands.
He clears his throat gently. “Thanks.” Nino pulls back just a little.
“Sorry.” Ohno ducks away with his apology, neatly folding the tie and placing himself back at the other side of the counter.
“Don’t be.” Nino is emphatic. “It’s OK. Really. It’s just…I- I’ve kind of got my hands full right now.”
Ohno just nods, not meeting his eyes and pronounces the clay fully worked and ready to use pretty soon after.
He’s quicker this time, getting the shape right, but he can tell the older man is uneasy and Nino hates that he’s made Ohno feel that way. He’d come looking for some clarity, and it seems he’d found it: Even if the instructor is interested in him, he’s not comfortable about it.
Nino might be cheap, he might be a bit of a recluse, but he isn’t interested in being anyone’s dirty little secret.
He’s almost relieved when he’s finished, and Ohno has taken the piece to dry a little before firing. The long summer evening hasn’t even grown dark when Nino is washing his hands, suddenly eager to leave.
Ohno does try to play a good host though. “Do you want to watch a movie or something?”
Nino is confused, and not just because the suggestion came when Nino is shrugging back into his jacket, getting ready to leave. “Do you even have a TV, Ohno-sensei?” All he can see around the room are various art supplies and paraphernalia.
“It’s upstairs.” Ohno is looking at him like this was the single strangest question he’s ever been asked. “In the living room.”
“Oh-chan, this is an apartment block. Upstairs is a whole ‘nother address.”
“I know, I had stairs put in when I bought this place for my studio.”
No wonder he didn’t have any real furniture here, when he basically lived somewhere else. Nino couldn’t imagine having a second home that was a glorified storage space, but it certainly made him re-evaluate his starving artist impression of the teacher. Just how exactly did Ohno afford something like that? He doesn’t ask; he adds it to the list of questions for later that he realises he’ll probably never ask now and he shakes his head.
“I have a lot of work to get through.” He says by way of goodbye. “But thanks for letting me come over to finish the cup.”
He leaves.
And when Ohno messages him later, asking if he got home alright, Nino reads it, but he doesn’t reply.
The classes are nearly over, and Nino can’t really afford to pursue anything serious anyway, he tells himself. He’ll be able to put this fleeting crush behind him quickly and get on with finding something else to fill his Wednesdays until he earns a promotion or a pay rise that will allow him to network better at work.
On the morning of the last class before the exhibit, Nino is debating whether he should go at all; not because he is avoiding the teacher, but because his line manager had been particularly keen for Nino to attend the drinking party - his treat, even. It would not have been the only time Nino skipped out on the pottery class, Nino did go when he could afford to; it just so happened that that was usually only when payday fell on a Wednesday.
He was conflicted, but Nino will never really know what he would have decided to do, because Sakurai Sho picked that moment to arrive in the bullpitt of researchers cubicles and turn down the offer on his behalf.
“You can talk to Nino about taking lead researcher on the Kichijoji Hospital scandal tomorrow, Sakamoto-san.” Sakurai clapped the manager on the back, offering Nino a conspiratorial wink that he hid from the other man as he steered him away from Nino’s desk. “You know he’s busy with my mother on Wednesday nights.”
The joke made him smile for the rest of the day, and when he arrived at the community centre and saw Sho’s mother he burst out laughing and spent much of his time talking with her and learning just where her son got his sense of humour.
Ohno made his way through the crowd then. “Ninomiya-kun? I have something of yours-”
“Oh, my cup, right?” Nino’s breezy tone is deliberately the inverse of Ohno’s uncertain, nervous mumble. Nino would have found it endearing a week ago, but it’s frustrating now. What’s the point, he thinks, in teasing the man until he’s edgy, if Ohno doesn’t actually enjoy it? If it ends up making him dislike himself?
With it being the last day, the room is much more frenetic than usual though, and Nino glazes his cups quickly, leaving himself with little to do for the rest of the lesson. For the first time in months, Nino left early.
Once again, he woke up to a 3AM text from Ohno. ‘The exhibit on Sunday is all day. Will you drop by earlier, or at the regular lesson time?’
‘I probably won’t be able to make it.’ He replies at lunchtime, just after emerging from Sakamoto’s office with a file of work so crucial, it had the potential to make or break his career. Nino isn’t trying to be rude though, so he sends another message soon after: ‘Some work came up. Thanks for being a great teacher: I learned a lot.’
He’d barely put his phone down when it rang briefly, the kind of half ring of someone who changed their mind after hitting call. The message followed just minutes after the aborted call. Ohno wanted to know if Nino wanted him to drop off his sake cups after exhibit.
‘Don’t worry about it, I’ll ask Matsushima-san to collect them.’
He didn’t look at his phone again for the rest of the day, but Ohno didn’t say anything else either.
On Sunday, he spent much of the day so focused on checking details about the finer points of Kichijoji Hospital administration, that he hardly noticed the day passing at all. When he heard a knock at his door he assumed it was his neighbour, only to find Ohno on the other side.
“I brought your things.” Ohno thrust a small plastic bag at him. “It’s your sake cups.” He explained needlessly, a firm edge to his voice as he adds: “And your tie.”
Nino is lost for words. He nods, takes the bag and steps out of the doorway to put it aside. He didn’t mean it as an invitation for Ohno to enter, but it must have seemed that way, and he doesn’t protest when the older man is crowding his porch, taking off his shoes.
“Uh, Ohno-sensei, you didn’t have to-”
“I know.” There’s something altogether more sure about him and Nino can’t help but stare. Ohno notices too and he smirks. “With this, you have officially completed the course.”
“Uh… OK?”
“And I am no longer your teacher. You can drop the Sensei.”
Nino’s heart races. Is that it? Is that what was holding Ohno back before? Not some internalised self-loathing but some weird teacher-student taboo? It was a community centre evening course, not a High School art class, but then, Ohno had proven often that is outlook just slightly skewed. “What… What would you prefer, Ohno-sensei?”
He’s grinning like an idiot, he knows it, but he can’t bring himself to care; Ohno is smiling too, standing nearly as close as the time he removed Nino’s tie and looking incredibly pleased by that.
“You called me Oh-chan that other night. I liked that.”
There’s a gleam in Ohno’s eyes that Nino hasn’t seen before. It’s speculative and self-satisfied, like he knows how his cocksure grin makes Nino melt a little inside. He steps into Ohno’s space fully, reaching around to close the door at the older mans back, but not moving away when the task is complete.
“OK, Oh-chan, I can do that.” He says slowly. “Anything else you liked about the other night?”
“Something I would have liked.” Ohno clarified as his right hand winds around Nino’s shoulders and holds him steady as Ohno pressed his lips to Nino’s mouth. If Ohno is blushing or nervous at all, Nino can’t tell because his own face is flushed and hot by the way Ohno presses against him.
His hands, which had so fascinated Nino, danced patterns over his skin, brushed softly through his hair and held him firm when Ohno pushed harder, rocking against Nino’s body and slipping his tongue passed Nino’s gasping lips. And if Ohno is quiet in most things, kissing is not one of them; needy happy groans vibrate across Nino’s skin, and Ohno moans a little like Nino’s is the most delicious dessert he’s ever tasted.
Nino pulls away breathless, resting brow to brow as he gulps in much needed air. “Oh, yeah…” He pants. “I can definitely do more of that.”
And he does.