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Sento hovers in the doorway of their shared room, adjusting to the feel of Ryuuga’s flannel against his otherwise bare skin. The texture is rougher than he’s used to, in contrast to the cotton he favours, but it’s softer than he’d anticipated, and the shirt hangs loosely on his frame in the same way many of his clothes do. It’s not as warm as he was hoping, swiped too late to retain any of Ryuuga’s body heat, but it still smells overwhelmingly like his partner.
He’s still debating on whether he wants to keep it on or not when he hears the mattress shift, followed by the small noise that means Ryuuga’s awake, albeit disorientated.
“Oh,” Ryuuga murmurs. “Are you--?”
Sento steps into the room, illuminated by the dim light from their bedside lamp. He purposefully isn’t looking at Ryuuga, his eyes fixated on the wall above him. He’s gripping the sleeves of the shirt in his fists when he hears his partner’s intake of breath, massaging the material between his fingers.
“Wow.”
His experiment was a success, then.
Sento tilts his head to the side, blinking up at Ryuuga through his eyelashes, pretending to be demure and shy.
“C’me here,” Ryuuga rumbles, his voice gravelly with sleep. He pulls back the cover and pats the bed next to him.
Sento doesn't need the invitation, but it's nice to have anyway. He crawls in next to Ryuuga, settling his body down into the residual warmth his partner's left behind. Between that, the shirt, and the heat of his body next to him, Sento feels enveloped in Ryuuga, safe and secure in a way few other things make him feel.
Ryuuga readjusts the duvet around them both, and Sento resists the urge to tuck himself against his chest. He settles for watching the muscles in Ryuuga's arm instead, his eyes still focused on it when he feels Ryuuga's gaze settle on him again.
“You look good,” Ryuuga murmurs, low enough to pass between them, and Sento isn't a physician or a biologist, but he finds himself listing the arm muscles in his head: biceps brachii , brachialis, coracobrachialis.
“Ah, such a meathead jock,” Sento drawls, eyes drifting from Ryuuga's shoulder to his face. His lips twist into a smirk, unable to stop himself, but Ryuuga splutters anyway, taking the bait.
“What's that supposed to mean?” Ryuuga asks, puffing his chest out.
Sento meets his eyes briefly. “It gets you hot that I'm wearing your shirt.”
Ryuuga rolls onto his back, whuffing out something between a laugh and a sigh, throwing an arm over his face. “You're impossible.”
“If only it were your actual jacket, hmm?”
Ryuuga lifts the arm up to peer at him. “You'd look cute.”
“I'm always cute,” Sento replies, poking out his tongue. “And handsome and smart and brave.”
Ryuuga rolls over to face him again, his hand resting in the small space between them on the bed. “So modest too.”
“Of course.”
Ryuuga strokes his fingers along Sento's thighs, climbing gently from mattress to leg to hip. Sento stares at the curve of his neck, counting his breaths in his head.
“Is this okay?” Ryuuga asks, his fingers skimming the hem of the shirt Sento's wearing, brushing against the skin.
Sento's eyes flutter closed for a moment and he nods. “If it wasn't, you'd know.” He opens his eyes again to meet Ryuuga’s. “You don't have to ask every time.”
“I know,” Ryuuga replies, “but I like to.” He rubs his thumb against the curve of Sento's hip, following as it slopes into his waist. “It’s good to check, just in case.”
Sento breathes out through his nose as he shuts his eyes again, concentrating on the way Ryuuga’s brushing his hand up and down his side, stroking it like he’s some sort of animal. “When have I ever not told you when I don’t want to be touched?”
Ryuuga makes a noise that Sento recognises as a laugh, hidden in an exhale, and feels him move closer, tipping their heads together. They lie like that for one, two, three breaths, Ryuuga’s hand moving lazily under his shirt, acclimatising to one another’s presence.
“You look so pretty,” Ryuuga murmurs, pressing his lips to the bridge of Sento’s nose. He scrunches it in response. “Even when you do that.”
Sento peeks up at him: Ryuuga is close and happy, a fond and amused smile spread across his face in equal measure; Sento's heart skips in response.
He tilts his head up, their noses brushing, and leans in--and nips the end of Ryuuga's nose. It's gentle, but his partner yelps, the noise mutating into half a laugh.
“What was that for?” Ryuuga asks, rubbing at it with his free hand.
“You know,” Sento says. “Insubordination.”
“Insubor--” Ryuuga repeats, using his hand and weight to roll Sento on his back, pressing one leg between his. “I'm insubordinate, am I?”
He brushes their noses together in an imitation of Sento, but he presses a kiss to the tip of it instead--and then, with enough hesitation to give him a chance to decline, presses a kiss to his lips instead. It's more chaste than their position would normally allow for, but Sento brings his arms up, one hand resting on his shoulder and the other snaking into his hair. He frowns when his fingers bump against the small braids still plaited into Ryuuga’s hair, distracted by their presence.
“What?” Ryuuga asks, when he breaks the kiss; there’s a note of concern in his voice. “You--oh.” He wiggles his head. “Give me a hand?”
Sento narrows his eyes at him, but Ryuuga doesn’t seem perturbed; instead, he goes still, holding his head in place so Sento can unpick the braids with one hand, his fingers making quick, deft work of the problem. “Were you so tired from your long, hard day of flexing that you forgot to take them out?”
Ryuuga splutters again, the response almost automatic. He slides his hand up Sento’s hip to prod at his side; Sento snickers, biting his bottom lip to keep from giggling, as he jerks his body away from the poking fingers.
“I was waiting for somebody to come to bed,” Ryuuga says, giving him another prod. “Took you long enough.”
“Oh, so it’s my fault?” Sento asks. He keeps his face as neutral as he can, waiting for Ryuuga’s playful expression to falter; when it does, he laughs and scrunches his nose again, leaning up to kiss him again.
“Sento,” Ryuuga whines, sounding more offended than Sento knows he is. He flops down on top of him, resting his head on his chest and looking up at him with pathetic, puppy-like eyes. Sento rolls his in response, but buries both his hands in Ryuuga’s hair, scritching at his scalp.
“I was working on something,” he says, letting one arm drop free. “It took longer than I thought.”
“Oh.” He rolls off of Sento, pulling his hand free from under his shirt, and stops to lie on his side next to him. “Did you finish it?”
Sento rolls onto his side too, facing him, his hand resting on his partner’s wrist. “Yeah,” he says. “I think I did.”
Ryuuga looks puzzled. “You think you did?”
“It might require further testing.” Sento tugs at Ryuuga’s arm, encouraging him to put his hand on his waist again. “But that can wait until morning, don’t you think?”
“I… guess?” Ryuuga still looks puzzled. “You’re not going to experiment on me again, are you?”
Sento grins, mischievously. “Well, I suppose that’s one way of putting it.”