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Kenma’s apartment is small, crowded and noisy, but Shouyou loves it all. He loves the sound of a summer shower pattering on the metal plates of the windowsill, the scent of freshly brewed coffee. He likes the crooked light of the bent floor lamp, the shadow of dusty bookshelves cast over the bed. He likes the dent in the mattress, shaped just right for him to fit in, cradling Kenma in his arms.
Shouyou listens to the purr of Kenma’s computer that only ever sleeps but is never turned off, its gentle sound melting into the whispering of raindrops. As Shouyou snuggles closer, ear against Kenma’s back, he hears the soft rumble of Kenma’s heart. It echoes the rhythm of their wristwatches ticking in tandem and resonates in his own chest.
He breathes in the scent of Kenma, a mixture of bitter coffee, sweet shampoo and sour sweat, as long, black hair tickles his nose.
He delights in the feel of fingertips stroking along his bare forearm, raising hair wherever they pass. He loves the soft, ever soft hum of Kenma’s song, as Kenma turns over to face him.
He is not bothered by their stale breath, as his brain goes into an overdrive from being so close that he can feel Kenma’s lips brush against his neck when he whispers.
“Will you do the dishes?” Kenma asks, lips trailing down from Shouyou’s neck to his collarbone.
Shouyou lets out a sigh, resigned, lids closing in harmony with Kenma’s lips sealing his skin with a raspberry kiss.
“So be it,” he murmurs, voice heavy with sleep, reaching out and pulling Kenma on top of him.
The murmur of traffic outside grows and grows with each heartbeat, each tick of a watch, each raindrop landing on the windowsill. Shouyou likes it, to be drowned in the noise, dulling out his senses until all he feels is Kenma’s weight lying on top of him.
“Though,” he opens his eyes abruptly, causing Kenma to jump, “I did the dishes last time.”
“Did you?” Kenma asks, raising a brow, amber eyes glowing behind the dark curtain of his hair.
“I did,” Shouyou smiles.
“Hm,” Kenma says and Shouyou can’t help but reach up, pulling Kenma’s hair back from his face.
“Shall I tie it up for you, to prep you to do housework?” he teases.
Kenma tilts his head to the side in return, lifting his brow higher, more accented. He sits up, freeing his hair from Shouyou’s grasp, and plants his hands over Shouyou’s chest.
“I don’t want to,” he says. Then, as emphasis, he presses down on Shouyou’s chest, leaning closer to add: “dishes are evil.”
“I did them last time,” Shouyou says. From his spot in the bed, all he can do is to tip his head to the side to see the remnants of their dinner piling up on the counter in the kitchen corner. “You could install a dishwasher.”
“It won’t fit,” Kenma shrugs, lying down and laying his head on Shouyou’s chest.
Shouyou loves the shape of Kenma’s ear pressing against the skin over his sternum. He loves lazy weekend mornings, when Kenma has no work and he has no matches to attend. He likes listening to the summer rain, he likes the feel of slightly damp skin against his, he likes the sound of Kenma’s breaths dissolving into that of the big city crowd.
He likes to sleep in, curling over the other’s back, but he also likes to be pampered, sloppy and sleepy, fingertips dragging against his skin, nails digging in his shoulders, lips landing on his own with a slanted caress, shy of a smooch.
He likes to be left bare and panting, splayed over wrinkled sheets and discarded blankets. He enjoys listening to the shower running in the background. Kenma hums in the shower. He denies it every time Shouyou brings it up. It’s always some obscure melody, changing mid-tune. Shouyou finds it endearing – he often closes his lids listening, and as a lullaby, it carries him back to sleep.
Today he decides to roll out of bed, pulling his discarded shirt back on, opening the window for fresh air and walking over to the kitchen.
Dishes don’t do themselves magically.