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sight.
There’s a sureness in the way that Lev looks at him that frightens Yaku. A certainty that’s always there, alongside any joy or sadness or anger. It shakes him that Lev, who’s still too tall, too loud and definitely too young, can look at him with forever in his eyes. Especially when Yaku feels like he’s standing on the edge of a precipice run through with hairline cracks, about to crumble beneath his feet. He’s supposed to be the steady one. Instead he finds himself relying on Lev’s vision of a future Yaku never saw for himself before they met.
sound.
There is a song that Yaku’s ears are always listening for, no matter where he is.
"Yaku-san!"
Well, it’s less a song and more a shriek, but that shriek is somehow music to his ears.
Time passes, and as with all songs traveling by way of mouth, the lyrics change. The honorific is dropped, affection and love change the meaning of the words. Soon, the word itself is dropped in favor of something else entirely.
"Morisuke."
The first time he hears it, it’s being whispered into his skin, reverent and full of the same promise Lev carries in his eyes.
touch.
Yaku runs his hands over Lev, and there is so much to him for Yaku to touch that his fingers shake with anticipation. His fingers trail along the sharp features of his face. He wraps his hands teasingly around his neck, and Lev arches and gasps even in the absence of any pressure. A wish for later that Yaku promises fulfillment to with a kiss. Down further, across the hardness of bone and muscle. Stopping to feel the movement of Lev’s breath. He follows the path his hands take with kisses, light and teasing, hard and bruising, wet and open.
smell.
Lev leaves his hoodie in Yaku’s apartment. It sits for two days on the couch before Yaku picks it up to throw it in the hamper and his nose catches a familiar scent. Sweat, Nekoma’s locker room, Lev’s soap, and the laundry detergent his mom uses.
Yaku buries his nose in the fabric of it, pulls it over his head. It’s too big—of course. The sleeves hang over his hands and the hem of it hangs down to his thighs.
Yaku wears it until the Lev’s scent fades from it, when wearing it no longer feels like his familiar embrace.
taste.
Lev tastes like salt. Like sweat and competition and kill blocks. He tastes like sugar. Like joy and the sweetness of intimacy and the artificial flavoring of the drink he had an hour earlier. Yaku tastes all these things when Lev kisses him, along with the more present taste of himself. Yaku knows what he tastes like. Like the drink they shared together, the salt of Lev’s come. Wonders if there’s anything more to him, or if all that he is has bled into Lev so that they now taste the same. He wouldn’t mind that if it were true.