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There's something about Haruki underneath him that sets Akihiko's heart on fire. The way Haruki closes his eyes tight as though the sight of Akihiko above him pains him. The way his legs fall open, wide and inviting, whenever Akihiko climbs into bed with him. The way his fingers press gently into the back of Akihiko's head, urging him down so that there's no escape from the press of their lips.
It's already nearly impossible to stand next to Haruki and not touch him when they're out in public. Akihiko's fingers itch to press into the skin on the back of Haruki's neck and into his hair. Band practice becomes unbearable because now that he has permission, Haruki can't seem to keep away from him either. He's always moving onstage as though making up for the way Akihiko's stuck to his drum set, and Akihiko hasn't learned how to keep his eyes away from Haruki. He's mesmerized by the sway of Haruki's bangs.
It's a problem.
It's also supremely embarrassing how all it takes is one glance from Haruki and Akihiko loses it. He rarely misses a beat. They're playing the same song over and over, after all, and this song has become an extension of him by now. But Uenoyama can always tell when Akihiko's distracted. So can Mafuyu, but Uenoyama is more likely to stop practice and ream him out over it. Akihiko does his best even when Haruki's lost to the beat, his fingers moving with precise practiced motions even as he tosses his head back with abandon.
It makes Akihiko's entire body vibrate to watch him, makes his fingers shake as he holds onto his drumsticks. He can feel the way the music crawls deep in his chest and settles there, how he and Haruki are tied by the sounds they make together. There's nothing so humbling as the staccato beating of his heart whenever Haruki looks at him, that moment of warmth that's followed by terrible, almost uncontrollable desire. As though Akihiko's chest is going to burst with the emotions it holds, and he has to do his best to hold them in, to push them down, to remember himself.
It's less horrible when he has Haruki underneath him as he does now, when the smooth slide of Haruki's fingers sends shivers down his back. He doesn't stop the low groan that comes from deep down in his throat, that sound of satisfaction that's like an exhale after holding his breath all day. He can touch Haruki the way he wants behind closed doors, when it's just the two of them meeting in the middle, when Haruki pushes as much as he gives.
"What are you thinking about?" he asks now, his eyes bright as he arches up into Akihiko's body.
"You," Akihiko says, the easy sincerity much less a surprise now after all this time.
He no longer wants to crawl away when he's honest with Haruki, no longer wishes to run from the soft smile Haruki sends his way. Squashing the first stirrings of panic is second nature and he's an old hand at ignoring his emotions. He's only afraid because he doesn't know what he'd do without Haruki, because he loves him so completely it's terrifying to imagine something happening to what they've struggled to build between them.
Akihiko's not magically fixed. He still has to reign himself in, to remember that he can't make another person the centerfold of his identity. He is a man with wants and desires and goals. He must be his own person before anything else. It's what he deserves. It's the only way he can ever be fair to Haruki.
But old habits die hard and he doesn't think the panic will ever really go away. Too much happened between him and his parents, and his therapist is teaching him to live with it. There's no erasing the past, but there is the possibility of creating something better. And though Akihiko can't take away all the pain he's caused Haruki, he can be honest about what he wants now.
"Don't look at me like that," Haruki says, turning away as though it pains him.
Even though he's the one who seeks Akihiko out. He's the one who reels him in after they've closed the apartment door. It's Haruki who presses them down into Akihiko's bed. He's the one who's fingers work the quickest on buttons.
"Let me look at you," Akihiko whispers, his hands ghosting up Haruki's arms.
Akihiko's touches are much slower now that he knows Haruki isn't going anywhere. He takes his time to really feel that ache that suffuses over every inch of his chest. Touching Haruki, getting to feel the softness of his hair, getting to breathe in the scent of his cologne, knowing that he's allowed, that he's wanted—it makes him wild.
"You're beautiful," Akihiko says, breathlessly.
Haruki's face goes soft with his smile, fondness written over every inch of his expression. He reaches out to scrape his fingernails along Akihko's head and to flick at his earring.
"You're not so bad yourself," he says, easy, confident.
Akihiko wants every inch of that confidence pressed into his body. He wants to drown in the proprietary way Haruki manhandles him, as though it's his right to put Akihiko where he wants him. As though he's entitled to all the sounds that leave Akihiko's lips.
I love you, Akihiko thinks, leaning down to smother the thought with kisses. It's too soon for these untamed, ferocious declarations. They're not ready, no matter how they might feel about each other. Love requires a certain finesse that Akihiko is only just beginning to understand. It needs more than his shaking hands and that desperate need to touch every bit of Haruki, to tuck him into Akihiko's skin so that he lives there forever.
Love requires long-term commitment from both of them. It requires freedom and individualism, a desire to be together despite change and hardship. Love needs time. And Akihiko has spades of time to give. He's not in a hurry. He's where he's meant to be and he's going in the right direction. And that's already more than he ever thought he'd get.