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Kento breathes out, deep and slow. There are tingles already running down his arms, his chest and the rounding of his shoulders, sluicing down under the layer of his skin and then, scurrying back up their paths to the cool pads of the fingers that had set them rogue inside his body. He suppresses a shiver and fails to suppress the goosebumps lifting up all over. A pale thin hand gently covers his eyes, spanning from the tops of his cheeks and up to his hairline, softly anchoring as another palm firmly presses against the back of his head and pushes against the soft crevices of his skull. Kento shudders this time and bites his lip against a moan.
The hands move again in a smooth, confident gesture, joining each other at the apex of his head, slipping into his hair to scratch against his scalp once, softly, just like he likes, before they move down his skull to his nape, fingers pulsing against his skull in an unforgiving staccato rhythm. His vision is hazy and the reflection of his body in the mirror in front of him, loosely curled and bracketed by long, lean legs clad only in sweatpants is blurry around the edges. He leans more heavily against the bed frame behind him and watches as his reflection lifts a forearm, thickly corded with scars and curls it around the leg beside him. Vaguely, he feels the brush of fabric. The softness of the setting sun throws a weird shine off the leathery smoothness of his scarred arm and he would mourn the loss of feeling - like how he would never be able to feel the faint textures of Satoru’s skin or the silkiness of his hair or the almost indiscernible striations on his nails or the- that he would have at any other time but the fuzziness of the cloud crowding his brain pushes back against his thoughts until they lose form and dissipate. There’s only the mild heat of the spring evening and Satoru all around him and there is only the deep humming from above him, dipping in and out of pitch, slipping into his veins.
“Kento.” Satoru’s voice is quiet, rumbly and just another ray of the sunlight streaming in through the blinds. The room is already more shadows than light and Kento forces his eye open, blearily. When had he closed it? There are thumbs pressing unyielding circles at the base of his skull and sweeping down the sides of his neck, rhythmic with steady pressure. Kento fights against his eyelid slipping down again. “Kento, don’t sleep.”
“Mm,” he says or he thinks he says for the sound feels half aborted past the lump in his throat. He flexes the stiff fingers resting against Satoru’s calf instead and he is rewarded with blunt nails gently scraping up his scalp, pushing paths up the rushes off his hair that never grew back quite right and he watches, half-lidded as the pale, spidery fingers emerge from the thick strands to curve over his forehead, resting. His eye moves up, lazy and slow, taking in the flawless twist of muscles under unblemished skin, stretching and contracting as hands work steady pressure over his head and he swallows it all in- jars all the minute whispers of the angles of elbows, the faint lifting of stark clavicles with every breath and then, higher, the muted brush of translucent eyelashes against heat flushed pink cheeks brighter in the infused colour of the fading evening.
“Good,” Satoru whispers and the world becomes a little more tender.
Kento feels like an apostle finding salvation under the holy hands of the only god he would kneel for but when electric blue eyes meet his in the mirror, they hold an entire sky made of reverence, of adoration and Kento almost believes himself to be the god instead. One side of the plump, shell-pink lips tick up in mild amusement at the intensity of Kento’s gaze and then there are crinkles, fine smile lines folding onto themselves at the sides of unblinking eyes and Kento thinks that no god could love so completely. He smiles back and it’s lopsided, the smooth stretch of the scarred side of his face too taut and pulling up all wrong but Satoru’s eyes sparkle anyway.
The fingertips against his forehead press more firmly, guiding his head back until his crown connects to a soft abdomen and their eye contact shifts from silver-backed glass to an unhampered meeting. They move then, cool bony pads, grazing down to his temples and rubbing- firmer on the left side so he could feel it through the dense knot of scar tissue. Satoru is still smiling at him, face bent over his.
“Kento, let me do your face.” It’s something between a petulant command and a hopeful wish, and Kento exhales a ghost of a laugh.
“You just want to touch my face,” he rasps, his ruined voice breaking its hours of silence and it breaks and shimmers into the warmth of the room. Kento thinks maybe this is what it feels like to live inside a spark, to make home in a speck of light.
“Yes,” Satoru admits without hesitation or shame. “I’m obsessed with it.”
Something warm unfurls all of its undying petals until it fills Kento’s belly and reaches its tendrils sharp into his chest. He closes his eye and tilts his head up further, uncaring of the stretch in his neck.
“I’m obsessed with you,” Satoru says and his palms are cupping Kento’s face, enveloping his entire being and he melts unbidden into the familiar grooves.
“Satoru,” he breathes out, pursing his lips against the errant finger skimming over his nose and down to his chin.
“I love you,” Satoru whispers but to Kento, it’s so loud that the whole world might have heard it. It reverberates in his ears and scuttles through his bones into the warm, wet chamber of his heart and becomes it. He feels the body above him curving until he is bathed entirely in its shadow. He almost wishes to become one with it until there is a soft brush of a thin pointed nose against the flat bridge of his own.
“Yes,” he replies. He believes it, and that is all that is needed.
There are knuckles now working against the stiff muscles of his jaw, and the humming starts again. Kento can feel it quiver against the crown of his head. He lets it lull him to sleep- a crick in his neck, and the entirety of love sweeping kindly against his mismatched cheeks.