Work Text:
Nanami's forehead throbs as he spies through the peephole of his door. You're standing in front of his door, holding up your arm up in a halfhearted wave, and with the other (very much broken) arm, you balance a bag of pastries from his favorite bakery. There is a very small masochistic part of Nanami that wants to find out how on Earth your mind figured that balancing a bag filled to the brim with pastries on a sling would work but he needs to pick his battles.
You rap on the door again and stand on the tips of your toes, leaning into the door. His breath hitches and the only reason Nanami can't hear his heart in his throat is because of the loud crinkling of your paper bag. He still feels it. He definitely feels it but it's easier to dismiss one sense rather than two.
"Nanamin," you call.
Nanami opens the door, planning to tell you to stop calling him that and shut the door in your face to punctuate his point. Instead, you shoulder past him, making a beeline for his coffeemaker. For once, you have the decency to bring your own hot cocoa.
He shuts the door and sighs, "Your mug is on the top shelf on the right."
"Thanks," your face crunches. Nanami resists a smile. "Evil," you mutter, getting on the tips of your toes. Again, he tries not to smile as you struggle. He waits a few seconds before helping, leaning over your body with your back pressed to his chest, the pulse point on his wrist brushing against the back of your hand as he reaches for it.
It's brief. The moment lasts the length of a breath but both of you linger on the touch.
It's Nanami who pulls away, feeling the fluttering in his chest. He stamps it out. It's easy. He only has to remind himself that you're the idiot using your sling to carry bread. He plucks the bag out of your sling, picking through it.
He side-eyes you. You smile innocently.
"Did you buy every type of bread they had?"
"Not every bread. Just the essentials," you shrug.
He holds up the turtle-shaped. "Like I said, essential," you shrug. Nanami's face sours which you respond to by beaming at him more brightly. "In my defense—"
"The fact that you have one..."
You blow his statement off. "With all the missions we've been on and all the weird things that have been happening lately, it's... been awhile since we had our," you pause, the word 'our' rolling off your tongue too easily for comfort, " the bread thing."
Just a little while since he'd made his discovery.
"Besides, you said you wanted to read the sequel to A Memory Called Empire so..." From within your sling (God, Nanami's headache is slowly turning into an aneurysm), you produce a book. "It just came out recently and I figured you'd want a crack at it."
"That's not what a sling is used for," he says because that's A) what he's hung up on and B) the only thing he can think of saying to you right now.
You roll your eyes, "You sound like Shoko-senpai. Lighten up, Nanamin."
Yes, that headache is definitely leveling up to an aneurysm. "Do I have to go over how you have to listen to medical advice?"
Again.
"I don't see the point but if it makes you feel any better, sure." You shove the book in his chest then just to make it obvious you weren't going to listen you turn to the coffee maker to put you hot cocoa in.
He lectures you anyway but you snort and tell him you're the last person who needs to hear it. He stares at your back. There's a stutter in your movements. Quiet gasps of pain under your breath. Your ribs must be broken and it occurs to him
You remind him of an injured rabbit.
He reaches out but draws his hand back.
You're both sat on the couch discussing Imago machines from A Memory Called Empire— their uses and the ethics of implanting someone else's knowledge, memories, and consciousness into someone else. With his third beer can rolling in his palm, Nanami approaches it with an air of pragmatism, pointing out the usefulness of being able to pass on not only skills but information. Your stance on the matter is a little less pragmatic and more dominated by discomfort.
He considers this, sliding the pad of his index finger against the rim of the can, watching your lips move as they shape the words.
Nanamin.
Nanamin.
Nanamin.
A small thread of irritation threatens to unravel his concentration. He threads his hand through his hair, lulling his head back. He slings his arm over his eyes. The faint buzz of the alcohol thrumming under his skin.
"Nanamin," you call him again, putting your hand on his arm, leaning in to check if there's anything wrong. Your face is so close to his. Your breath ghosting over his cheek sending shivers rippling across his skin. "Nanamin, are you ok?"
He squints at you, the smudge of cream accenting the downturned corner of your lips, and blames the alcohol for what he does next.
It isn't a rushed movement.
A slow stroke of your cheek leads to his hand cradling one side of your face tenderly, palm warming your skin, thumb brushing away the cream. Nanami leans in, his face close to yours, leaving enough distance for you to feel the heat radiating from his skin. You let out a stuttered breath but you don't pull away. You lean in. Sliding your hand from his arm to his chest, you grip his shirt with a clammy hand, drawing in close enough that your lips touch without kissing. It's little more than a twitch but that's all the confirmation he needs.
When your lips meet, it's a sunburst— a slow, thick burn decadent with tenderness seeping through every careful movement. Nanami smiles into the kiss. Your lips are sticky and soft, shaped like they were made for kissing. They are part of you. They are you and precious thereby.
Despite how often they're pressed into sharp, angled lines, Nanami's lips fit perfectly against yours, the fault lines between the two of you melting away.
Nanami takes his time with you, catching your bottom lips between his. It's glazed with sugar and trembles when his hand moves to cup your jaw. You both shut your eyes, opting to let yourselves feel each other's lips. All the fear and shyness and anxiety fade into fizzing sparkles, giving way to something else nestled in his chest.
You're dizzy by the time you let each other go. You're both panting, your lips still close enough to exchange breaths.
With your jaw still cupped in his hand, he tilts your face up to meet his eyes.
"Stop calling me Nanamin. For you, it's Kento."