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“Ow-”
“Ah.”
The fourth time it happens, Kuro definitively pulls away and lets out a sigh, one part breathlessness and two parts irritation. The taste of Kuro against Keito’s lips is replaced with that of an air loaded with grievances, waiting to be brought to light. Keito is all too familiar with the flavor.
“Danna,” Kuro says. The end of the word is raised leadingly like the dawn of an argument, but he doesn’t continue, leaving Keito to auto-complete the rest.
Keito’s hands are circled around his neck, twitching with the urge to pull him in again. “That time was my fault. Humor me and ignore it, please.”
“Can I please just –”
“No.”
“I can’t imagine they’re any more comfortable for you than they are for me.”
“They’re plenty comfortable when we’re careful to avoid them.”
“Sure, but I don’t wanna have to constantly be careful. And the frames are so damn pointy, I feel like I’m gonna poke my eye out.”
“That’s not how that works. They’d poke your eye in if anything.”
“Just – can we try it without? For a lil’ bit? Please?”
Keito lets out a long, beleaguered sigh. Well-familiar with the extent of Kuro’s stubbornness, he gives him the answer that will get them back to what they were doing the fastest. “If we absolutely must. I suppose I could do without them for now.”
“Okay, awesome.” Kuro’s hand reaches up to pluck the glasses off of Keito’s nose.
Keito swats him away, frowning. “I’ll do it myself. You’ll smudge them.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Kuro mutters.
“I hope that’s not sarcasm.”
The glasses, held gingerly between Keito’s fingers with the least amount of contact possible, are folded neatly and set on the bedside table. Keito’s vision abstracts, grows fur along the edges; the suggestion of Kuro hovers over him. Due to his farsightedness, the sharpest objects are the ceiling fan and the dresser on the opposite side of the room.
“You’re blurry.” Keito states the obvious.
Kuro snorts. “Makes sense. I’m gonna kiss you again, don’t be alarmed.”
“I can tell that much,” Keito retorts. His vision saturates with the palette of Kuro’s skin as he leans in: sun-kissed tans and peaches and the slightest hints of a rosy blush, which all melt into black when Keito’s eyes close in anticipation.
It’s nice, he has to admit, the extra several centimeters of closeness that the removal of the glasses affords them. Kuro broaches each of them slowly, deliberately, deepening the kiss only when Keito encourages him with a tug on his neck or a swipe of his tongue against his lips. Keito has been on the receiving end of his hasty and vigorous kisses, too, but Kuro is like this more often than not, like he’s monitoring his own strength, afraid that Keito will disintegrate under the slightest touch. He wants to reassure Kuro that he’s much tougher than he thinks (he does archery and dances for a living, thank you), but the sheer force of the earnesty behind the intention compels him into silence.
“Better,” Kuro exhales against Keito’s lips, a sound that rumbles deep in his throat and rattles Keito’s bones.
Keito doesn’t concede anything aloud, just pulls him in again and again and again, swallowing every one of Kuro’s quiet gasps and moans and offering his own in exchange. The pressure of Kuro’s mouth eventually disappears; Keito’s eyes flutter open again, and he’s instantly reminded of how blind he is. The blurry silhouette of Kuro’s crimson shock of hair dipping lower only affords him educated guesses on where he’ll kiss Keito next.
If there’s one thing Kuro likes as much as, if not more than kissing Keito on the lips, it’s kissing him everywhere else. Kuro has called this “Keito Hasumi Appreciation Time” in the past, but regardless of whether that was accurate or not when it started, it has evolved into some sort of test of willpower. Kuro likes to kiss him in the most niche places: behind his ears, in the dip of his collarbone, on the side of his ribcage, in between his fingers – and it feels, Keito notes with indignation, like he’s deliberately seeking the most ticklish spots. Keito is forced in turn to weaponize every meditation technique in the book in order to keep himself from squirming and making any embarrassing noises. The consequences of slacking on his religious studies become clear, though, when he still can’t keep the furious blush that floods across his face under control, breath shuddering at every new contact.
Kuro laughs quietly at the reaction – bastard – and lightly holds up Keito’s right arm, kissing in the crook of his elbow, down his forearm, up to his wrist, Keito’s pulse racing under his lips. The red crown of Kuro’s head tilts up, and there are two forest green smudges where his eyes should be, and Keito wants so badly to read the expression Kuro is giving him, but the only thing he can read is the logo on the cereal box five meters away and – oh, this simply will not do.
“Kiryu,” he cuts in.
“Hmm?” Kuro hums, a vibration against Keito’s wrist.
“My glasses.”
From what little he can discern, he can still tell that Kuro’s mouth drops open as he balks at the statement. “You’re still thinkin’ ’bout those at a time like this?!”
“It’s important,” Keito insists, fingers curling in the sleeve of Kuro’s shirt. “Can you get them from the nightstand for me? And don’t touch the lenses, please.”
“You are utterly fuckin’ ridiculous,” Kuro groans, although he leans over to fish around for the glasses. He still handles them delicately, pinched between his pointer and thumb at the bridge like a sewing needle as he hands them to Keito. Whether this is out of etiquette or just to avoid Keito’s wrath is unclear.
Keito perches them on their rightful place on his nose, and the fuzzy shapes of Kuro consolidate into something tangible again, albeit exasperated.
“This makes even less sense the second time ’round,” Kuro sighs. “I’ve already seen you without ’em, so what’s there to get embarrassed about?”
Keito quirks an eyebrow in suspicion. “I’m not embarrassed of my appearance, Kiryu. Is that what you thought this was about?”
“Well, yeah, isn’t that –”
“My glasses aren’t for you to see. They’re to see you with.” Keito can’t help the preachy tone that slips into his speech, a hint of his lecture mode. “I want to see you clearly when we’re doing things like this, because it humbles me. The way you look at me, like… like I’m the sun you revolve around, never fails to remind me how fortunate I am to be on the receiving end of your devotion and affection. I don’t want to ever let myself take you for granted, Kiryu. I won’t let any love you give me go unacknowledged. And I can’t acknowledge anything if I’m simply squinting at you like a fool the entire time.” He huffs. “You’re much more handsome when you’re not comprised of splotches, anyway.”
Like it’s a nominee for Best Picture, Keito gives his undivided attention to the way Kuro’s expression evolves in the consequent five seconds.
It’s surprise, at first, Kuro’s eyes widening at the honesty of the response, grip going slightly slack on Keito’s arms. Then it’s denial, his mouth opening and closing in succession until it settles into a thin line, evidence of an attempt to formulate a rebuttal that amounted to nothing.
Then, as the soaring climax to the little movie, it melts into a sweet bashfulness that makes Keito’s insides sing. He did just say that he loves when Kuro looks at him, but he thinks that maybe Kuro, shy, looking anywhere but at him, is just as special. The color that washes over Kuro’s cheeks and ears is the most lovely shade of vermillion-coral-rose-carmine that Keito wants to make it his life’s work to mix it in paint. And because Keito is a responsible glasses-wearer who regularly updates his prescription, he doesn’t miss a single detail. Such as how Kuro’s hair softens back into place when he runs a hand through it. Such as how his forehead dimples when he furrows his eyebrows and frowns.
Keito mentally thanks the cristalleri of Murano for the most important invention of the 13th century.
“I hate it when you go all poetic on me,” Kuro grumbles, staring at the bedsheets. “How the hell ’m I supposed to respond to that?”
“The look on your face is response enough,” Keito chuckles, fondly running a thumb across the redness of Kuro’s cheek.
Kuro glares, contradicting the way he leans into the touch. “You’re makin’ fun of me.”
“I’m being sincere, but even if I was making fun of you, consider it the proper recourse for a lifetime of you teasing me.”
“S’pose that’s fair.” Kuro turns his head to kiss Keito’s palm. “I can’t help it, though. If you don’t wanna be bullied, stop bein’ so bullyable.”
Keito snorts at the word choice, although he can feel his composure starting to melt away again underneath the touch. “If we had met two years earlier, would you have been stealing my lunch money and shoving me in lockers?”
“Nah, I wasn’t that kind of delinquent.” Kuro flips Keito’s hand to press his lips to the spaces between his knuckles. “I don’t think I would’ve even if I was, though. Can’t imagine a timeline in which I don’t fall in love with you.”
Now it’s Keito’s turn to go bright red. Dammit.
Kuro laughs, ending his mouth’s journey down Keito’s arm with a peck to the fingertips. “You’re not the only one who can be disgustingly romantic.”
“Evidently,” Keito mumbles. Whatever continuation to the conversation Keito had in mind sputters and dies as Kuro leaves his arm alone only to attack his stomach instead, the warmth seeping through Keito’s shirt to his skin. He kisses a line up Keito’s stomach; above his belt buckle, then just shy of his navel, then where his abdomen meets his torso, like he’s buttoning up a shirt. The sensation is dizzying, Keito exhaling and squeezing Kuro’s hand tighter to ground himself. The onslaught stops there, though, as Kuro opts to nestle his head in Keito’s chest in an approximation of a hug. If he strained hard enough, Keito thinks, he might be able to hear the fluttering of butterflies in Keito’s stomach.
“Kiryu,” he breathes.
It’s mostly said just to feel the shape of his name on his tongue, but it gets Kuro’s attention anyway, peering up from where he’s settled on Keito’s torso – and there’s that look again. The one where Kuro’s features, sharpened by the whetstone of years-long cruelty, suddenly become impossibly soft. The one that stops time.
It’s overwhelming, honestly, and prone to dredging up Keito’s feelings of inadequacy, because he’s not sure he can ever be as good of a person as Kuro sees him as. Nonetheless, he’ll try everything in his power to be.
So he holds the gaze, drinking it in, trying to memorize the curve of Kuro’s eyes, the tenderness in his brow. Enough so that he can be grateful for it, but not too much, because he wants to be just as thunderstruck the next time it happens.
After all, they only have this one timeline, and Keito wants to spend it falling in love with Kuro over and over and over again.
Keito tugs lightly upwards on the collar of Kuro’s shirt, and luckily, Kuro gets the idea, hoisting himself up to meet Keito’s lips halfway.
“Ack.”
“Ow.”
Keito readjusts his glasses and gingerly touches the sore spot on his lip where Kuro had bit him in surprise. “That time was your fault.”
“Sorry,” Kuro chuckles, pressing their foreheads together.
“We’ll get used to it.”