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It’s chilly outside, but it’s too hot inside, and they’re already dressed for the weather—Kiyoi’s got an oversized jacket and a giant scarf looped several times around his throat, elegantly draped over his shoulders. It looks like the cream swirls on the pastries inside but twice as delicious. He’s so cute. They’re waiting for their order, which they’ll take home to eat, because it’d be absurd for them to share a table in public where everyone could see. Hira’s surprised Kiyoi even came with him, would be seen at his side, just waiting outside the building. Hira was perfectly ready to go order and pick up the food all by himself. Then he’d rush it home, carefully plate it, and present it to Kiyoi like a royal chef before the king. Instead, they’re together, like a couple.
Hira gulps, momentarily dizzy just at the thought. Kiyoi doesn’t notice—he’s leaning against the brick wall next to the glass door, playing with his phone. If it weren’t for the fact that Hira can’t stop staring at Kiyoi’s pretty face, there’d be nothing linking them together. They could just be two strangers, both waiting on their orders. It’s a small local café, but it’s nice, semi-popular. A couple of teenage girls are clustered around the table closest to the door, and they keep peering through it, visibly giggling behind their hands.
Hira doesn’t blame them. At first, he assumes they’re looking at Kiyoi, appreciating his beauty, maybe fantasizing about being with him—even though none of them are good enough for him. He hasn’t looked at them properly, because he can’t tear his eyes away from the rich waves of Kiyoi’s hair and the slight flush on Kiyoi’s cheeks, made rosy in the cool breeze. But Hira can see the girls in his peripherals, and when one of them openly points, he realizes with a start that they’re actually looking at him.
That makes sense too. It’s confusing at first, until he pieces together that of course they’re staring; they must be wondering why someone like him is allowed to breathe the same air as Kiyoi Sou. Maybe they even recognize Kiyoi off his commercials or out of magazines, and they’re laughing over what a pathetic, creepy fan Hira is, just standing there, visually gobbling Kiyoi up. Hira’s not particularly hungry, doesn’t need lunch. They came because Kiyoi wanted to. Hira wants to get home, push up Kiyoi’s shirt, and dump his food right onto Kiyoi’s chest, then lick it off Kiyoi’s fair skin.
He couldn’t really do that. He’d never sully his god like that. But he thinks about it. Lapping away between Kiyoi’s breasts. Sucking soup off Kiyoi’s nipples. Nibbling at ginger ale pooled in the dip of Kiyoi’s collarbone—
Kiyoi glances over his phone, as if to check that Hira’s still there. Hira instantly averts his gaze, blushing hot, inwardly berating himself for being so disgusting. He can’t help it. He wants to lick Kiyoi’s boots. They’re designer, sent by a company for him to advertise online. The jeans are from a second-hand store that they spent two hours shopping in, Hira eying things in Kiyoi’s size and Kiyoi, for some reason, sending Hira into the changing room to also try on outfits. Kiyoi’s shirt is missing a button from a time where Hira just snapped, threw him against the wall, sobbed sorry and devoured him, ripping all his clothes away. Kiyoi had squirmed so beautifully and moaned Hira’s name.
Hira peeks up under his fringe—it’s been growing out again, and Kiyoi’s already scheduled an appointment to get it cut, as though it’s even possible for him to groom Hira into something presentable. Kiyoi’s not looking at him anymore, but frowning through the café door at the girls. Hira watches his expression darken, and Hira tries to form a strangled apology for embarrassing Kiyoi by being seen with him—
But Kiyoi steps forward first, lowering his phone, the other hand darting out to tangle in Hira’s hair. Hira’s breath hitches as he’s jerked up, then forward, and Kiyoi tilts his gorgeous face to brush his lips over Hira’s. Hira’s eyes fly wide open, caught in shock and horror. He feels like he’s ruining Kiyoi’s career in one fell swoop, because the street’s bustling on behind them and anyone could see low Kiyoi stoops in his love life—except, as much as Hira loves Kiyoi, would do anything for Kiyoi, would fiercely protect Kiyoi even from himself, he can’t bring himself to push away. He lets Kiyoi kiss him, hard. And his lashes flutter down, a low groan snaking out of him, which Kiyoi swallows right up. Kiyoi claims his mouth, until hot arousal twists in Hira’s gut and takes over his body—he grabs the lapels of Kiyoi’s jacket and absolutely worships Kiyoi’s tasty tongue. It’s a crushing, desperate, passionate swap of spit and teeth and unadulterated ardour. Hira’s in heaven.
Then Kiyoi separates them, and Hira crashes down. They look at one another, standing so close that Kiyoi’s breath tickles Hira’s chin. The tempest in Kiyoi’s eyes seems to be tamed; his expression’s softened. Hira’s heart’s racing.
Licking his bruised lips, Kiyoi steps back. He turns back to his phone, cheeks red under dilated, half-lidded eyes. Hira doesn’t understand. He’s in a daze. He starts, “K-Kiyoi...”
“Go check if our order’s ready,” Kiyoi cuts in, gaze glued to his screen. For once, Hira hesitates, fully ready to obey, but not functioning well enough to move. Then he stiffly fumbles a bow and turns on his heel—and Kiyoi adds, “Don’t talk to those girls.”
Hira wouldn’t have anyway. It never would’ve occurred to him. Kiyoi peeks up, silently drilling it home, and Hira nods because he doesn’t ever want to talk to anyone but Kiyoi. He almost blurts out the promise that he’s all Kiyoi’s. When Hira doesn’t say anything, Kiyoi adds like a command to a dog, “Come right back to me.”
Something about the strangely vulnerable edge to Kiyoi’s voice snaps Hira into action. He all but barrels into the store. He blurs past the girls. Their order’s ready; Hira shoulders the bag, pays out of their joint bank account, and rushes back to his boyfriend, who swiftly grabs his hand and drags him home.