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“This is the last time,” Kouyou says and a hot breath hits Mori's face, but her voice is full of doubt. “Right?”
The unwillingness to ask this question is evident, not only in her eyes, but also in the other little gestures: in the calloused palm that tenderly strokes the man's jaw, in the way her fingers are gently entangled in his hair and the way their foreheads touch, hers being much warmer than his, naturally.
“The last,” he promises, very well aware of the fact that he’s lying.
Mori does not essentially consider himself an honorable man; he’s not always true to his word, especially when the matter concerns the benefits of the mafia or rather his own. Fooling others is certainly not a problem, sometimes even an unpleasant necessity that he has to fulfill, bearing the consequences in mind. He does it for the greater good.
On the other hand, he certainly does not wish to lie to himself. It is true that he sometimes cannot figure out who he has become after all these years, but as much as possible, the man wishes to be honest with his current self, so as not to make any mistakes that he would regret later.
There is no use in convincing himself that his hand on Kouyou’s bare thigh is not a mistake, there is no use in trying to dismiss the feeling of guilt when he promises it is the last time — because he has repeated it a couple of times already.
Judging by the look on her face, the woman is not keen on overthinking his words and much rather prefers to proceed with what they have already begun and what has been happening in his bedroom regularly for a couple of months already — so he kisses her.
If Mori were to describe the exact sensation, it is much more than simple, pleasurable satisfaction, something entirely physical. Perhaps it was different when they did it for the first time, then, the feeling was all about how she was the one to initiate the kiss while he sat in place, uncertainty plaguing all of the emotions chasing each other in both his mind and somewhere inside his chest where he should have a heart. No, at that moment it was the instantaneous euphoria that led him to allow his body to react first and his body definitely wanted the kiss to be just the beginning of something bigger.
Now, he was fully conscious of what he wanted to do. The gentle, yet tender touches of his lips on her cupid’s bow and the corner of her mouth are something else. They are meaningful, they indicate affection and longing in a much more emotional way than everything he’s ever done with another person. It’s almost like she’s his salvation, the only one whose presence enables him to express his true feelings.
“Tea,” Kouyou chuckles lightly when they break apart, holding his face in place so that he can somehow remain stable above her. “You taste like the tea I bought you,” she whispers, resting her forehead against his.
Warmth emanates from her whole body; weirdly enough, her hair sprawled on the white pillow also seems to have a particular fieriness to them. It’s as if the two contrast — Kouyou is warm, sometimes even hot, fierce enough to cause harm if one takes it a step too far, while Mori is cold, calm and calculating, equally as dangerous. It’s hard to decide whether they shouldn’t be able to coexist or if they have been created for each other.
“Its taste is quite exquisite,” he responds, moving his palm from her leg to the sheets on the right side of her head to have at least some support. “I’ve grown fond of it.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” the executive says, staring into his eyes and Mori can’t bring himself to do anything other than staring back at her. “Let’s stay like this for a while,” she proposes and he silently agrees.
In her eyes, he can see his own reflection. The image startles him a little, because he hasn't seen his own face go this soft in a very long time; it’s so unimaginably foreign that he has to focus on something else. Thankfully, Kouyou has plenty of features he can look at.
“That scar,” he notices a small, longitudinal mark on the left side of her jaw, usually covered by her bangs. “Where did you get it?”
“Which one?” she frowns a little, so he gently holds her palm and guides it to the specific place. She visibly tries to remember the history behind it for a moment, but ultimately fails. “I guess I forgot already.”
His arm starts to hurt, so he just allows himself to collapse on the bed right next to her. The front of his shirt is already undone to some extent, so there is only his belt to be unbuckled in order for him to lay down comfortably. Kouyou reaches out to take care of this task for him — she’s quite experienced in it — and soon, the accessory is thrown away on the floor.
“I’m guessing we are not doing it tonight,” she whispers, although there is no disappointment in her voice; it’s rather a quiet, gentle remark. Her hand wanders to his forehead and brushes the stray hairs out of his face. “So it is not the last time, right?”
“No,” he hums in response, closing his eyes and shuffling closer to her so that his nose brushes her cheek. “I need to think about something.”
Kouyou understands, so she stays silent for a moment, save for the delicate fingers that brush his hair from time to time.
This kind of affection once again has him debate over the nature of their relationships. She knows he likes it, just like she knows that he enjoys being pampered, but will never admit so. She remembers exactly what kind of tea and coffee he likes best, what kind of ink he uses to sign official documents and what brand of suits he finds the most comfortable. He never confessed any of those things to her directly, but Kouyou knows nonetheless. And she does it all for him when she can.
Mori realizes that he does it too, although not exactly consciously. He knows her favorite type of tea and somehow always manages to think of her while encountering it somewhere, he knows that she enjoys wearing silky nightgowns the most, he even remembers what she smells like and the exact steps of how she does her hair in the morning, one by one. Acknowledging any of these little habits was never his intention; it rather gradually engraved in his memory with the progress of their relationship.
It’s strange, it’s truly strange how he cannot interpret the emotions that swirl somewhere inside his chest. On one hand, he knows what his priorities are and Kouyou does not belong to them in any way other than as his subordinate and a member of the Port Mafia. Any romantic involvement with anyone departs from his initial aim of maintaining the balance in the city.
On the other hand, when the sincere hand brushes his hair with unspoken tenderness, bringing nothing but peace and comfort, he doesn’t want anything other than simply succumbing into the warm embrace. It’s a troubling matter; so much that he debates whether it can actually be established what is right and what is not.
A thought that he perhaps might lie to himself just this one, last time, crosses his mind when he realizes that his own hands have warmed up as a result of their close proximity.