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It was another normal night. Like usual, they met up at the corner izakaya after he got off work. Pint after pint of Sapporo, Mahito popping open edamame pods while smoke from his cigarette curled around their fingers, him ducking down to kiss the chicken grease from Mahito’s lips when he thought no one was looking. Then stumbling back home, his place, always his place, panting in silent laughter, the jingle of fumbling keys and the palpable relief when the lock clicked open. Light spilling from the kitchen a golden panel that beamed down at them struggling to kick off shoes in the genkan. Mahito already wheezing from the hand clamped on the front of his throat, chapped lips mouthing at the back of his neck.
They got as far as the bedroom, Mahito pressed into the mattress fully clothed, still smelling like charcoal grill, his erection digging into Mahito’s thigh— then it was like a switch flipped.
The only sound left in the room was quiet, even breaths.
Mahito smiled.
He hadn’t even loosened his tie.
𓆩𓆪
Mahito never stays with one man for very long, maybe a couple weeks, a month at best, but this one he has been seeing for almost a year now.
He’s one of those stereotypical Japanese salarymen, the straightforward type, maybe even a little bit boring. Nothing in life but work, drink, fuck, smoke, sleep, repeat.
Although with a sweetness that catches you off guard.
Like last week, when he sent Mahito a grand total of three texts, telling him he will be going on an extended business trip, for a month, and wanted to meet and say goodbye before he left.
The first night they spent together was because Mahito had sprung on him after a quick once over at the bar, and he didn’t disappoint when the clothes came off either. He made it clear, though, that it was never going to be serious. He was adamantly against relationships. Maybe it should’ve been a red flag, but not for him it wasn't. I don’t want to hurt you , he had told Mahito, and maybe it was true. According to him, meeting up for steady dates is fine, maintaining whatever they have going on right now, is fine. And they’ve stuck with it for almost a year now.
Funny.
To be honest, this unlabeled arrangement works for both of them. Any title would have suffocated Mahito. An unwelcome collar with the constant threat of a leash.
Neither of them mention the occasional worried text he sends if Mahito doesn't respond in three days and the candies he started keeping in his jacket pockets. Nor do they talk about the tender, intimate portraits of him that Mahito has in the pages of his sketchbook, or his favorite undershirt that mysteriously went missing.
He was so tightly wound up it gave Mahito something substantial, tangible enough to grip on; Mahito with just enough screws loose that he could always count on relaxing into the chaos.
𓆩𓆪
Now, his body was limp, face tucked into Mahito’s neck, breaths hot and damp. Steady.
He even emptied out his sleeping pills.
Mahito smiles again and reaches up a hand, petting him, smoothing down his tousled hair, combing it out of its gel. Arms around his chest, Mahito wishes he could just crawl inside him sometimes. Anything to stay in that dark, structured, boring warmth.
Last Thursday was the first time he fell asleep on Mahito. They had stayed home, attempting okonomiyaki at Mahito’s behest. They were both in bed, Mahito with a leg outside the duvet and him with his arm around Mahito’s head, playing with strands of that peculiar greybluegreen hair that he always says he loves so much, when Mahito perked up.
His question had gone unanswered.
So zebra or leopard print? Mahito prompts again, just for fun.
He gets his answer in a quiet snore and slightly twitching eyebrows, never quite unfurrowed unless Mahito presses at them with his fingers.
It’s on nights like these that Mahito remembers why he likes him so much, why they’ve been together for almost a year.
𓆩𓆪
Nanami is the only man who has ever told him, past the afterglow, to stay. The only man who’d held him close, disregarding their stickiness. Wiping him down, asking about his day, chatting with him, wondering out loud if they should order food.
The brusque but gentle it’s okay, that carved himself a place inside Mahito, like a stick through wet mud, intent clear, never muddled. Nanami never hides behind pretense, and maybe that’s why Mahito has stayed for almost a year. Maybe he’ll stay for another, too.