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Ichiro had never been all that picky about coffee. In fact, he'd never been a big coffee drinker at all. He wouldn't say no if someone offered him a cup, but he was more the type to go for a pot of tea at the end of a long day, or a cup of hot cocoa when he was out and about if all he wanted was something to warm his hands.
But these days, he found himself enjoying a cup of coffee just about every morning. And he was very particular about how it was made.
Or, rather, about who made it.
"Want a cup?" Samatoki offered, when Ichiro shuffled out from their bedroom to find him in the kitchen. He always offered, without fail, when he was the first one up.
Ichiro hummed a hazy affirmative as he drew near enough to nuzzle his face into the nape of Samatoki's neck, before propping his chin up on Samatoki's shoulder to watch him work.
This was his favorite part. The coffee Samatoki made was good, probably good enough to ruin Ichiro for any other sort of coffee, but watching Samatoki make it was what really woke Ichiro up.
Samatoki's gorgeous hands moved with such elegance as he went through every step with practiced, fluid ease. Measuring out the beans for the grinder, tapping the grounds into the basket, tamping them down tight, setting the machine to brew, steaming a bit of milk—just for Ichiro—during the wait.
Every single step was made beautiful by his hands.
He never rushed the process, always taking his time, and never seemed to mind when Ichiro caught one of his hands and lifted it to his lips, brushing a kiss to his fingers, like he just couldn't resist.
What made it all even better was the way Samatoki smiled as Ichiro held him, arms wrapped around his waist, possessive but just loose enough to let Samatoki move around. It was a smile that seemed to say he knew he was putting on a show, a smile that told Ichiro he wasn't the only one who adored this early morning dance of theirs.
A smile that promised they would dance again.