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    Summary

    “One day, you’ll meet Mahiko, probably,” Mahito murmurs.

    “Is that your sister, then?” he asks, pulling their laced fingers up to kiss the back of Mahito’s hand. Mahito laughs; it’s a small huff of a thing, nearly inaudible over the pattering of rain against the love hotel window.

    Their conversation drops for a beat, two, but there’s no urge inside of him to push Mahito for an answer—he’s content with this, falling into the sensation of Mahito’s thumb rubbing against his and Mahito’s nails dragging against his lower stomach.

    “Something like that,” Mahito says eventually; and he sounds sleepy, comfortable. He could prod, maybe, but he’s more preoccupied with the heat kindling back to a blaze. Mahito’s thumb drags slow, slower, and he wonders if it would be too presumptuous of him to request another round.

    OR: Nanami has his hands full with Mahito as it is, but life has never particularly cared about what he wants or not.

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