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“If you don’t want it, push me away.”
Chihiro’s voice was impossibly gentle, so soft Hakuri could barely hear him despite being mere inches apart. The taller man had trapped him somewhat between himself and a wall in their shared room in Hinao’s apartment, so close Hakuri could see the darkness of his pupil and the flecks of black in his red irises, even in the shadow cast by the dim, yellowish light behind him.
Hakuri felt as though his brain had stopped working. He couldn’t comprehend what was happening, how it could be happening. He would be lying if he claimed he had never thought about his attraction to the swordsman, had not literally had dreams about this happening. But he had always tucked his feelings safely away deep inside himself, something precious, yet embarrassing. Sometimes, he would hear a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Soya’s whisper that it was audacious of him to habour feelings for someone so out of his league.
So determined he was in ignoring his feelings that he also determinedly ignored the fact that Chihiro would put meat in his bowl when he dared not take more than what he felt he deserved, ignored the fact that he would sometimes turn to look at Chihiro to find the other man already looking back, ignored the fact that Chihiro always spoke highly of him in spite of shortcomings. It was nothing. Chihiro was kind to everyone.
It felt wrong to Hakuri to even think that those actions may have meant anything else.
Distantly, Hakuri could hear muffled voices outside through the closed door and the sizzling of something on a pan, but all that seemed to fade out when the swordsman took a small step forward, closing the gap between them even further, one foot now actually between Hakuri’s. If Hakuri made any movement at all, he was certain their legs would touch. It suddenly struck Hakuri how much taller Chihiro was as he towered over him in that moment, leaning a forearm against the wall behind Hakuri, who felt a panic rise in him. He felt Chihiro’s breath ghost over his lips as Chihiro paused, face an inch away, his red gaze calm, steady, watching, studying Hakuri’s face so intently Hakuri couldn’t tear his eyes away. His heart was racing so loudly against his chest he felt he could feel it in his throat, hear it as a rushing, crashing static in his ears.
Suddenly finding that he couldn’t quite maintain eye contact with his samurai any further, sure that his face was beet red, Hakuri squeezed his eyes shut, but he couldn’t bring himself to raise his arms, resting limply at his sides, to push the other man away.
Hakuri was soon regretting his decision to close his eyes, because every sensation afterwards he felt more keenly than ever. He felt the warmth radiating off Chihiro’s body envelop him as the other man leaned in. He felt the tips of Chihiro’s fringe tickle his forehead. He felt Chihiro’s faint heartbeat through their layers of clothing as his chest pressed against Hakuri’s. Then, he felt somewhat dry, but soft lips brush gently against his. It was chaste, slow, almost tentative, and too soon, it was over.
“Hakuri,” he hears Chihiro say. “Are you okay?”
He opens his eyes to meet Chihiros’ red, seeing the quiet concern and hesitation in the other’s face. It was only then that he realised he was breathing heavily, in short, shallow breaths.
He opened his mouth to speak, but found he couldn’t quite get any words out. So he looked away, and simply nodded.
A hand found its way to Hakuri’s face, fingers winding in strands of his hair, thumb brushing soft circles on his cheek. The swordsman’s face was still so, so close.
“Hakuri,” he hears again. “Was that okay?”
Was that okay? Hakuri hears the words repeated in his head in his own voice, vaguely hysterical. Okay? A dam in him broke open. This man should want nothing to do with him. This brave, powerful swordsman with his mission, his ideals, his scars, his strength, his softness, his compassion. Inexplicably, Hakuri suddenly felt angry. What was this man doing with someone like him? What had Hakuri been doing, clinging on to them after the Kakuzaichi had been well and truly destroyed? Why didn’t he leave after the Sazanami empire had collapsed, left so that his Chihiro wouldn’t be distracted by someone like him? So Chihiro wouldn’t waste his time on someone just starting to find his feet, barely of use again now that his powers were zapped? What in the world was Chihiro, virtuous, compassionate, Chihiro who had told him he was valuable when he had never felt more worthless, Chihiro who held himself with a dignity Hakuri loved watching, Chihiro who always smiled gently at him, what was someone like him doing touching someone like Hakuri so tenderly, treating him as though he were something fragile and precious?
Yet, somewhere in the midst of his confusing, giddy whirlwind of emotions and doubts, he saw, as if from far away, Chihiro’s brows furrow, worried, and felt him start to pull away.
Without his permission, Hakuri felt his hand reach out to catch hold of a corner of Chihiro’s jacket sleeve. Chihiro froze, and Hakuri continued to hold on, holding him in place, near.
He should say something.
Why couldn’t he say something?
“Hakuri,” he hears Chihiro say again, softly. Rough, calloused fingers had found their way to his chin, guiding his chin upwards so Hakuri’s gaze once again found Chihiro’s. “Was that okay?”
Hakuri could still feel his breath coming in short and shaky, could still hear the roar of his heartbeat thundering in his ears, could still hear the derisive voice in his head telling him he wasn’t worthy, but as he met Chihiro’s gaze again, he felt himself nodding quickly. Yes. It was okay. It terrified him to even think it, but please, please, Chihiro, please know that it was okay.
Something in his eyes, or his face, or his body, must have conveyed his desperation, because Chihiro’s face suddenly softened, a small smile forming on his lips.
“Then, shall I do it again?” Chihiro asked, tone light, almost amused.
Hakuri nodded again mutely in spite of himself, and the swordsman did kiss him again, two, three, many more times, on his forehead, on his hair, on the small part of his jaw that connected to his neck, on the corners of his lips, and at some point Hakuri, who was overwhelmed with that and the sensation of a hand travelling down the side of his body to rest on his hip, and another finding its way to caress the back of his head, found himself straining upwards, meeting the his swordsman halfway, hesitantly catching his lips with his own for the briefest of moments.
Chihiro actually laughs then, a short, small chuckle.
“Hakuri,” he said, winding an arm around Hakuri’s waist and burying his face in the crook of Hakuri’s neck. “You’re adorable.”
In that moment, Hakuri, still very shellshocked, and more than a little overwhelmed with the affection he was being shown, but mind now a blissful blank, allowed Chihiro to hold him.