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Summary
Keiji slumps back against the cabinets with a whimpered groan. He lets his eyes close, desperate to reconstruct the vision of Koutarou in glasses before the details fade from his memory: the silver frames that accentuated the gold glow of his eyes, the thin wires that highlighted the strength of his brows.
He was so handsome, so dignified. He didn’t look old, (fuck you, Miya), but he did look older in the most delicious way. He looked like Keiji’s superior, like he should toss Keiji around and throw him on the mattress and call him the sweetest, filthiest names and maybe make him cry.
Oh god. Yes.
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or: Koutarou gets glasses, and Keiji attempts to convince him just how handsome he is in them.