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Fuck. The alleyway walls are neon exit signs, the ribs of his chest a cage.
His blood drips red flags on the concrete. His hand; a knife tucked carefully into his waist. It's stuck in, deep. He considers himself armed, a danger to those around him.
Hands grip the cool metal of the fire escape in the screaming night. Tomura understands why you shouldn't remove an object from the penetrating wound, yet he needs the stability. Two hands on the cool metal fire escape.
First aid is barely a floor away.
His legs haven't slept in months; he rested just yesterday. Feet do nothing but stumble. Fall up one step, trip on another. The balcony door reflects the streetlights.
Face and palm smack against the window, copper smearing on the glass pane.
It clicks open.
He's falling into cool arms, his eyes are falling closed.
One minute he's on a couch. One minute...
His eyes are a bonfire to the morning sun's arsonistic desires.
Throat arid, longing for water to quench the fire. Instead, eyes lock with Natsuo's. Stormy greys are gasoline, pouring over him.
The fire surges through his abdomen when he sits up, vision flickering. Natsuo catches him as he sways with the flames, dragging the bin over and his hair back. Tomura huffs over the edge of the couch, lungs suffocated in the smoke of blood loss.
A plate is shoved in his hands by noon, accompanied by a glass of water. It's too little, too late. He recognises as much. The spark has already been doused, trickled down to nothing more than mere embers. Liquid slugs down his throat with tapered urgency, and it tastes as unwelcome as he feels.
Fingers grasp the chopsticks gratefully, trusting the last hand that dares to feed. What else could he do? It'd be rude to bite. He's already bitten this hand before, painfully familiar with it's foul aftertaste.
His friend acquaintance pokes and prods at his own food, plate and chopsticks clanking. Tomura's red eyes look up.
Bags have made their homes under Natsuo's eyes while he's been gone. His smile has been eaten. A permanent furrow has etched it's way into Natsuo's brow in just a few months. As young as the week they met, it's clear their days apart have aged him.
The room around them hides the home he knew before. Beer cans and fizzy drinks curve the corners, the coffee table warped with dust. Mario Kart lap and coin counts remain stained on the TV screen, an old ghost in need of exorcism.
Natsuo's cheeks move as he chews the words in his mouth, stomach still empty.
Raspy words flee Tomura's cracked lips before he has chance to think them over. "Are you okay?"
A cold, shaky exhale leaves Natsuo's parted lips in response, white lashes clench closed. He swallows hard. Grey eyes flick open towards him, wet and glossy. "Are you?"
Tomura's breath catches in his throat, lungs plunging into the ocean between them, saltwater drowning his lungs. He still thinks about him at night, laid in his bed and starving in the absence of Natsuo's cool touch and warm smile, the way their shoulders brushed when they gamed together, thighs pressed close. He misses being called in between Natsuo's classes. He still knows his schedule. Tomura will kill a man, and picture Natsuo's disgusted face, will plan his attacks around his lectures when he knows Natsuo won't be nearby, yet his stomach will churn all the same. Their Stardew Valley farm still remains incomplete, fields Natsuo ploughed waiting to be sown. The steam achievements remain locked.
Drenched in cold water, stood in the pouring rain.
"I'm sorry."
Natsuo remains quiet, turning back to stare at the coffee table, expression blank. Tomura finishes his food.
He wakes up hours later, unsure of how long he's been out. Natsuo is sat on the floor by the base of the couch, white hair lightly brushing up against his feet, and wearing a different set of clothes.
Tomura attempts to sit up, careful of the wound wrapped so neatly at his waist. Limbs feel as though they've been torn from his body, world spiralling and heart beating out of his chest. His ribs ache like they've been broken, yet he knows they haven't. Surprisingly, his actual injuries hurt the least.
His face scrumples up a grimace as he lets out a groan, pushing the heels of his hands into his brow. His head is a murderer: Natsuo, his witness.
Cold fingers bat his own away, the backs touching his forehead. Grey eyes are back on him.
"You've got a fever." Natsuo's expression is one of a concerned lover, lips pursed and slightly bitten. It's reminiscent of their old days, Tomura returning battered and bruised, Natsuo caring for his wounds. The only difference now is that Natsuo knows their origin. Natsuo's face is so close to his, looking at him with gentle eyes. Tomura's heart lurches in his chest.
He stands, looming over him for a moment with a look of hesitancy then moving to the kitchen. The cupboards are opened and closed quietly, the crinkling of the metal wrapper as Natsuo pops out the pills. Water runs from the tap, filling a cup fresh for Tomura. He returns with both pills and water in hand.
"Here, take this."
The pills are placed in his hand and he chucks them into his throat. Natsuo's hand cups his head and lifts him slightly, propping the glass on his bottom lip so he can sip as he pleases. A thumb runs over his cheek as Natsuo waits, soothing and tenderly massaging scarred under-eyes. He can't help but melt into the cool touch, allowing comforting fingers to quell the heat radiating from his clammy skin.
Tomura almost whines when he's done drinking and Natsuo pulls away, removing his caring palm from his face. Red eyes follow his body as he retreats back. There's a trace of reluctance in his movements, something still clawing it's way back to him after all this time. His face says he would if Tomura would just ask.
Tomura drops his eyes to the Tv in the background, cutting their eye contact, effectively pushing him away. He doesn't deserve his forgiveness. Cold warmth lingers for a second longer before moving back to the sink and topping up the glass.
Natsuo should have left him outside and kept the door locked, further than arm's length, where Tomura wouldn't be able hurt him. It's the reason he'd stayed his distance, the reason he'd not come back. He was made for destruction, moulded and shaped to damage and break.
Tomura had wounded Natsuo before.
Never again.
His associate steps around the couch for the second time, plonking the cup on the coffee table with the one for himself. Fluffy hair tickles at his feet once more as Natsuo shuffles into his earlier position. The Tv volume remains low, loud enough to be able to hear without straining, quiet enough to not hurt his head. Stations flick over as Natsuo finds something for them to watch. Tomura doesn't bother focussing on the show's plot, letting his eyes idly trace over moving pictures and the volume entertain his ears. Outside, the skies begin to darken.
Hours pass, he slips in and out of consciousness. Sometimes Natsuo brings him his water, other times he doesn't. There's a textbook on the table now, open to pictures of anatomy and bones and words Tomura doesn't understand. Occasionally the page changes. The channel on the tv has been switched to some old comedy and Natsuo laughs along with it, smiling at the words in the textbook. Tomura slowly stretches his neck and legs, careful to not be noticed and disturb the peace.
Natsuo's eyes flick to his, head turning to face him, and he fails dismally.
Lips remain in their curved smile, pulling tighter at his cheeks but it's softness still the same. It meets his eyes, greys warm in the fading sun. Beautiful. He turns back to his textbook a reasonable amount of time later, continues laughing, pitch low and carefree, like he's at ease in Tomura's presence.
Tomura folds half his fingers up and rests his palm on his chest. His heartstrings tug inside.
The moment breaks as Natsuo's phone pings from down below. It's pulled out from his jeans' pocket, bright screen harsh to his eyes in the evening light. The picture of the two of them is blinding, his own cracked smile next to Natsuo's happy one.
"Just Fuyumi. Don't worry, I've not..." said anything.
"I know."
He's still Natsuo's home screen.
Natsuo is still his.
Tomura rolls over on the couch, turning to face the pillows and shield the wetness of his eyes from Natsuo's own. He can feel Natsuo's gaze on his back, can see the way white eyebrows fall in his mind's eye, head turning back around and eyes dropping back to the Tv.
By the 4th day at Natsuo's apartment, he's feeling a little better.
Tomura had managed to stumble his way to his phone to message the league at an ungodly hour the night before, and Natsuo had found him at 7 o'clock that morning slumped against the kitchen cabinets. He's now being held hostage on Natsuo's bed.
One cool arm is wrapped around him, a bare thigh against his leg. Fluffy white hair nuzzles in to his neck, warm breaths caressing his collarbone, his whole body cuddling, draped on top of Tomura's left side as he lies on his back. The gentle rhythm of the rise of his chest is a comfort as he wakes up, Natsuo's figure holding him down like a weighted blanket and easing years of built up strain in his muscles with a simple, unintentional touch.
Maybe if everyday started like this...
He finds his hand digging out from underneath Natsuo's body, initially aiming to wiggle his way free and stretch. Instead, his hand wavers over Natsuo's head, fingers careful as they brush the floppy spikes from his forehead. His thumb smooths over between his brows, shushing away the creases from his calm expression. He's so young yet lived through so much, wise with years he wasn't meant to have. Tomura supposes he's much the same himself.
It had always felt that way before he'd ruined it. Natsuo's father reminded him of All for One, the prodigy child, the neglect, Natsuo's dead sibling. Always understanding one another in ways others couldn't.
He rests his chin in Natsuo's hair, letting red eyes fall back closed, hand still loosely smoothing through the soft white locks.
"Mmfph."
Natsuo's morning grumble brushes Tomura's skin, huffing a small, petulant breath at having woken up.
Tomura's heart simultaneously freezes in his chest and aches all over again, biting his chapped lips as they curve up at the edges. His hand stills in Natsuo's hair, lifting slightly, pinky pointing to the ceiling for safety.
Natsuo's head moves, pushing back into Tomura's palm subconsciously as his body wakes up and limbs limply stretch.
"Tenko?" The deep baritones of Natsuo's sleep-laden voice rumble in the space between them.
Tomura's breath catches, eyes now wide open and searching for an escape route. His body tenses, and Natsuo's seems to hold him tighter in response, confining him to the mattress.
"Yeah?"
The slightest twitch of Natsuo's eyebrows symbolises his mind waking up, becoming aware of the situation and just who he's with, before they fade back to a calm neutrality.
"...Mornin'." Natsuo snuggles further into the crevices between his neck and shoulder.
Tomura sighs in relief. "Good morning, Natsuo."
It seems like hours, just the two of them, their sleepy breaths filling the expanse of the room. Eventually, one of them moves to get up.
Natsuo rolls off of Tomura's body and onto his back beside him, head far from the pillows from how he'd drifted in the night. Bulky arms stretch out in a 'Y' above his head and all the way to his sides, passing over Tomura's chest only to flop down back onto him. The rays of sun pass through Natsuo's lashes as he watches, blearily blinking open those grey eyes to meet the morning sun.
One arm curves over Tomura's body, Natsuo propping himself up on his other elbow and leaning into Tomura's space as he reaches for his phone. Their faces are so close, Natsuo's morning breath mixing with his own, their lips a mere inch apart. Natsuo doesn't seem to realise until his phone is in his hand and he's pulling back, warm eyes meeting his for the first time that morning.
"Uh—" Natsuo hesitates, still holding himself up partly over his chest. His eyes flick to cracked lips, lingering on the scar Tomura knows is there before darting growing grey storms back up to his guiltily.
Red eyes are wide as he stares back up at Natsuo, mouth dry and lips parted. His ex-friend's eyes follow the lump of his Adam's apple as he swallows, tracing the path of his tongue as it wets his chapped lips. For a moment, Natsuo dips closer, their faces almost touching, then he's pulling away, shuffling backwards on the bed, his voice dropping low and weak with the "Sorry" that falls from soft lips.
Tomura's dismay clumps up in his throat, body sitting up to distract from the gaping hole in his heart. He shouldn't have expected anything. Natsuo doesn't— couldn't. Not him.
"It's okay."
Natsuo's back is to him when he glances at him again, legs swung of the edge of the bed, skin clean and unmarred. Tomura clears his throat, scanning the room for a second before speaking up, "What— um, what time is it?"
He turns his neck to look back at him, grey eyes meeting his once more then snapping back and fumbling with the phone he'd forgotten was in his hand.
His eyes flick back over again as he responds. "10:39." He raises a white brow in question.
"It's Monday, right?"
"Yeah, wh—" Natsuo's eyes gape, brows raising as his face pales. He jumps up and swivels round, dashing out the bedroom doorway in only his underwear and fleeing down the hall. Seconds later, he comes darting back in, tripping on a pile of dirty clothes as he gathers fresh ones from his wardrobe. Out the door again. Tomura hears the bathroom door slam closed before it clicks back open, a muffled "Thank you!" shouted down the hall before it's closed and locked once more.
He can't help the smile that crawls its way up his cheeks, rubbing his palms over his face and chuckling into his hands. Natsuo's such a college stereotype. He swings his legs off of the bed and stands up himself, careful with his wounds yet still mirroring Natsuo's earlier actions.
His feet pad down the hall, passing by the bathroom and into the kitchen near the entrance.
Bread. Eggs. Juice.
Natsuo had taught him how to cook a few months into their friendship, his hands on Tomura's as he'd guided him on how to scramble his own eggs. He rummages through the cupboards for two clean glasses, finding some hidden behind a bunch of bowls that didn't belong in this specific unorganised cupboard. One hand focuses on the drinks, the other on rearranging things back to where they belong. Bread is crammed into the toaster. The eggs sizzle in the pan as he cracks them in, pouring a little oil to stop them sticking, along with pepper and salt. He plucks a whisk out of the drawer. It feels at home in his hand, the smell of Natsuo's kitchen in his nose and old words dancing around in the back of his mind.
'No person is born strictly for creating or destroying, the two ideas are inseparable, the concepts symbiotic.'
He's missed Natsuo's optimism.
The eggs get whisked to perfection, on top of the toast and onto the plates just in time for the bathroom door flying open. His acquaintance patters into the kitchen to join him, white hair still damp, face pink and refreshed. He's halfway through searching a cupboard when he realises Tomura's cooking.
Tomura doesn't say anything, pushing one of the plates towards him and offering a knife and fork with his spare hand. Natsuo's face lights up, that wide, all-consuming smile overtaking his cheeks and beaming over at him. Tomura can't help smiling back, a shy, ugly thing that wrinkles his cheeks and stretches dry lips, but Natsuo doesn't seem bothered. Instead, he digs in, wolfing through the meal in the way only a college student running late to class could, and downing his juice like he's never drank before. He chokes a little, Tomura thumping him on the back to clear his airways and he runs off to grab his shoes.
Tomura follows, plate in hand, eating and using Natsuo's flubbing about as entertainment to accompany his meal. He toes on his shoes, lacing them with a speed unknown to man, then flings his backpack around his shoulders like it's collateral damage. Flushed face leans in to his, placing a soft peck to his cheek before racing through the door and out of his sight.
...
Threatening fingers press to his own face, touching the chill where ice-cold lips had been.
No longer confined to the couch, with the league sated for now, and without Natsuo's ever-present company, Tomura finds himself itching to do something. Something to help, something to repay his non-existent debt. The bins are full, corners of the rooms hidden by trash and shelves burdened by dust. Papers line the coffee table, books and folders stacked beside the couch. He wouldn't know where to start.
The growing pile of pots stares at him from the sink and counter. That, he can do, even in his state of injury.
He makes his way over and runs the water warm. Bubbles froth and foam with the pearlescent sheen he so often sees in dating sims. The plates he scrapes of crumbs before dipping into the bowl, soap slicking and pruning his fingers. Natsuo plays on his mind. Palms raise out of the comforting heat to reach for the scouring pad, sinking back into the liquid and letting it absorb until saturated. The apartment has a chill in comparison to the hotness at his hands, the cool reminding him of the frosty weather creeping into the air outside. He wonders what it'd be like if things were still like before, if Natsuo would continue to lend him his jacket on trips to the arcade, if he'd still hold his homicidal hands in his.
His cheek tingles, skin ingrained with feel of Natsuo's lips.
Hands slip, dropping the plate back into the bowl and grasping it with all five digits on the way. Water splashes up, drenching the front of his shirt. One misstep, one accident, and it would all be over.
Red eyes fall to the bowl. The plate remains intact, luckily, water having prevented quirk activation and his breath shudders with relief.
Tomura pauses his Slime Rancher playthrough when Natsuo's keys jingle in the apartment door, opening shortly after to reveal the man himself. Rucksack is placed on the freshly-cleared coffee table, a smaller, paper bag put beside it. Natsuo toes off his shoes in careless fashion, nudging them slightly further out of the way and flinging himself down onto the couch to join him.
White hair lands in his lap, elbows stretching up under Tomura's, Natsuo's palms dragging down his tired face.
"Welcome home."
Natsuo huffs, hands falling from his cheeks to make way for a toothy smile.
Tomura's lips tug up at the edges to mirror. "Long day?"
His ally exhales deeply. All the day's woes seem to leave his lungs, bleeding from his exhausted carcass. Tomura unpauses his game while Natsuo fidgets to get comfy. One arm is strung above his head and over the armrest, then two, then he's stretching. He finds an agreeable position on Tomura's thighs a few minutes later, shoulders rolling back to paw into his flesh like a cat as he finally settles down.
"That bad?"
Natsuo lets out a hum into his thighs as response, now balanced halfway on his side. "T'was busy."
A calm silence falls over them.
The evenings dwindle in sooner with each coming day. Red eyes begin to strain as they stare at the tv in the lowering light. Thirty minutes pass.
He's began to wonder if Natsuo has fallen asleep in his lap when long limbs stretch again. Out towards the coffee table, and his neck falls off the edge of his kneecaps. Tomura makes a noise of questioning surprise, eyes flicking away from the screen to check Natsuo hadn't just almost rolled off of his lap in his sleep.
"'s fine. 'M just—" Fingers brush the straps of his rucksack, hooking on and dragging it towards them without moving from his half-on-the-couch position. Natsuo hesitates when no papers are dragged off along with his bag, neck twisting to peer up and meet Tomura's eyes. "You tidied?"
Tomura's right hand drifts off of the controller and to his neck, eyes looking away from Natsuo and to the screen instead. A firm hand on his upper thigh has him halting before he can scratch, chewing his lip between his teeth in lieu to relieve the feeling.
"Um. Yeah." He's not sure why he feels nervous admitting so.
Natsuo twizzles his body to have a further look around, scanning over the multiple stacks of papers arranged neatly on the table's far edge. It's amazing how the corners of the room feel like worthless apologies under Natsuo's civilian eyes. He can hear the answer before lips move, feel it in the tension in the air.
You didn't have to.
Watery vocals meet his ears, still unable to see Natsuo's face. "Thanks."
Natsuo turns back to lie on his spine, palms immediately coming up and pressing into his eyes. Shoulders hunch and draw in, knees slightly curled, legs and elbows held tightly together. His gentle voice cracks, "I'm sorry." His chest shakes. "I shouldn't have— shouldn't have let it get that bad. When you— I should have—"
Tomura pulls him up and into his chest, uncaring for the unpaused game he tosses aside. "It's okay." Natsuo coils further in on himself in Tomura's arms, one holding him close, his right resting over Natsuo's shoulder, hand running through his hair. His breathing shudders. Damp spots seep through the fabric of Tomura's borrowed tee.
Natsuo shuffles closer, weight changing position on his thighs and accidentally brushing against his bandages. Tomura hisses.
Cold legs and arms fumble, scuttling back, nearing his knees and frantically moving away.
Tomura halts him, a hand on each of Natsuo's wrists, pinkies raised. Red eyes peer into raging storms.
"Natsuo, breathe."
It takes a second, then a minute.
In.
Out.
Natsuo blinks, and some of the unshed tears fall, rivers trailing over pink undereyes and plains of soft skin. His thumbs wipe them away, lukewarm, salty liquid spread thin.
In.
Tomura readjusts so his hand rests tenderly but firm on Natsuo's lower back, and pulls him back into his arms with a light, easily-escapable pressure.
Out.
Natsuo relaxes in his hold. Thighs on thighs, head next to his. His fingers migrate back to soft white locks, his chin hooking on a cold shoulder, Natsuo's on his. Natsuo's breathing calms into steady exhales, body sinking into Tomura's own. Tomura burrows his face in the crook of Natsuo's neck, smelling the scent of a difficult day mixing with the fabric softener on Natsuo's clothes and his usual soothing musk, rocking the two of them back and forth. He doesn't think twice, cracked lips pressing to the tender skin there, a small and delicate kiss.
"It's okay," he repeats himself. I've seen worse — Natsuo doesn't need that sort of reminder right now. "I don't mind."
"I still— I should have—" Natsuo trails off.
"I showed up unannounced." And again, "It's okay."
Natsuo sniffles and sits back, allowing Tomura to see his face. "Thank you," cold lips offer him a weak smile. Tomura smiles back.
Another minute passes. Natsuo's upper teeth press into his lower lip. Tomura's eyes follow the action, watching as the edges of his smile quirk further up, morphing into something less timid and more mischievous.
"You stink, by the way." Natsuo chest wobbles up and down, giggling silently.
Tomura's eyes widen, affronted, before he keys in with a snort of amusement. "You haven't let me shower!"
"Maybe we should change that."
He can feel his face heat up, mouth opening and closing at Natsuo's bold suggestion. Natsuo takes in his expression and drops his forehead to his, closing his eyes, his chuckling vibrating his body in Tomura's lap.
He reopens his eyes and looks Tomura in his own. "I bought shower wrap. You can shower now."
His mouth closes with the realisation Natsuo hadn't meant it like that, face only burning hotter at the misunderstanding, which makes Natsuo laugh even more. "You're adorable."
'You're adorable.' It's all Tomura can think of as Natsuo finishes sealing over his bandages.
His shirt is on the floor, Natsuo's overlarge joggers sinking low from where he'd tightened them at his waist. Nimble fingers fiddle away across his stomach and hips, readjusting, smoothing. With every touch, his heart flutters. Seconds later, Natsuo's hands peel away, moving back and giving Tomura some room.
Tomura's eyes meet his. Natsuo's smile is still soft, almost domestic. Something within Tomura yearns with every moment he sees him, every gentle touch, waking up to Natsuo's sleep-laden breaths and white lashes. Everything that had made him so dearly miss him. His first friend. His first everything.
Natsuo leaves the room to fetch him clean joggers and a fluffy towel, and Tomura is struck with a stab in the guts. He doesn't want to leave him. Not again.
It takes him a while, but eventually he makes it out of the bathroom door.
Wet hair drips, soggy, on his bare shoulders. The new set of borrowed joggers fit better than the last, not sagging as low on his waist as he pads sock-footed into the lounge.
Natsuo sits on the couch, controller in hand. He's feeding the slimes Tomura had spent all day collecting, sucking up the plorts from the ground and depositing them in his in-game silos. Tomura's lips curve, wrinkling his cheeks and undereyes as he smiles. Teamwork. Working on something together, the two of them. His Stardew Valley farm comes to mind, their black and white dog Natsuo had named Barkode. A single part of him hopes.
He steps forward, his movements catching Natsuo's eye and he pauses the game to face him. Warm greys find his, voice gentle when he greets him. "Hi."
"Hey."
Water plops from one of his many loose strands of hair, creating a tiny damp patch on the floor. Lethal hands stretch and press the towel back to his head once more, trying to seep more of the liquid from his hair. It doesn't work, curls fall back down around his face and continue to drip.
"Tomura," Natsuo gestures to the empty space of floor between his legs.
"You're—"
"Busy?" Natsuo raises an eyebrow and gives him a look. "I can watch."
Tomura hesitates for a moment before his shoulders sag with defeat. "Fine." He sinks down to the floor, turning so his back is to Natsuo and his hair is near his lap. Natsuo hands him the controller from over his shoulder in exchange for the towel. Tomura unpauses the game.
Cold fingers are gentle as they reposition the loose hair. The towel is laid over his shoulders, separating damp strands from his back and placing the hair on top. Knees rest at the sides of each of his shoulders. The corners of the towel squeeze the remaining water from his hair. His character on screen runs around through the map as he relaxes into Natsuo's touch.
Small, plastic clicks of the controller fill the silence, their combined breathing, Natsuo's hands grazing his neck. Hair is manoeuvred into one large clump, a slight pressure at his crown, Natsuo's thumb holding it all in place. His other arm reaches and picks something up off of the couch, and then the tips of Tomura's hair are being parted into even strands. The comb continues to work it's way through. It loosens knot after knot as Natsuo slowly works his way up. Eventually, all has been brushed. The comb moves to his crown, sweeping it all into one neat ponytail. Natsuo reaches back once more, and a bobble is stretched around his hair, keeping it in place and out of his face.
Natsuo fingers card through it and it dangles over Tomura's neck, trail just brushing the top notch of his spine.
Tomura's voice is raspy and unused, a small smile playing on his lips. "Thanks."
Natsuo doesn't say anything, the comforting silence enough of a response between the two of them.
Soft lips press to the mole on Tomura's upper back, gentle exhales brushing over the clean skin. Natsuo whispers, voice a shy confession on the tops of his ears. "You're so pretty."
Tomura's breath hitches in his throat.
"I'm a villain, Natsuo."
Quiet. Silence. A long moment. Cold breath is still present on his neck, Natsuo doesn't move away.
"I know."
Tomura clasps his hands tighter on the controller to resist bringing them to his neck. "I've killed people."
"I know.
"—I love you."
Tomura whirls around, jaw slack, heart thunderstruck, his red eyes on Natsuo.
Natsuo is looking off to one side, hand timid on the back of his neck. He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, greys hesitating before moving to meet his.
"I—"
Tomura's lips meet cold ones.
Natsuo's breath mingles with his, a dangerous hand cupping his face, pinky up.
His hand is placed on top, fingers interlocking, holding his in place.
They pull apart for air, and the first thing Tomura sees is that blinding, white smile gleaming back at him.
"I love you too."