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"It’s rare for us to get time alone like this,” The observation is hummed against the rim of the can waiting at Mitsuki’s lips. “It feels so empty here.” He leans back on his palms, stretching his legs beneath the kotatsu. The brush of Mitsuki’s outstretched legs against the denim of his pants prompts a tense swallow from him, and he raises his can to his lips to play it off before he realizes it’s been long emptied. He sets the can down on the table and furrows his brow.
Yamato and Mitsuki share beers and maybe some feelings over a meal.