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"Here," Naruhodo will say, "this is how you liked it." His voice is soft, careful as it rounds each syllable, like one wrong move will send Asogi running. Naruhodo tucks Asogi's hair behind his ear; it tickles; Asogi twitches, shudders.
But this is how Kazuma liked it. This is how he is supposed to like it. Naruhodo makes a soft noise, a question, are you okay, and Asogi leans into his touch. So Naruhodo presses his fingers back into the sensitive skin just below Asogi's ear, right at the start of his neck, and there's the question in his eyes, can I?
He wants to like it. He wants to want it. So Asogi answers the only way he can—leans in, pressing his mouth against Naruhodo's, so that Naruhodo makes another faint noise, short of a gasp. Asogi thinks he understands how Kazuma could like this, like Naruhodo. Wonders, too, if Kazuma liked this—liked how Naruhodo shivers, cards his fingers into Asogi's hair as though to root himself there, root himself against Asogi's body. It's silly; it's not like Asogi is going anywhere, even though he wants to.
But altogether, it's chaste. Naruhodo's fingers slip out of his hair; their mouths drag off one another's. Naruhodo isn't flushed, but he could be, probably would be if they'd gone any farther. Kazuma would've gone farther, he thinks; Kazuma would've been possessive, digging his fingers into Naruhodo's skin, licking into Naruhodo's mouth. Does Naruhodo like that, anyway? Maybe; probably. There's a sheen to his eyes as though he wanted—expected—more. Unsated.
It's sweet, kind of. Cute, kind of. Asogi could lean back in and give Naruhodo what he wants. He could; he doesn't; he wants to want that.
"Did you like it," Naruhodo asks. Not breathless, exactly, but bated; voice tight around the words, hope stretched thin.
"Yes," Asogi answers, the only way he can. It's the truth in a manner of speaking. It will be the truth when he learns to like it, when he remembers, whichever comes first.