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Kunigami looks completely and utterly nauseous.
It’s not a bad look. Makes his skin even paler, makes his pupils shrink down, makes his lips go all tight. They’re on the floor, Kunigami’s hand behind him for balance, Shidou on his lap, arms wrapped around him. It’s not a bad look, no, no.
“Hmmm,” Shidou hums. “Realized I’m right?”
Earlier, in an off-handed conversation to some stupid boring teammate, Shidou’d called Kunigami his boyfriend. Which had prompted Kunigami to start a fight over it once they got home—because it’s their home, isn’t it, which just proves Shidou’s point—and the lady really doth protest entirely too much.
Kunigami swallows. Ah, Shidou hopes he won’t actually throw up. Is the thought of dating Shidou really so bad?
“Fuck,” he says, all hoarse, free hand brushing into his hair to yank. “Fuck.”
Eloquent.
“See?” Shidou purrs, even though annoyance beads under his skin. It’s okay, they can get into another fight soon. “Like it or not, you are acting like my boyfriend, loser hero.”
Makes Kunigami swallow again. Shidou leans in and presses kisses over his face, nipping every once in a while as he goes. Under him, Kunigami is growing hard, because of course he is. Because they fight and they fuck and they eat together, and for all intents and purposes, Kunigami is Shidou’s stupid fucking boyfriend. He is. What else would one even call this?
It’s lame, of course, clear boxes and talks about What are we, but they work without those. And still, that’s what it is.
“Fuck,” Kunigami repeats, melting slowly from thunderstruck to nauseous to appalled to something else entirely. It’s delicious. Shidou wants to wrap his hands around his throat and squeeze it out of him.
“Shut up and kiss me,” he says. Kunigami does.