Chapter Text
There is this: how his mouth goes irritatingly soft when faced with Takao’s never-ending optimism, how he can’t help but give in if Takao wants something enough. The way, now, Takao shifts when he’s sitting at Midorima’s feet so that his head is nudging Midorima’s hand, and the way his own traitorous fingers run themselves through Takao’s hair. There’s no point deluding himself into believing any of this came as a surprise— the only surprise is how much he wants .
“Takao,” Midorima says, his hand going still. Right now he has his gloves off in a rare unguarded moment, and he feels each individual strand of hair against his fingers and the smooth waves that break around them. Takao’s skin is warm where he touches it, and Midorima is glad that he gave in to an impulse, for once.
“Do we have to leave already?” He can see the edge of a smile as Takao says this, soft and private.
“Come up here,” he says instead of answering. Takao sighs, presses his cheek to Midorima’s knee for a second then wriggles up onto the couch. He isn’t dressed for dinner yet; he’s only in loose sweatpants and Midorima’s old Musashino sweater. It’s loose enough that it hangs from his neck to gape loosely, baring the pale expanse of his chest. Midorima tries not to look but it draws his gaze anyway, and he can practically feel Takao’s smirk.
“Shin-chan—”
“You should get dressed.” He says it too quickly to be entirely casual. Takao gives him a speaking look, leans a little closer. The collar of his sweater slips down his shoulder.
“We,” Midorima says with all the firmness he can muster, “have reservations. I would like to be punctual.”
What he would like to do, frankly, is Takao, but Midorima has more self-control than that. Takao pouts but doesn’t push the issue any further. He can tell when Midorima is determined not to entertain his overtures, and they’ve spent enough time together now that Midorima has stopped being uncomfortable at his perceptiveness. Then he puts a hand on Midorima’s shoulder. Midorima is about to voice a surprised protest— instead, Takao just levers himself up and off the couch.
“I’m borrowing your bathroom, okay?” says Takao. He turns to go, then pauses. “Although I could change here.” Midorima doesn’t bother saying anything; the glare he directs at Takao is answer enough. Takao grins at him, and when he saunters off to fetch his clothes Midorima watches him go. It’s only when he hears the soft click of the bathroom door that he goes to get his own jacket from the bedroom.
He’s already in his shirt and trousers because he hadn’t expected Takao to ambush him and demand ‘cuddle time’ (which he had of course refused. There isn’t the time to iron out any creases before dinner), so there’s only his jacket left to wear. It happens to be one of his favourites despite not wearing it often, a classic black Brioni. The cut skims the line of his waist a little too closely for comfort, and it’s too formal for regular occasions, but Midorima will admit there is something to be said for Italian tailoring. Looking in the mirror after he’s put it on, he allows himself a tiny bit of satisfaction. He makes a last adjustment to his collar before heading to fetch Takao from the guest bathroom.
He's reaching for the doorknob when it's pulled open from the inside. Takao steps out, shutting the door behind him, strikes a pose immediately. “How do I look?” he asks, one hand against the wall in what he probably imagines is a very debonair manner.
Midorima doesn’t know if he can answer the question without saying something wholly embarrassing, because this is the first time he’s ever seen Takao wearing an actual, properly-tailored suit. The suit by itself isn’t anything Midorima hasn’t seen before, having become accustomed to pianists on the performance circuit pulling out all the stops for their shows. On Takao, somehow, it’s different. The notched lapels are silk; they stand out from the rest of his steel blue suit and lead Midorima’s eyes down to the smoothly nipped-in waist— he’s fit his hands to Takao’s waist so many times without realising how small it really is. Midorima has only to glance at how Takao’s trousers cling to his thighs before the thin thread of his self-control snaps.
“Different,” he says, finally. Takao purses his lips, cocks his head as Midorima steps closer.
“Different how?”
“Just,” Midorima touches the gel-slick top of Takao’s head, exhaling measuredly, “different.” Coiling in his chest is the need to throw Takao’s clean lines into disarray, a feeling that is utterly alien to him and yet more tempting as the seconds tick by. Takao places his hand on the breast of Midorima’s jacket, traces the edge of his lapel.
“You look different too, Shin-chan,” he says quietly, intimately, like a confession. Midorima’s heart is off-tempo, the beat too hard and too fast under Takao’s slim fingers. As Takao runs his tongue over his bottom lip, Midorima’s hand slides down to rest on his cheek.
“You look like—” Takao interrupts himself with a huff of laughter, but his eyes are dark in a way Midorima has rarely seen. “You look like you wanna eat me up,” he finishes, the hint of a smile hiding in the corners of his mouth. Midorima resists the urge to sigh in exasperation.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” But he leans down, slowly, watching the minute flicker of Takao’s eyelids as his head tilts up. Midorima hesitates. He’s never really initiated a kiss before— it’s always been somewhat mutual, or Takao cajoling him into it. But Takao looks so vulnerable like this, all his defences down and lips parted slightly, only waiting for Midorima to do whatever he wants. He’s always waiting for me , Midorima thinks, with something he doesn’t like to admit is fondness. He rubs his thumb across the swoop of Takao’s cheekbone, savours the thrill down his spine when Takao shivers.
Kissing Takao is always an experience, and usually it’s Takao who guides them through it. This time, though, when Midorima fits his lips to the curve of Takao's mouth, he’s content to follow Midorima’s lead. He can feel Takao’s fingers curl in his shirt; there will be wrinkles but Midorima’s concern for his clothes has been buried under insistent thoughts of what he could do to Takao-in-a-suit. He pulls Takao closer so they’re pressed against each other as close as they can get— it’s not a comfortable position for Takao, some part of his brain notes, but he is too absorbed to care just yet.
He cups his right hand around Takao’s jaw and bends closer. Once— twice— light, barely-there kisses because he doesn’t want to move too fast, doesn’t actually want to go any further now. Takao licks at his lips anyway, then lets out a shaky breath but no protest when Midorima pauses. He’s being oddly docile today. Midorima isn't sure if he likes it or not.
“Shin-chan...” His voice is hoarse enough for Midorima to infer that Takao wants this just as much as he does. A new kind of heat simmers in his belly, cousin to the electric spike of adrenaline that comes when he sees Takao onstage, when he watches the quick flash of Takao’s fingers on the contrabassoon. That isn’t a very good line of thought to follow if they’re still planning on leaving the apartment, so Midorima forces himself to think very hard about dinner. Just as he’s doing this, Takao shifts a little and swallows, his throat moving under the press of Midorima's right hand. His heartbeat is unsteady against Midorima’s naked fingertips.
Maybe, a small voice in Midorima’s head suggests (it sounds eerily like Kise), dinner can be postponed.
Then: “We have reservations,” Takao says in an echo of Midorima’s earlier words, just when he’s about to back Takao up against the wall; now he can see the wicked glint in Takao's eyes.
“I know.” His knee slides in between Takao’s thighs without input from his brain. The wall hits Takao’s back hard, knocking the wind out of him, but he just laughs breathlessly.
“You know, the waiting list at Ryugin is insane—”
“I know,” Midorima repeats, annoyed. At this juncture the Kise-voice helpfully reminds him that reservations can be cancelled. Midorima, to his later chagrin, doesn’t think twice about agreeing. He stops any further backtalk with a kiss that drags on longer than he means it to, and by the time he pulls back Takao’s carefully styled hair is falling in his face again and his pupils are blown with want. On any other night this would end in slow friction on the sofa and bringing each other off with their hands (or mouths, depending). But tonight Takao looks at him like he wants a lot more, like maybe Midorima should give him something that's really worth abandoning dinner.
Takao's breath hitches when Midorima kisses the corner of his mouth. "Let's—" Takao breaks off, bites his lip, then grins.
"Let's go all," he sings, "the way tonight, no regrets, just—"
Midorima takes a pointed step back, hands sliding off Takao's waist and throat. "For someone who constantly reminds me about the 'mood'," he says dryly, "you certainly know how to kill one."
Takao laughs and reaches for Midorima's left hand, twining their fingers together. "No, sorry, it's— the fish ," whispered like he's telling a secret, head tilting in the direction of the aquarium. It had been a present from Akashi some years ago, nine huge-eyed goldfish that swim around in a tank set in the corridor wall, made to look like a moving painting. It’s three feet wide and spans nearly half the length of the corridor— whenever Takao is over he complains about it being a 'turn-off', which is quite incomprehensible.
"They're good luck."
"They're creepy ," Takao insists. They've had this argument numerous times already, but Midorima isn't going to concede. He can think of very few things worse than offending Akashi Seijuurou. Still—
“Come to bed, then,” he says, daring. Takao lifts a speaking eyebrow, lets himself be pulled forward, back into Midorima’s bedroom.
Having Takao in his bedroom is not in itself an irregular occurrence, but having Takao in his bedroom for something other than a change of clothes is strange and new and he needs a moment to gather himself. Takao watches him, stroking Midorima’s wrist with his callused fingertips.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to.”
Midorima brings Takao’s hand to his lips, kisses it as though he can convey the depth of his feelings just like that. “I want to.”
And he does, and they do, and Midorima feels the way he felt long years ago, when he first played a flawless runthrough of La Campanella at concert speed, and when he tells this to Takao later he just laughs like spring, like Midorima has told him something beautiful, and Midorima— Midorima supposes he has.