There are certain things that he doesn’t talk about.
There are certain things that he doesn’t think, or tries not, to think about. There are people his mind shuts down for. Actually, there’s one person in particular that makes his body burn.
This doesn’t seem to bother him much. He doesn’t allow that. This is a man with refined tastes and wants and hopes. He’s been trained to be this way since birth. He sits up straight. His coffee is imported and bitter. Something as sweet as a blue-haired blonde doesn’t fit his agenda. He tricks himself into thinking sweetness is sickness.
The early hours of the morning call for him.
His sheets, strung about in his sleep, are too expensive to dirty with sweetness. They’re silk.
Tamaki’s moans are loud and obnoxious. This is the one time that Kyoya is grateful for a large estate: the quarters for the full-time staff are floors beneath him. The movement of the bed matching the movement of their bodies would sound like a dull scratch. It could be anything and nothing at all. They’d be smart to mind their business. That’s what they get stipends for.
He’s hot, and tight. Kyoya tries to stifle a grunt as his head slips in seamlessly. Tamaki laughs. He’s embarrassed but tries to play it off as anger. Tamaki pushes backwards against his length- a retaliation.
It’s not enough. They’re as close as they can possibly get, but it’s still not enough. He buries deeper. Tamaki isn’t patient, and Kyoya’s cool is fading fast. It’s only Tamaki that melts him like this. His heart is pulsing through his hands, his face, his cock. He wants the blonde to shut the fuck up for once, to stand still, to move, to come impossibly closer. At this point, he doesn’t know if he’s moaning out of frustration or pleasure.
It’s like Tamaki is a curse. He’s inside his blood. His moans are what he wants to drown in. The burning, the heat, it’s all consuming. It’s all he fucking thinks about. This moment, this closeness. He’s the sun. He’s so maddingly beautiful that it burns.
His breath hitches. Tamaki follows suit. They’re breathless. Kyoya wants to scream, but nothing comes out. His lips are pressed in a silent yell against the blonde’s chest. He’s tipped upwards, towards his neck, wanting to swallow the noises the other is making. He doesn’t want anything else to hear. He’s jealous of the walls. He’s jealous of the bed for cradling the two of them.
He jolts. After a dream like that, all of Kyoya’s defenses go up in smoke, like it or not. He’s covered in sweat, and he’s alone.
The washer drier on this floor are down the hall. It’s 4 a.m, and the staff will be up soon. He grudgingly strips the sheets off of his bed. This is commoner work. Then again, the thought of being seen covered in his own filth makes him cringe.
It’s Saturday now. Which means in six hours, Tamaki is meant to stay the night. He makes sure to find the nearest bathroom on the way back to freshen up. Meaning, push down these thoughts to the deepest, darkest corner he could find. Wash them with the laundry.
There are certain things he doesn’t talk about.