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The apartment is raincloud shadowy inside and it smells of sour yeast. It’s been an unusually cold winter for Kamurocho, and the shuddering box heater jutted between the coffee table and the futon barely tamps out the chilly quality of the air. Much less the chilly quality inside of Yagami.
Kaito could draw comparisons between Okubo and Yagami, and he might if he was a crueler person. A hermit, barely leaving the house, who rests on his futon and has departed from his job—it sounds like Okubo. Yagami’s never been the type to act so frail. When they’d met, Yagami’s depression manifested itself in fury. Kaito could attest to that, and so could the old photographs of them with bruised jawlines and split skin.
This is a new monster all together, and Kaito doesn’t know how to handle it.
He flicks the lights on. Besides the lump of Yagami’s body hidden nervously beneath a wrinkled duvet, the most concerning thing is a pile of cigarette butts that have been ashed out on the carpet. There’s a pool of grey staining the floor, and it’s as saddening as it is disgusting. A few crushed cans of Asahi beer litter the apartment, but it’s nothing compared to the small colony of dead smokes Yagami has created.
“Ta-Bo,” Kaito walks over to the futon and digs at his ribs under the blanket using the toe of his shoe. Yagami doesn’t respond, just pulls the blanket up higher over his head. “Get up. You can’t mope forever.”
Nothing.
The silence makes Kaito click his tongue.
It’s been a month since Emi-chan died. Yagami harbors guilt like a disease, and it festers like an infection. He knows how Yagami is, how his morality drives him like oxygen. He can’t imagine the kind of punishment he’s inflicted upon himself mentally, but he still finds the pitiful state obnoxious. Yagami being so inactive—it leaves it up to Kaito to make sure he hasn’t atrophied.
“You need to take care of yourself, Yagami!” Kaito shouts, but Yagami doesn’t even shift. The blanket rises and falls with slow, unaffected breaths. It’s like he’s comatose.
Kaito pulls the blanket off, intent on lecturing Yagami for being so cruel—for ignoring him, goddammit—but when he gets a good look at him, the anger burning in his chest freezes into something cool and sick. He lets the duvet hit the floor beside the cigarette pile.
Yagami’s eyes are closed, but the bags beneath them are sallow and bruise-dark, and although he’s done nothing but sleep all week, he looks like he hasn’t slept in days. His hair, usually so neat and slicked-back, is limp and greasy. But most concerning is his skin. It looks loose and pale, sitting on his frame like he’s been starving himself.
Considering the evidence, his diet must have been nothing but cigarettes and alcohol, so he essentially has been starving himself.
“Ta-Bo,” Kaito’s voice deflates, taking on a tender note, and he kneels beside the futon, resting his hands on his arm. He shakes him a little, but Yagami won’t speak, won’t even look at him. “I’m sorry for yelling. Please get up.”
He waits for a while, kneeling above his friend—his life partner, really—and waiting with his warm palms cupping the cold skin of his arm. He thumbs the joint of his shoulder, massages the spot beneath his collarbone and waits.
Once more, he says, “Ta-Bo.”
Finally, one eyelid opens and Yagami gives him this distant stare, his pupil wet and sclera red. Then it closes again.
But Kaito knows the meaning in his looks. And when he pulls the blanket back over his frame, he knows he’s going to be staying for a long fucking time.
He starts Yagami’s recovery for him, knowing he can’t do it himself, by picking up the stinking cigarette butts off the floor.
*
Kaito is pissed.
He feels like he’s been deemed the enemy, like he’s being punished for what Okubo did to Emi-chan. Maximum isolation. Yagami won’t speak to him, won’t even react to him, and it hurts. Kaito feels like a cold-shouldered husband who’s cheated on his wife and is paying the price of her heartbreak. But he doesn’t say anything. Setting his emotions aside—something that takes great willpower for him—Kaito knows yelling at Yagami in this state would only make things worse.
It’s still a punishment, though. Sometimes, speaking to Yagami is the highlight of his day. He knows it’s unhealthy to be dependent on another person’s happiness for your own, but he thinks it’s just evidence that he cares. As bad as Yagami looks, though, the apartment is looking good. Or at least better. Kaito’s a sloppy person when it comes to anything but work and his frankly impeccable dress sense, but he’s managed to clean up the cans, the cigarette butts, the crumpled tissues—gross—and the molding Styrofoam cups of instant ramen. He’s even run one of those sanitizing wipes over the dust-and-coffee-stain-laden table, the windowsills. He’s never done that for himself.
Kaito went so far as to vacuum the carpet beside Yagami’s futon to suck up that (literal) nicotine patch and grinned a little at the resulting groan when he passed the rumbling cleaner near Yagami’s head. It’s the most Yagami’s communicated with him.
It’s been three days since Kaito’s made himself at home, and he’s lounging on Yagami’s newly laundered couch playing a poker app on his phone. He’s cranked the heat up, since the weather’s becoming more and more abysmally cold. And although he’s comfortable, sprawled on the couch, basking in the artificial warmth, the air smelling of citrus only slightly tinged with nicotine, he’s still feeling rejected.
“Yes,” he hisses through his teeth as he lands a straight.
Finally, Yagami sits up. Kaito looks over at him. Yagami’s only emerged from the futon to go to the bathroom or feed himself a single cup of ramen a day and down a beer, before returning to his wrinkled spot beneath the blankets. But now, when Yagami pulls himself to his feet, he walks over to the couch and sits beside Kaito.
“Hey,” Kaito says.
Yagami blinks sleepily and leans his head on his shoulder. His breath hitches and the newly fixed heater can’t even spurt out the level of warmth that bleeds through Kaito. This minimal contact is more relieving than a massage, Kaito swears.
“You smell really bad.”
Yagami doesn’t say anything. Kaito offers his phone to him.
When Yagami takes it, the light coming from the screen makes his pallid face go bright neon, makes his eyes look more alive as they reflect the electronic glow. Kaito gets up and lets him play a round. He can’t imagine the lack of stimulation Yagami’s been enduring for no reason other than to violently impale himself with introspection that Kaito’s sure is only self-berating. The game might be the most distraction he’s had since Emi-chan was killed.
Edging his way into the tiny bathroom, Kaito retrieves Yagami’s too-dry toothbrush and covers the bristles with enough paste to make up for a week of morning breath.
Flopping on the couch, he offers the toothbrush to Yagami as well. Yagami looks at it but doesn’t make a move to take it. Instead, he simply drops his mouth open.
“Are you fuckin’ serious?”
Yagami gives a short, almost imperceptible nod.
“Spoiled brat,” Kaito hisses, but he holds Yagami’s chin as he brushes his teeth, frothing mint-drool collecting at the corners of his mouth. But even as he scrubs away Yagami’s plaque with furrowed brows and a wrinkled nose, he can’t help but let the disgust fade. Because Yagami sends him a barely-there smile when Kaito brings him a cup to spit in.
*
The next day, he speaks.
It’s a sore sounding request, like his raspy voice is being pushed through a narrow hose.
“Will you bring me something to eat?”
Kaito looks from the mirror, where he’s trying on Yagami’s suit jackets, too tight around his shoulders. He remembers the one he used in court to defend Okubo the first time, and he decides against pulling it from the closet.
“Sure,” he says, trying to keep his voice level. His heart is pounding. He wants to yell at him, wants to hit him, wants to pick him up and shake him and say, ‘Oh, look, you’re speaking! All better!’ But he decides against it and peels off a white suit jacket he’s never seen Yagami wear, and returns it to his closet.
“Can you also buy me some shampoo and body wash?”
“Yeah, but I’m picking everything. Hate that old man smell you buy.”
“Thanks, Kaito-san,” Yagami says. When Kaito walks by to slip his shoes on, Yagami reaches out and catches his ankle from where he’s still sprawled on the ground. He’s kicked off his blankets, though, and his legs look thinner sticking out of his ratty boxers. He gives Kaito a sidelong, conspiratorial squint. Kaito tilts his head.
“What’s with that look?”
Yagami winks at him, releases his leg, and rolls onto his side.
Kaito bites his lip and opens the front door, and a slant of mild evening light spills in, dust motes floating in it like tiny bugs.
When Kaito returns from Don Quixote, his head and shoulders are covered in a layer of light snow, and the bridge of his nose is reddish with cold. He shakes, like a dog, to send the flakes flying off of him, and drops the plastic bags on the table. Yagami scrambles up and sits in front of the takeout boxes, looking ravenous.
It’s hard for Kaito to stay mad at Yagami when Yagami’s looking like himself again, at least in expression. He seems animated once more, and his eyes aren’t fixated on some distant point on the wall. Still, Kaito feels a burn on his face as he watches him break his chopsticks in half with more fervor than he has for his tepid, microwaved ramen—Yagami hasn’t been very appreciative, nor apologetic.
Maybe it still isn’t time, yet.
“I got you some shampoo, some body wash. Even some conditioner, that shit that makes your hair super soft, y’know?”
Yagami gives him a nod, shoveling pork katsudon into his mouth quickly.
Kaito leans his cheek on one curled fist and watches him eat. When Yagami is done, he grabs the bag of shampoo and goes into the bathroom. Kaito cleans up after him, and he realizes with a furious throb of his heart, that it’s all he’s been doing.
*
When he emerges from the bathroom, he has a towel draped loosely around his too-thin middle, and his hair looks beautiful, slicked back on his head like Kaito’s always liked. It looks like the stroke of a paintbrush dipped in raven ink. It shines bluish in certain lights, giving Yagami this luscious and healthy-looking quality.
“I also got you a surprise.”
“You did?”
Kaito smiles a little and opens up a small take-out container. Inside is a decadent piece of shortcake.
“We can share it,” Kaito says. Yagami kneels in front of the low table, losing the towel. Kaito’s eyes drop to the cake out of habit for his privacy, but Yagami doesn’t seem uncomfortable, being naked in front of a man who’s seen him naked more than enough times.
As Kaito begins portioning it in half, dropping equal sizes upon Yagami’s recently unused plates, Yagami sits cross-legged on the floor. Kaito’s eyes travel to where his soft dick sits over his balls, skin looking dark and clean. It’s been a while since they fucked, and he can feel himself going hot at the idea.
He brings him the cake.
He’s given Yagami the half with the decorative strawberry.
Displeased with his serving size, Yagami stabs the strawberry with his fork, and drops it onto Kaito’s plate. Then he lifts Kaito’s slice of cake onto his own.
“There,” Yagami says, “That’s a better trade.”
Kaito shoves the berry between his lips which are the same color, and he repeats himself.
“Spoiled brat.”
Yagami laughs. It’s not much, it’s a wheezy sort of choked sound, but it seems real and it doesn’t seem like a scoff. Then he says, mouth full of cream and flour, “You like spoiling me, though.”
“Tch,” Kaito extends a leg beneath the table to push at his knee. “I should get paid full-time for this shit. You’re a lot harder to take care of than you seem.”
Yagami tilts his head.
“I’ve put you in some pain, haven’t I?”
Yes. Yes, he has. Kaito’s concern for him was nauseating. The kind of anxiety that only days of silence can produce needled at him. And although Kaito knew it was only the end of Yagami’s job—not his life—he felt like any resulting changes in Yagami would destroy whatever they had.
But that’s a selfish thing to feel when Yagami is suffering, so Kaito takes a deep breath, and tells him he hasn’t. More than that, though, Kaito would do anything for Yagami. He isn’t his oath brother, he isn’t even a yakuza, but his loyalty has still been silently extended to the boy he would fight in the alley behind Tender.
Yagami lays his fork down on the plate. He reaches for his pack of cigarettes and lights one, his free hand propping him up. Kaito tries not to stare, but Yagami’s making it hard, sprawled naked with a smoke in one hand and exuding an aroma of cleanliness that shouldn’t be as sexy as it is. “Everything’s fucked. Everything and everyone I know are fucked, layered with disingenuity. Everyone but you. Jesus, Kaito-san.”
He shakes his head and lets out a long breath of smoke.
“Your consistency is comfort, man… God damn. God damn. You’re all I have, and I’ve been acting like you don’t exist. I’m awful.”
“No. You’re not. You were sick.”
“That’s a kind way of putting it. I can’t believe you haven’t dislocated my jaw yet.”
Kaito laughs too, then—that low, rumbly sound. “Me neither, honestly. Really working on my willpower, aren’t I?”
“What would I have done without you?”
“Probably get evicted for the smell.”
“No, seriously. Stay here. Please. I know you’re—you’re probably sick of it. But I need you around. You’re all I’ve got, Kaito-san. I promise I’ll start being better if you keep sticking around.”
Kaito reaches over and ruffles his hair, sending mint-smelling dewdrops of shower water over the crumb-covered table. “I didn’t plan on going anywhere.”
Yagami grabs his wrist and places the cigarette between Kaito’s fingers. Kaito takes it and leans back, placing it between his lips and letting the slight sound of the ash burning away at paper ripple pleasantly between them.
“If oyaji calls, I have to go to the office, though. You know how it is.”
“But you’ll come back, right? You won’t go home?”
“Yeah. I’ll come back.”
Yagami stands up and walks over to Kaito’s side of the table, leaning down to grab his face in his hands. He strokes the swell of his cheeks, scratches the facial hair—Yagami’s own is growing out—and leans down to press their lips together. Kaito sighs, relaxed, and kisses back with a tired smile. He rests his hand on the back of Yagami’s thigh, where the muscle has weathered down to something thinner, not as strong. He supposes—sometime down the line—that Kaito will fix that too.
When Yagami pulls away, he presses his cheek to Kaito’s, the way he does in photobooths. “I’ll make it up to you, okay? Thank you for everything, Kaito-san.”
*
When Kaito’s beckoned to sleep beside Yagami, he’s almost hesitant. Who knows when those blankets were last washed, tear-and-snot stained? It’s the one thing in the apartment he couldn’t clean, since Yagami guarded it like a vicious, trained dog.
Of course, he relents, because he always will when Yagami asks him to do something. For the most part. Kaito gets behind him and tucks Yagami’s lanky frame against his. It’s a tight fit, the two of them being as tall as they are, with their jutting limbs and such a small breadth of cotton cushioning their weight. But Yagami doesn’t seem to mind, the back of his head buried under Kaito’s chin, his legs curled tight to his own chest like a cat, Kaito’s arms slung around his middle. He knows the one laid upon will be sore, but it’s nothing he isn’t used to—he lifts, after all.
Sometime in the night, Yagami begins crying. It’s barely noticeable, and Kaito’s usually a heavy sleeper, but he can feel the jerking of Yagami’s frame against his chest, the short hiccups of his stuttering breath.
When they were younger, Kaito had wanted to tell Yagami something that he found too embarrassing to say out loud at the time. He struggled with it for weeks, working the words in the mouth like chewing gum, looking in the mirror and practicing, like it was a presentation for school. Finally, he’d managed to toss back three beers before he grabbed Yagami by the shoulders in front of the batting arena and shouted, a bit too overzealously, “Ta-Bo! You’re my best friend!”
Yagami had passed the back of his wrist over his forehead, still wearing his vinyl batting gloves, and gave him this warm, boyish smile. “You’re mine, too, Kaito-san.” It was strange, affirming what they both already knew.
Again, that feeling of anticipation crawls through him, but it doesn’t fester like it did ten years ago. He kisses the back of Yagami’s neck, the skin smelling comfortably familiar, and tells him, “I love you, Ta-Bo.”
Yagami stops crying and they sleep through the night.
*
Something in the confession must have turned Yagami’s neediness into a whole new monster, though, because Yagami’s demanding has taken on the quality of a porn star.
Coming back after a short visit to the Matsugane Family office the next day has Yagami throwing his arms around Kaito in an almost brutal fashion. It reminds him of how they used to fight growing up. The adrenaline-sweat that beads on his forehead like crawling insects is the kind that precedes a thrown punch. He’s ready to kick Yagami’s ass, if he has to, for jumping him like this.
Yagami’s strong, even with the week-long immobility. Kaito’s pushed into the door and his shoulder blades hit the wood hard enough to knock the wind out of him.
“Yagami, you fucker, what—” Kaito snarls, but he doesn’t get far with his complaint. Yagami’s lips, dry and hungry, press up against the pink slant of Kaito’s gums. His white, straight teeth are unceremoniously licked over like Yagami’s a dog. It’s only when his arms break away from Yagami’s grasp and his hands land over the warm swell of his lower back does he realize that Yagami’s still naked.
“Fuck me,” Yagami demands, pushing at Kaito’s shirt buttons, his thigh pressed between Kaito’s slacks. The cloth chafes his skin but he’s too intoxicated by the prospect of being railed to care. That strong leg digs up, too hard, into Kaito’s dick and he winces, trying to pry Yagami off.
Where Yagami wore the expression of a corpse just a few days ago, is a look now alight with hunger, eyes half-mast with desire, his lips parted and very much alive with breaths that fan over Kaito’s mouth enticingly.
“Take care of me more,” Yagami demands, pressing his face into the curve of Kaito’s neck and nosing at the January-cold skin, the frigid collar of his shirt. “Take care of me, Kaito-san, please—I’ve been thinking about it since you left.”
Kaito runs a hand through his hair—naturally pretty wavy when it’s not wet or combed back, Kaito’s noticed—and pushes his head out of his neck to look at him. Yagami’s plush lips are parted and before Kaito can even think about the possibility of not screwing his cunt until he cries, he presses one sweet, lazy kiss to his chin—and that’s enough convincing for Kaito.
Kaito begins working off his shirt, trying not to get too overzealous and lose a button, and Yagami bends over his pinball machine with an arched back. The pose is a little staged, but not slutty enough to be corny. It gets Kaito’s dick rock hard, though. “I already prepared myself, Kaito-san, so you can put it right in.”
Kaito approaches, miraculously undressed in record time, and he grips the junction of Yagami’s hip. “I’ll see.”
The sound of a thud indicates him dropping to his knees behind him, and Yagami whines when Kaito pushes his cheeks apart in bruising handfuls and inspects Yagami’s hole, plum-colored and gaping just slightly. It’s shiny with lube that probably doesn’t taste too good, but that doesn’t stop him.
It’s been a while since Kaito’s made out with Yagami’s asshole, but that just makes the whole thing sweeter. He kisses it lazily and open-mouthed, making as much sound as he wants, because that’s what to expect with a guy like him. Yagami whimpers, crossing his arms and propping his chin on the machine, lips parted. He takes in soft, slow breaths.
“Fuck, Kaito…”
Kaito’s tongue pries into the gape, the tight muscle of his asshole twitching slightly around his mouth. It’s almost cute, like it’s kissing back, and he chuckles against Yagami’s ass. He tastes clean and sort of metallic, the way a shiny copper coin might taste.
For a while, Kaito stays kneeled behind him, hands on his ass until the skin around his fingers are guaranteed to pick up finger-shaped bruises, tongue-fucking his hole. Yagami’s cock is aching, and if he wanted to get off by sliding it up against the machine, he probably could. But he’ll wait, patiently, like a good boy for Kaito to fuck him first. It’s been too long since the last time, and he doesn’t want to blow his load without feeling that fullness sit deep inside his stomach.
Kaito pulls away when Yagami begins to huff, fogging the clear plastic beneath him. Tinny sounds of the pinball machine play beneath their bodies.
“Needy,” Kaito mumbles, rubbing his curved dick lazily. It’s thickest right below the head, and the first push in is always the hardest—but it’s also what Yagami likes most. He’s into long thrusts, where he can feel the full width of Kaito inside of him, stretching him out. “Where’s the lube?”
“Uh—” Yagami looks over his shoulder, then at the futon and nods towards the bottle sitting on a pillow stained with clear, gelatinous liquid. The thought of Yagami smearing the fluid over his hole, feverishly waiting for Kaito to return, gets his mouth dry and dick impossibly harder.
He retrieves it and smirks at Yagami as he puts on a show of smearing it over his cock, with slow passes of his wrist, making him wait. Yagami stays arched, waves his hips slow, impatient. “Fuck you, Kaito. Hurry up.”
“Fuck you,” he corrects, grinning and tossing the bottle aside as he approaches him. He pushes his thumbs to either side of his hole and tugs it apart, staring at the soft inside of his favorite person, looking pliable and warm and waiting just to swallow up his cock. “God damn, so fucking pretty. Everything about you’s pretty, huh?”
“Yeah, I know,” Yagami snickers, “You’d probably think my X-ray is cute.”
“It probably is.”
“Fuck me,” Yagami whines, “Hurry up, Kaito-san—”
But he’s messed up—he’s begging. Kaito likes that. The wet head of his cock slides shockingly over his hole, tenderly pressing just against the opening without pushing in. If he wanted to, he could jerk off like this and still manage to come inside him, without ever getting Yagami off.
He’s not that cruel, but still. He’s a little cruel.
“What was that? Tell me what you want, Ta-Bo.”
After days of silence, he’s teaching Yagami how to talk again—however inappropriate it may be.
“Fill up my cunt,” Yagami hisses, reaching back to open himself up further, “Stick your dick in me and fill me up, take care of me, make me feel real again, put it in me. I want your fat cock in me.”
Again, now: “Spoiled brat.”
The fat tip of his cock spears through him with a wet noise, Yagami pushing around him immediately to get it further inside. He whimpers and drops his cheek to the pinball machine, gripping the sides. The lights play over his face like tiny fireflies made of gold, and with his curly hair and blushing skin, Kaito thinks he’s never seen something more beautiful in his life. Yagami could be painted taking dick, he’s so pretty.
He must have prepped himself with a few fingers—another thought that pumps a wad of precum into Yagami—because he doesn’t seem to be in any pain as he takes it. He just gasps and works his body back, swallowing his dick down until it sits warm and heavy in his gut, the outline of it an almost visible bulge. Not that either of them can see it with his chest pressed up against the game.
Once he’s fully sheathed in him, he kisses his neck, down his spine, and grinds slow circles with his hips. Yagami groans, open-mouthed, and feels small beneath him, boxed in between the machine and Kaito’s sweaty chest. He feels insane, wants to keep him there for good, wants to die happily stuffed full of his cock and smelling Kaito’s salty precum and expensive cologne and nicotine.
Kaito begins pulling out, hand pinning down the curve of Yagami’s spine, and stares at where his cock meets his ass, watching himself drag out of his pink hole. It’s such a hot image he almost cums then, but he seals his eyes tight and takes a deep inhale, holding out for two, three seconds, before he slams home. Yagami starts moaning then, scrabbling for purchase on the plastic as he’s pushed up from the force of Kaito’s impalement. “Fucking shit,” he hisses through grit teeth. Every drag and thrust gets more noises out of him.
“Kaa-aahh… Kaito-saaan,” he whines, burying his face in the crook of his elbow, “Fill me up, fill me up.”
“You’re so cute, Ta-Bo. Beg for it.”
“Nnh…”
“Beg for it and I’ll plug you full of my cum.”
“Please!” Yagami’s drooling now, an unconscious thing, but his neediness really does cross the line of altruism and into animalism. “Please pump me full—please, Kaito. I—ahh… I don’t like being without you. I want you around all the time, really—I want you inside me all the fuckin’ time. Feels so good, I want you to mark me as yours, okay? Breed me—”
That’s all Kaito needs to hear, and he’s pulling Yagami back by his hips, jamming his dick so far up his ass Yagami can almost taste it. Yagami’s scared he’s about to yank him off the pinball machine, and he’d slip off his dick before the guy could even nut in him. That little spike of adrenaline—that fear-of-falling sensation—does it in for him, oddly enough. His dick spurts out jizz, completely untouched. It has Yagami’s eyes rolling back, the orgasm a toe-curling one. He presses his foot against Kaito’s calf. His dick is still twitching when he feels Kaito’s cock jut out globs of thick cum inside him, too much to keep in, despite the way he’s pressed flush against his hole.
It leaks down his leg, sticky and body-hot, and he frowns, wanting to keep as much inside him as possible.
“Don’t pull out,” Yagami tells Kaito.
“Al—alright,” Kaito pants, wheezing a little. It’s been a while, and this is the most physical activity he’s had in a week, admittedly. His vision’s kind of spotty from when he squeezed his eyes shut. And he doesn’t pull out. Instead, he hoists Yagami up, dick still tucked inside him, and brings him to the couch. He sits down first and pulls Yagami onto his broad, tan thighs.
Relaxing back against his chest, Yagami winds an arm around his neck, slick with perspiration, and presses on his own abdomen.
“Shit,” Kaito hisses.
“Can you feel that?”
“Yeah,” he laughs, “Feels good.”
“Big.”
Kaito kisses his thundering pulse. “Just flattering me now.”
They sit like that for a while, catching their breaths, the air humid between them, Yagami feeling very alive and warm and awake against him, feeling like Ta-Bo. He can’t explain it. From time to time, he experimentally rocks his hips and revels in the soft little gasps Yagami produces, the way he leans his head back against Kaito’s shoulder, the way he licks his cherry-petal upper lip.
“Paid you back,” Yagami says, voice lilting with humor and exhaustion, “For this week, I mean. Good fuck, right?”
“Fuck no, I still did all the work.”
“Not true. I prepped,” Yagami turns to look at Kaito’s profile, pouting exaggeratedly. Kaito kisses his mouth and then his teeth when Yagami grins.
“You’re so fuckin’ corny, Ta-Bo.”
“Will you eat me out again?” Yagami whispers against his jawline, “Cream on top.”
“Gross,” he snickers, “Don’t compare my cum to food.”
“Please?”
Kaito shifts again, feels a trickle of semen track down his cock. Whatever. How can he deny him anything?
“Fine. Spoiled brat.”