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Makoto wakes to the muffled beeping of his alarm going off. It’s set to a soft volume, the lowest that will reliably stir him to consciousness without the jarring effect of a louder tone, and the noise is further dampened by the weight of the comforter that has been tossed over his phone at some point during the night. It’s hard to hear at all as it is, even once he’s awake enough to push up on an elbow against the sheets so he can fumble for his glasses before locating the phone itself; Makoto thinks it’s only the prickle of excitement at the back of his thoughts that kept his sleep light enough that he stirred at all. It’s not something he needs to worry about, anyway; he’s awake, in the end, and shutting his alarm off follows immediately upon him getting his glasses back on. Makoto takes a moment to glance at the other side of the bed in the silence that falls, wondering if he’s disturbed his still-sleeping partner; but the blankets are unmoving where they are heaped up over the tousle of Yuusuke’s bleached-blond hair, and Makoto is left to smile satisfaction and slip sideways out of bed as quietly as he can.

He’s in no hurry. The game won’t be starting for hours still; his early alarm is just for his own preference in lingering over his morning routine without the haste that would come with less lead time. He takes a few minutes under the warmth of the shower to wet his hair flat and smooth against his head and to retrieve some of the heat he gave up in getting out of bed; with a clean change of clothes Makoto is happy to pace barefoot through the apartment in pursuit of a cup of tea with which to greet the morning. The sun is up on the other side of the window, spilling the gold of morning out across the world and into the kitchen where Makoto is standing. He stays where he is at the counter while he waits for his water to boil, content to gaze out at the first stirring of movement on the street outside until there’s a rustle of activity far closer than the other side of the window, and Makoto looks back to see Yuusuke shifting under the blankets. There’s a moment of uncertainty when it seems as though he might just roll over and fall back asleep; then there’s a groan, and a greater effort to action, and Yuusuke sits up from the bed with his hair crushed out-of-order against his head and his gaze heavy and unfocused with sleep.

“Morning,” Makoto calls from the kitchen. “Want a cup of tea?” Yuusuke makes a sound that starts as a whimper and ends in a yawn, and Makoto smiles and turns to retrieve another cup and a second packet of tea. By the time he’s looking back again Yuusuke has made it to his feet and is shuffling across the floor to the bathroom, moving with the dragging speed of someone very recently asleep and not at all sure about their own consciousness yet. Makoto watches the bathroom door slide shut behind him, and a moment later hears the sound of the shower starting, and then the kettle whistles and he looks back to his own undertaking, leaving Yuusuke to slowly rise to the surface of awareness on his own time.

He looks far more awake when he emerges, at least. His hair is ruffled to damp disarray over his head and he’s wrapped a towel around his hips in lieu of more thorough clothing, but he looks to Makoto sitting at the table and gives him a smile instead of the drowsy incoherence he offered upon waking.

“Hello,” Makoto says, and reaches to slide the second cup of steaming tea across the table towards Yuusuke. “You look a little more alive.”

“Yeah,” Yuusuke says. “I feel that way too.” He comes over to accept the tea and lifts it to cradle between both hands. “What time is it?”

“Quarter to eight.” Makoto lets his gaze wander down Yuusuke’s bare chest as the other brings his cup to his mouth to blow across the rising fog of steam lifting from the surface. “You have work today?”

Yuusuke groans. “Unfortunately,” he says. “You’re going to have to cheer for the both of us at the match this morning.”

“I’ll pay you back for yesterday,” Makoto tells him. “Don’t worry. Keishin won’t let them get knocked out while you’re not there.”

“Maybe I should swear off the rest of the tournament entirely, then,” Yuusuke suggests. “For good luck.”

“And leave all the high school girls to me?” Makoto asks. “You would never.”

Yuusuke laughs. “It’s not as if you’re that interested in the first place,” he says. “You were more into the boys anyway.”

“When I was in high school,” Makoto allows. He reaches out to where the edge of the towel is twisted around Yuusuke’s hips so he can trace against the top edge of it. “So were you, if I recall correctly.”

Yuusuke laughs. “You know you do.” Makoto slides his finger just under the soft of the towel around Yuusuke’s hips. There’s no real force to his pull, but Yuusuke steps forward as readily as if Makoto has wound an arm around his waist and pulled him in closer. “I was into one of them, anyway.”

Makoto smiles. “And he appreciated your devotion.” He can wrap an arm around Yuusuke’s waist, now, and does so, more for the pleasure of fitting his fingers against the span of the other’s back than out of any need to actually hold Yuusuke still where he’s clearly happy to be. Makoto leans forward close enough to bump his nose against Yuusuke’s stomach and breathe a smile over his bare skin. “And still does, as a matter of fact.”

Yuusuke groans as Makoto’s fingers slide against the weight of the towel wrapped around his hips to slide it loose from the fold keeping it up. “Do we have time for this?”

“Maybe,” Makoto says. “How fast do you think you can be?” Yuusuke laughs again, a little more breathlessly than the first, and Makoto pulls against the corner of the towel to slip it free entirely from around the other’s hips. The weight falls to the floor to leave Yuusuke bare for the glow of the morning sun and Makoto pushes away from the kitchen table so he can follow the towel down and kneel on the floor before Yuusuke’s feet. Yuusuke’s hardening as Makoto slides his hands in to bracket at the other’s hips, his cock stirring to rise towards Makoto in front of him, and Makoto doesn’t hesitate in leaning in as he parts his lips and catches his tongue against Yuusuke to draw the other back into the heat of his mouth.

Yuusuke groans at the feel of Makoto’s mouth closing around him. There’s a clink of the ceramic mug hitting the table with more force than care as he sets down his cup of tea but Makoto doesn’t look up to see it. He keeps his attention where it is, fixed by the grip of his palms and focused around the press of his lips and the work of his mouth, and when he slides back to draw sensation over Yuusuke’s length he’s rewarded by a hand reaching to grip at his shoulder before the other comes out to press in against the smooth of his hair. Makoto hums at the back of his throat as a better means of expressing his satisfaction than the smile he can’t fit around the heat of Yuusuke’s cock in his mouth, and when he lowers his lashes and slides in closer he can feel Yuusuke flush hotter against his tongue as clearly as he hears the gasping inhale the motion pulls free from the other’s chest.

Makoto is well-practiced. After a decade together he thinks he knows Yuusuke’s preferences as well as anyone, maybe even better than the man himself, and this is one of his favorite pasttimes, especially when he can catch Yuusuke off-guard with it. It’s gratifying to feel Yuusuke harden under the persuasion of his tongue, to hear the other’s breathing skip higher with arousal in immediate response to the drag of Makoto’s lips; the indulgence of drawing Yuusuke into pleasure within the first hour of the day is enough to tighten self-satisfaction against Makoto’s chest until he presses his hands closer against Yuusuke’s skin so he can pull the other deeper into his mouth, far enough that Yuusuke whimpers and rocks forward over Makoto’s head as his fingers clutch knots into the other’s hair. Makoto tips his head slightly to the side, shifts his lips against the base of Yuusuke’s cock, works his throat over the flexing action of a swallow; and Yuusuke groans, his hips jerk forward, and Makoto feels Yuusuke’s cock pulse into orgasm against the friction of Makoto’s tongue against him.

Makoto stays close, holding Yuusuke tight in his mouth through the force of the other’s pleasure, before he slides carefully back to free Yuusuke from the pressure of his lips. Yuusuke breathes out a hard exhale as Makoto’s lips slide off his cock and his fingers loosen the pressure of their bracing grip against Makoto’s hair. Makoto swallows to clear his mouth and rocks back over his heels before he lifts his gaze to smile up at Yuusuke standing over him.

“We did have the time,” he says. “Good work.” Yuusuke huffs a weak laugh as Makoto gets to his feet, only pausing to pick up the towel as he rises. Yuusuke lets his hold on Makoto’s shoulder go in favor of leaning against the support offered by the edge of the table and Makoto tips in to ghost the weight of a kiss against the corner of the other’s mouth. “I’ll put the towel away while you get dressed.”

Yuusuke turns as Makoto steps around him to make for the bathroom. “What about you?”

“I can wait,” Makoto calls back. “You’ll be meeting me this afternoon, won’t you?” He hangs the towel up and returns from the bathroom to where Yuusuke is still tipped in against the edge of the table, cheeks flushed and legs shaky even as he relies on their support. “I’ll look forward to taking my time with you this evening.”

Yuusuke raises his eyebrows as Makoto crosses the apartment towards him. “Oh boy,” he says. “Should I be prepared?”

Makoto shrugs. “You don’t need to be,” he says, and reaches out to settle his arm around Yuusuke’s waist. “I’ll make sure you enjoy yourself regardless.”

Yuusuke laughs. “Yeah, I’m not worried about that.” His gaze drifts from Makoto’s eyes down to his mouth; his head cants to the side in a motion Makoto thinks is as much unconscious as it is deliberate.

Makoto stays still, letting Yuusuke lean in towards him to brush a kiss against his mouth as he smiles. “Don’t you have to get to work?”

“Yeah,” Yuusuke says. “I will.” His hand braces at the back of Makoto’s head to hold the other steady for the greater force of a proper kiss, firm with intention; then he lets his hand drop to Makoto’s shoulder and draws back with a sigh.

“Tonight,” Makoto promises, and brings his thumb up to brace at Yuusuke’s hip and push him back. “Go and get dressed before you’re late.”

“Yes, Shimada-san,” Yuusuke says, and moves to obey. Makoto stands still watching him for a minute as the other moves across the apartment and begins his pursuit of clean clothes; then he turns back to resume his seat at the table, and retrieve his cup of tea, still winding a curl of steam into the air above the mug.

When he takes a sip from it, it’s exactly the right temperature.