Work Text:
Summer is creeping up on them faster than expected. It's too early in the year for it to be this hot, so Iwai has the back door leading out to the balcony open. He's leaning back, elbows digging into the railing as he watches Akira paint the living room.
Akira picked a weird color for the walls; it's something with "red" in the name, but it's really not red at all and is more of an off brown. Iwai had scoffed at the choice but he let Akira buy it, anyway. He had winked at him that day in the store, promising delights beyond Iwai's wildest imagination, and Akira is never one to disappoint.
His boyfriend had promised to wear shorts while he paints, too. More than the act of painting itself, that's what Iwai is watching: how the cuffs of the shorts ride up as Akira slides the paint roller around, the way the muscles of his legs stretch.
Their new home is a few blocks away from Akira's university, and they were even able to afford a two-bedroom apartment for when Kaoru wants to come visit. It almost seems too perfect how everything has fallen into place, all after Iwai first met Akira. How is it that he just seems to be able to fix things with that smug grin of his? He's never let Iwai down yet, and something tells him that he never will.
But that's a tough expectation to force onto anyone, no matter who they are or how special they seem to be. And Akira is someone special, that's for sure.
There isn't a day where Iwai isn't reminded of their age difference. Kaoru is around Akira's age and he doesn't mind — he's supportive of their relationship, even — and although that means a lot to both of them, there's still more to it than that. Sure, people give them weird looks when they're out together sometimes, but that's more due to Iwai's glower; maybe they even catch a glance of his gecko tattoo and start making assumptions about his character, not too far off from reality.
Part of what seems to throw people off is the innocence Akira seems to give off with those wide eyes, huge glasses, tousled hair, and laidback demeanor. And why would someone so young and innocent be hanging out with an unsavory character like Iwai? They don't look like father and son, but looks can be deceiving.
Akira is the opposite of innocent. It was Akira who kissed him first, Akira who shoved his hand in Iwai's pants before they were even officially together. It was his way of telling Iwai that he’s ready, and that he shouldn't worry about what anyone else thinks.
And Iwai worries a lot, even if he doesn't always show it. It's always him who's asking Akira if he's sure, and it's Akira who has to silence him with a kiss before he makes himself comfy in Iwai's lap then rides him straight to paradise.
Iwai trusts Akira more than he has ever trusted anyone, but there's still that negative part of him that worries he'll move on. He'll find better — realize he deserves so much more than Iwai can give — and he'll leave. Iwai will tell him not to let the door hit his ass on the way out, and that'll be that.
That fear dissipates a little over time, and month by month it feels easier to see that it's just an awkward insecurity embedded so deeply that it'll take a long time to pry it all out. Akira makes him happy and it's hard for Iwai to accept that things have turned out this way, better than he ever could have dreamed.
There is one first that Iwai beats Akira to. He's dipping the paint roller back in the tray when Iwai finally pushes himself up off the railing and moseys his way back inside, hands tucked in his pockets. Akira stands to stretch, turned away from him, and it's this moment that Iwai chooses to press up against him. He runs his thumbs along his shoulder blades as his lips kiss down his neck, and he can feel the way Akira shudders beneath him.
Once when they were in bed together — naked, sweaty, and post-bliss — Akira told him that he loved the way Iwai’s stubble feels against his skin.
Iwai never forgot that, and he uses that knowledge now as he kisses along Akira's cheek. He slides one hand down the front of his shirt, stopping when it meets the cool metal of his belt buckle.
"You know I love you, right?" he says, voice low. It comes out hoarser than he intended, but he's just so happy to be here in this very moment, and he wants Akira more than he ever has. He's almost giddy with Akira around, curious to see what new adventure he'll drag him on or what new kink he'll slyly introduce, looking up at Iwai with those wide eyes.
And Iwai isn't a person who's giddy; it's just Akira who brings out this side of him.
Akira leans back against him, hand over his own as he leads it lower, lower until Iwai can feel how hard he is through his pants. He lets out a shaky breath into Akira's neck, and he can almost see his smirk in his head.
"I know, Munehisa. I know."
The belt clangs onto the floor, narrowly missing the tray of wet paint, before Iwai dips his hand inside, slipping past the band of his underwear to feel him. The sheer amount of wetness at the tip makes even more electricity spark through him; Akira wants him, and he wants him bad.
He presses him into a dry spot on the wall, and as he's leading him away from the paint, he thinks of the color Akira chose, that soft brown that looks like mocha. It reminds Iwai of when Akira used to live at Leblanc: when he'd sneak him in after-hours for a cup of coffee before they fucked on his makeshift bed in the attic; when Akira first cried in front of him after they had sex one time, burying his face into Iwai's chest to try to hide the tears. Such intimacy, after all he had been through — Iwai understood that it wasn't easy for him, but he's glad they made it together.
It's a good color, he realizes as Akira moans, hand wrapped around him as he pushes his body back to feel everything Iwai has to give.
Maybe it's the best there is.