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Tadashi loves it when Ainosuke cries.
It's not a sadistic thing, he thinks. It's just that he loves the way his eyes look when they're glossy, pupils huge in his crimson irises and brimming with tears threatening to spill down the lines of his face.
Love the red rim of them, how his face warms when he's sad. How he tries vainly to hide when he’s teary, blinking faster than normal if he’s in public and pretending to dab at non-existent sweat, or how he chokes them back in private, shoves his face into the pillow when Tadashi’s fucking him and soaking it with tears.
If Tadashi steals the pillowcases to suck at the wet spots, furiously fisting his cock when he’s already tender and sore from sex and leaves his own tear tracks on the fabric before he shoves them in the wash, that’s his own burden to bear.
He thinks he could survive like this, on the afterimage and the remnants and his faint memories of Ainosuke hidden in a corner of his bedroom, crying - because that’s what it’s about, isn’t it? He’s had to hide them for so long. From his father, from his aunts, from the whole world around him who looks at Ainosuke or Adam and expects someone carved from marble instead of the flesh and blood man that he is. Ainosuke’s emotions run hotter than the rest of the worlds because there’s so much life in him, but he keeps that most intimate and revealing sadness to himself, locked away because it’s weak, it’s embarrassing, it’s revealing.
But Tadashi’s seen Ainosuke at his worst; even found him on the edge of tears more than once. He’s been granted that intimacy before and he wants it again. Craves it, desperately, because he knows and loves the mobius of him, and if he doesn’t have all of him, then Tadashi will look at the shape of himself in the mirror and find himself wanting. Who is he without all of Ainosuke?
And maybe, he thinks, as he pins Ainosuke to the mattress and bites hard against one of the lingering bruises on the plump curve of his chest, just to coax another whine from a mouth already wrecked from kisses, it’s a little sadistic too.
“Look at me, Ainosuke-sama,” he commands into the wound, licking against the imprints of his teeth. His lover strains against his hold, his head turned to the side and his eyelids wrenched shut like the last defense against the sweetest nectar Tadashi knows. There’s a gift waiting for him, and he suppresses the urge to smile.
They’re joined at the hip, like one man with two heads, one of Tadashi’s thighs slotted between Ainosuke’s legs so he can try and wiggle and rut against the muscle, take what Tadashi gives him. Tadashi’s other leg helps hold him in place, while Ainosuke’s hands are tied to the headboard, soft silk restraints that he doesn’t usually need to keep still. Right now, Ainosuke’s head is tucked into the strong meat of his bicep, thick and flexing as Tadashi continues to worry at the bruises, as his other hand keeps running up and down the line of his ribs where he’s the most ticklish. Feather-light touches, soft against Tadashi’s fingertips, each brush like a bullet to an Ainosuke whose cock is pulsing heavy between them.
Tadashi’s spent most of the night coaxing him to the brink of orgasm and back, seeking the desperation that comes with denial and the burning pressure that might break the dam Ainosuke has built.
He can see the cracks in the wall, the great pressure against the other side. Can envision the soaked floodplain, the salt and sting and pleasure. They’re so close; Tadashi will wrench his fingers into the cracks himself and pull if he has to.
“Ainosuke?” he asks again, the edge of warning in his voice, and then he pulls away entirely. Stills his hand, keeping it just close enough to the skin so he can feel the heat of him. Moves his leg away so Ainosuke can’t rut his hips up to relieve any of the pressure in his overworked cock. Raises his head so Ainosuke can only feel the soft puffs of his breaths against his spit-slick chest.
The room is silent except for Ainosuke’s choked-off breaths, the shudders of his body, like he’s trying desperately not to cry. A line of sweat drips from Tadashi’s forehead onto his body - so subtle and soft, it would go unnoticed if not for the stillness of the rest of him - and just that light touch sends precum dripping from the tip of Ainosuke’s cock.
It’s weeping beautifully, but it’s not what Tadashi wants. “Look at me,” he tries again, and he knows that desperation is creeping into his voice, normally rock-steady and stoic, sending it railing reedy and weak against the fire of Ainosuke. “Please,” he adds, his voice cracking.
Slowly, and with deep panting breaths that send his chest heaving, Ainosuke turns his head towards him. Cracks his eyes open, and Tadashi doesn’t imagine the sheen or the rising bite of salt over the sweat and musk of sex. “Begging, puppy?” Ainosuke asks breathlessly, like he’d used all of it up keeping the tears at bay.
When their eyes meet - the watery crimson against the solid rock of Tadashi’s - he has the perfect view of those last shaky breaths, his lips bitten pink and wavering.
“Thank you, Ainosuke-sama,” Tadashi says, and the hard glint in his eye goes bright as he reaches one hand up - the one that had been ghosting against his skin - to pinch and pull at one of Ainosuke’s brown nipples. It sends him gasping, shakes a ripple of tension down his body that starts in his forearms and wrenches the headboard before shuddering through him. Tadashi is gifted with the brush of his damp and weeping cockhead pressing briefly against him and, miraculously, the final crack in that dam.
There’s a moment where he watches it spread. It’s impossibly long when the inevitable has finally come to pass, the moment of no return; no repairs can be made, no cracks patched up, just the spider web of destruction sending him crumbling. When Ainosuke’s body warms, he relishes in the heat. When his core tightens, trying to pull everything in, Tadashi rushes up to meet the shape of him and keep him pressed down and loose. When he finally lets out a whine - a heaven-sent chorus - that cracks into shaky, guttural rasps, that’s when Tadashi knows he’s won.
Shattered the machinery of him for one delicious reward.
He’s gifted fat, beautiful tears that rise and drip down the sides of his face. The rabbit-fast rush of his chest rising and falling as he works himself up into near-hyperventilation, desperate for breath but also choking on it.
“Sorry,” Tadashi breathes out, and releases his torturous grip on Ainosuke’s nipple; more time for that another day, when he’s finally blessed. Ainosuke looks like he wants to say something, but instead tries to close his eyes, turn his head to the side again. Keep his tears a secret even though Tadashi’s already seen them, borne witness to his vulnerability again, and a tidal wave of frustration rises within him.
“Look at me,” he insists, and, rising to his knees, uses both hands to grip Ainosuke’s head and force it forward, cradling him and winding his fingers through the loose and sweat-soaked strands of his hair. He feels the tears drip onto his thumbs, blazing like a fire.
He can’t help it; he wants his tongue to burn.
“Are these for me, Ainosuke-sama?” he asks, leaning down to lick up tears welling in the faintest impressions of crows’ feet, time the strongest enemy to vanity. “Is this my reward for being good for you?”
“Tadashi…” Ainosuke rasps out, weak to the burning brand of Tadashi’s long and talented tongue. More tears come out, a waterfall against the onslaught.
Maybe this is what Tadashi likes about crying; the feeling is so unpredictable. It sends you whirling into instability, but there’s no telling what can trigger tears. He’s watched Ainosuke for long enough that he knows the signs, seen them rise unexpectedly in the middle of an otherwise boring meeting, while holding a baby in his arms, slipping out late at night to skate in the abandoned pool again. Sometimes it hits when they’re crossing the street, or in the middle of a late night of paperwork. He’s felt the tension tremble at S, and he knows what it means when Ainosuke leans his head against the headrest on the drive back to drop out of Tadashi’s line of sight.
For a man who has succumbed to instability and chaos, who has crafted an aura of control and power, who craves a loving touch as much as he recoils from it, crying is both release and terror. In this moment, as he lets the stream of his tears free into the waiting sea of Tadashi, he’s broken and rebuilt, golden lines painted along the cracks.
And Tadashi is a hedonist for this one, peculiar thing: the burning salt of his tears, the tender and thin flesh by his eyes, the drops that linger on his eyelashes. He could live forever like this, fed and watered by them as he drops one of his hands down, down, bypassing the cracks of his abs to grab at his neglected cock and finally soothe it into answering tears.
“Ainosuke-sama,” he whispers into that impossible space below one of his eyes. Breathes reverence into his eyelids. Gifts him, in return, the privacy and pleasure of closing his eyes so he can press kisses along his brow as he coaxes him to come.
It doesn’t take much; he’s been burning for hours, and Tadashi’s been well-trained in the art of Ainosuke. He knows exactly how to crook his wrist to send his hips reeling into the mattress, how to rub his thumb against the slit so he plants both feet down, how fast to pump so Ainosuke finally, finally, gets to come, spurting into the open air as he bites his lip hard enough to sting, let the last tears burst from him, dehydrated and emptied and relieved.
It’s only later, after Tadashi’s wiped the cum away from his thighs with a warm towel, kissed his wrists where the restraints left a lingering sting, and whispered his thanks into the curve of Ainosuke’s neck and tucked him into the blankets and sent him an his way to sleep, that he’s able to come.
When he does, it’s with his dick wrapped in a bruising grip and the taste of salt on his tongue, the final breaths of a drowning man.