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For a reason he would prefer not to dwell too much on, Ichiro is staring at his phone.
Even glaring at it, if you will.
Ever since he got back home after the mess in Chuohku yesterday, he’s had a persistent thought of wanting to call Samatoki. And if someone had told the Ichiro from two days ago, he would have scoffed at the mere idea. What would he call for? The bastard likely wouldn’t even pick up.
Current Ichiro supposes that version of himself is still there, because he has been telling himself those very same things ever since the thought slithered into his mind last night. The difference is…
Well, the difference is that Samatoki apologised yesterday. Kind of. They still ended up at each other’s throats before - together with the rest of the division leaders - being pried away from each other by their team members, but that’s because Samatoki just can’t fucking shut up, and maybe - just maybe, just throwing it out there, but he’s not admitting to it or anything - Ichiro isn’t quite in control of himself when Samatoki is involved. But he digresses.
When they finally talked, Samatoki said something about a misunderstanding and finally knowing that it wasn’t Ichiro’s fault that Nemu left. Ichiro is still wondering what the hell Samatoki was going on about, so maybe it’s that itch he’s aching to scratch that’s bringing him to the borderline insane decision of ringing the number he almost deleted two years ago and hasn’t dared look at since.
Ichiro didn’t say it lightly, yesterday, when he told Samatoki they should just try to forget all about it. He wants nothing more than to do that - to delete the past two years and be friends and allies and everything else again. But truthfully, he isn’t forgetting the stabbing pain in his chest he felt the first time Samatoki turned his back on him any time soon, and he just thinks he has the right to know what exactly Samatoki thought he did that could overturn their entire relationship so quickly. It’s not that Ichiro doesn’t understand - he said it yesterday: if Jiro and Saburo had been in Nemu’s place, he wouldn’t have been any calmer nor any less hasty than Samatoki was at the time; he just wants to know.
He doesn’t think he can actually put all that behind him without knowing the full picture. No matter that he’s desperate to gather the pieces of their broken relationship and put them back together; he still has more self-respect than that. He wants Samatoki back, but he’s not letting him off the hook scot-free. Either they resolve this situation fully, or Ichiro’s going to have to keep him at an arm’s length.
And he doesn’t want to do that at all. Not if he can help it.
But still, after everything that Samatoki said and did, with two whole years of pain and resentment built up, can Ichiro be blamed if he doesn’t really want to be the first one to call?
So he glares. Picks up the phone a few times, hovers a finger over the call button, but can never quite convince himself to take the extra step.
He’s dwelling on this pointless shit way too much. Two-days-younger Ichiro was right after all, Samatoki’s never going to pick up even if Ichiro does call. Because why would he? It’s highly likely that he was braver than Ichiro ever was two years ago and deleted his number altogether.
So Ichiro stands from his seat, tossing his phone away, and decides on getting some chores done. He’s still got several hours before Jiro and Saburo come home from school, and it would do him no good to waste them on hypotheticals.
However, he’s barely taken a step when his ringtone blasts through the silence of the apartment. The contact name he never changed stares back at him as it rings once, twice; then finally Ichiro lets his thumb swipe across the screen and he puts the phone to his ear.
“Oi, Ichiro.”
There’s something unusually neutral about the quality of Samatoki’s voice on the other end - something so unlike the ways he has always addressed Ichiro, both back then and recently.
“Samatoki.”
“Tsk.”
Ichiro can tell Samatoki is about to complain about the lack of a honorific as always, but he evidently bites it back.
“We… hmpf, we kind of…” Every word sounds like it’s being pried out of Samatoki’s lips with a hook. “We kind of need to talk, don’t we?”
Kind of? Ichiro almost says, but if anyone knows how little semantics matter when talking - read: arguing - with Samatoki, it’s him.
“Yeah, we do.”
“Yeah,” Samatoki echoes.
A beat passes; two; three; there’s only silence.
Ichiro is about to break it, but Samatoki beats him to it.
“I’ll drive over. Are the brats at school?”
“Don’t call them-“ Ichiro interrupts himself with a sigh. Semantics. “Yeah, they are. You can come over.”
“A’ight.”
The call clicks off, and Ichiro takes a deep breath before letting a small pained laugh escape him.
Well, that could have been so much worse.
Samatoki is already regretting making that fucking call.
What the fuck is he going to say, once he’s face to face with Ichiro? He’s already said he’s sorry, for what it’s worth - which is something close to nothing at all -, and ultimately knows that they’re just going to end up fighting again, because it’s them, and it’s how they are.
It’s how they are now, supplies a very unhelpful little voice in the back of his head.
He doesn’t know how to fix things with Ichiro. It’s not that he doesn’t want to; he’s been thinking about it for the past twelve hours and he’s accepted that he wants it more than he thought he did, but still, how would he even go about it? He doesn’t know where the fuck to start - he’s shit with words already, and gets even more shit around Ichiro.
But he’s made this bed now, and like fuck is he not going to lie in it. He’s not a quitter. He’s already almost in front of Ichiro’s building, so what’s good in doubting himself now? He’s taken a leap. They’ll fight again, so what? It’s not like Samatoki hasn’t gotten used to it.
Fuck, he really does hate that. Being used to fighting with Ichiro.
He’s got his eyes fixed on his feet, to the point where it takes him a moment to realise that he has reached the building with the obnoxious Yorozuya Yamada sign on it. Stopping in front of it feels like two years ago all over again.
Fuck - would Ichiro even have called, if Samatoki hadn’t? Does he feel the same emptiness and dissatisfaction Samatoki’s been trying to ignore for all this time?
He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself as he climbs the single flight of stairs to the Yamadas’ apartment. He’s itching for a smoke already, but Ichiro would kill him if he lit one up right outside his door, so he deems himself prepared enough.
What’s the worst that can happen? There isn’t a single variation of every insult in the Japanese language they haven’t already used against each other.
He rings the doorbell.
TRRRphfhkhpffff.
Or rather, tries to.
“You’ve got to be fucking with me,” he grumbles.
The poor doorbell is a victim, a casualty really, of the storm of Samatoki’s frustration as he presses it with his whole fist. At least this time it rings.
Ichiro is pacing. Has been pacing for the past half-hour, in fact.
At this point he’s going to burn a hole through the floor, and that’s gonna be a tough one to explain to his landlord.
It’s just been nothing short of ages since he and Samatoki had a serious, civil conversation. Ichiro knows just how bad Samatoki is at those, and honestly, he’s not that much better. He may have less of a temper, but he’s not exactly communicator of the year.
Definitely not with Samatoki, anyway.
They’re just like that, both of them: they never have the time or the occasion to be vulnerable and honest with anyone, so they’re stupidly bad at it.
Well, they weren’t, once - they’d discovered how to be vulnerable around each other, two years ago.
It was one of the best things Ichiro had ever felt. He finally felt understood, a little less alone. Then they had to go and rip it all away from them.
Ichiro has to force himself to stop walking in circles before his head starts spinning. He sits down, the nervous energy buzzing through him like he’s never felt it before.
He has to admit, for how his mind is swimming with a thousand different ways today could go, he knows it can’t be worse than every interaction they’ve had recently. At least this time they’re going to try not to rip each other’s throats out. He’ll take that chance a thousand times if it means potentially never hearing Samatoki yell at him with venom in his voice again.
His arms wrap instinctually around his knees, a frown on his face. He can’t stop his mind from racing, picturing the thousand ways everything could go wrong - and taunting him with the hope of it going right. He doesn’t know what’s worse; he might end up getting a heart attack from either outcome at this point.
TRRRphfhkhpffff.
Ichiro is definitely not proud of the way he jumps out of his skin at the aborted sound of the doorbell. However, just over the sound of his now even-louder heartbeat, he can hear the familiar way Samatoki starts cussing the poor thing out, before finally pressing it so that it rings properly.
It gets a chuckle out of him. Some things never change.
He forces himself to take as many deep breaths as he can manage as he walks to the door, trying not to rush - as if Samatoki wouldn’t know Ichiro hasn’t been able to do anything but wait for him to arrive since they hung up the phone -, and on his last exhale, he finally unlocks the door.
Samatoki is, unsurprisingly, not particularly cheerful. What else is new.
What is surprising is the way Samatoki tenses up when their eyes meet, shoving his hands in his trousers’ ridiculously small pockets and shifting in place.
Not that Ichiro can blame him, he’s not much better. Neither of them says anything for what is decidedly too long, before Ichiro takes a deep breath and braces himself to break the silence.
“Are you-”
“You gon’ invite me in or what?”
Ichiro’s eyebrows shoot up at Samatoki’s words - not for the words, per se, that kind of opening was perfectly predictable; but mostly because there’s some of the usual harshness missing from his tone, replaced by a layer of uncertainty that helps at least a little in reassuring Ichiro. Evidently, he’s not the only one at a loss on how to navigate the situation.
He opens the door wider, a small huff escaping through his nose as he nods. Instinctively, something almost like a smile wants to make its way on his face, but it doesn’t manage to get there. And, well, even if it did, Samatoki wouldn’t have noticed. He basically shoots past Ichiro into the living room, his footsteps almost cacophonously loud.
That’s because the asshole didn’t take his shoes off.
Ichiro has to stifle a sigh as he goes to lean against the wall, his arms crossing in front of his chest. Samatoki himself has opted to lean against the back the sofa, his gaze travelling all over the room, the beginnings of irritation in the twitch of his brow and the frown he’s sporting - which makes the next words to come out of his mouth even more surprising to hear.
“Hasn’t changed much, this place, has it?”
Of all the things Ichiro was expecting, this wasn’t one of them. All that he manages to answer with is a confused: “Huh?”
“I mean, y’know…” Samatoki shrugs, his voice trailing off, and Ichiro can only raise his eyebrows.
“The couch is new though, isn’t it?”
Ichiro inhales deeply. He can’t blame Samatoki for being awkward, but for fuck’s sake, he was expecting at least a little bit of effort.
“Do you have anything to say or did you drive all the way here for nothing?” he asks, and maybe it wasn’t supposed to come out quite so accusatory, but he’s already feeling the familiar itch that always makes him snap at Samatoki’s bullshit.
“Fuck, you know I’m not good at this,” Samatoki replies, and Ichiro can see the way his hand twitches at his side, balling up into a fist - he knows Samatoki well enough to remember he does that when he’s trying to keep the need to smoke at bay.
Once upon a time, Ichiro would have lit one up for him.
“I’ll start then,” he resolves. Samatoki only gives him a shrug in reply.
“There’s really only one thing I want to know, because I do believe we should leave the past in the past,” he starts. “When you were told… whatever you were told that made you think I had something to do with Nemu leaving, why did you just assume that I would do something like that? Why did you never try to talk to me about it?”
Did you really think so little of me?, is what he doesn’t say. He can’t quite bring himself to.
Samatoki heaves a sigh, his brow furrowed, his eyes never meeting Ichiro’s for more than a second.
“I never… had a chance to, I guess.”
Ichiro’s grip on his own arm tightens. That’s downright bullshit.
“How did you never have a chance? It wouldn’t have been that hard to create a chance!”
“Fucking hell, you know me, Ichiro! I wasn’t fucking thinking straight! And after I left your brothers to die and all I just- fuck, I know, and you know, that I’m an impulsive bastard sometimes - most of the time, and I was- kind of- blind to everything in that moment. You of all people can’t blame me for that.”
Ichiro does understand. But at the same time, if it had been him in that position, while Samatoki wouldn’t have been the first person on his mind - ensuring his brothers’ safety would have been, and was, obviously, his number one priority -, he certainly would have been the second. Hell, he wouldn’t have wasted any time at all. His first instinct had always been to fight anything and everything together with him.
But maybe it wasn’t like that for Samatoki, after all. The thought makes the old wound reopen instantly, and it’s just as tender as it was back then.
It makes him raise his arms in frustration with a heavy sigh.
“I get that, I really do.” As if he wouldn’t. But there it is again, the itch. The urge to pick a fight, because he can’t stand the grasping at useless excuses. He wants something real. “But what about after, then? We meet again after two whole years and it doesn’t cross your mind at all to act like the mature adult you supposedly are and think of talking to me instead of throwing insults in my face the moment you see me? So much for being the older one.”
Samatoki clenches his fist, taking a step towards Ichiro. His expression is hard as ever, and Ichiro just knows he’s about to say some shit that’s gonna make him snap.
“Do you have the slightest fucking idea of how I felt when all that shit went down? You got your family back, I didn’t. Cut me some fucking slack!”
There it is.
“How you felt?!”
Ichiro crosses the space between them in two long strides, his hand fisting itself in Samatoki’s shirt.
“Of course I can imagine that! But what about how I felt? No one cut me any slack when the person I cared most about in the world, the person I loved, turned his back on me and I had no way of knowing why!”
Ichiro manages to keep his gaze on Samatoki for just one more second, in time to see his expression change and his eyebrows raise in surprise, before it dawns on him that he just admitted to something he swore he’d take to the grave.
And it’s too late to take it back now.
It’s out there, in the air that already smells a bit too much like Samatoki’s cigarettes, a truth he’d started to find embarrassing when it refused to stop existing even after he was dealt the shittiest possible hand by the very person involved.
He turns away, looking at the walls, the ground, everywhere but at Samatoki. The hand fisted in his shirt slackens ever-so-slightly, but still doesn’t quite let go. Maybe if he doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, Ichiro won’t have to face the consequences of his words.
The person I cared most about in the world, the person I loved.
The words slam into Samatoki like a truck.
He’d always known that Ichiro had a sort of - how to call it - soft spot for him?, ever since their younger days; that he looked up to him, even. Samatoki had appreciated that, and he’d found in Ichiro someone who he let himself rely on, even if only for relatively small things. He had never known that feeling all throughout his life - it had been a breath of fresh air.
It had taken losing Ichiro to realise that, though.
And then they met again, and Samatoki couldn’t stand the sight of him, the sound of his voice grated on his ears.
But fuck, he’d missed him.
He waited until yesterday, until that little shit Ramuda finally told him the truth, to fully admit it to himself, to not beat the feeling down like a particularly stubborn cockroach.
And now… did Ichiro even realise what he said?
Samatoki barely registers him moving away from him, releasing the grip on his shirt; the next time he looks at Ichiro, he’s leaning his weight on the back of the couch, gripping it to the point his knuckles look white. His breaths are deep and a bit ragged; Samatoki has hardly ever seen him this tense.
It’s a jarring sight: usually, Samatoki is the one who loses control first. But it’s obvious that there’s nothing really usual about this situation.
“Ichi-“
“Shut up. Just- just shut up.”
Samatoki does - not without a quick twitch of his eyebrows. The retort is on the tip of his tongue, but he won’t, not right now.
The person I loved.
Past tense, huh. Not that Samatoki can blame him.
Thing is, Ichiro does have a point. They could have saved themselves so much bad blood had Samatoki only used his brain and realised that something was off - with Nemu, with the entire situation. What reason would Ichiro have had to point Nemu towards the Chuuoku bitches? How could Samatoki let himself be fooled by such a shitty lie? Did the adrenaline rush from their battle really fuck with him that much?
Fuck, he really does need a smoke.
“Just leave.” It’s Ichiro’s level voice that snaps him out of his thoughts. “This was useless. I don’t know why I even agreed to it.”
Samatoki takes a step towards him, a hand almost instinctively reaching out for Ichiro’s arm.
“Ichiro-“
“Don’t fucking touch me!”
He recoils from Samatoki’s touch, forcing him to take a step back. "I said go, just go, it’s so pointless trying to talk to you!”
“Oi-“
“I should just fucking accept that this is how it is now. Every time we meet, it’s a fight, and that’s just how it is.”
“Ichiro-“
“I should just accept your stupid fucking apology and get this over with-“
Samatoki rolls his eyes; if Ichiro won’t listen, he’s gonna get his point across in the one way he hadn’t let himself contemplate until a minute ago.
He grabs the front of Ichiro’s hoodie and crashes their lips together before he can react.
It doesn’t last nearly long enough. Samatoki gets to feel Ichiro reciprocate for all of two seconds before Ichiro’s tearing himself away, wide mismatched eyes staring at Samatoki in shock.
There’s also the beginning of a blush on his cheeks, which, in Samatoki’s humble opinion, has no business being as cute as it is.
“What the hell was that for?!”
Samatoki can’t and doesn’t want to stop a roguish grin from spreading on his face.
“You wouldn’t shut the fuck up.”
Ichiro’s expression is so stupid. It looks like Samatoki just told him that Jakurai cut his hair and dyed it pink.
“Oh, fuck off,” Ichiro finally says with a small, almost disbelieving laugh. Samatoki has to concede that he has truly been the greatest of self-sabotaging jackasses depriving himself of Ichiro’s laugh for so long, but he doesn’t have the time to dwell on that thought; Ichiro surges forward for a kiss that burns just as much as the anger they’d built up for two years.
And in between the scrambled-egg disaster that kissing Ichiro makes his brain, Samatoki manages to put together one thing: past tense, huh?
This doesn’t feel like past tense.
It’s a push-and-pull of resolve. There’s an urge to give and to devour at the same time, and Samatoki doesn’t think he can choose which one he finds more compelling.
It’s their first kiss - well, technically, their second - and somehow it feels nostalgic. It reminds him of a younger version of themselves, bickering and squabbling and ultimately always coming back to each other.
It tastes of many things at once, but Samatoki’s favourite has to be the little edge of desperation - as if Ichiro’s trying to take whatever he can get before reality slaps him in the face.
It’s really damn cute.
And maybe, somehow, he heard Samatoki calling him cute in his head, because Samatoki’s legs hit the back of the couch and he feels Ichiro’s teeth pulling at his lower lip, digging in just a little too deep.
Obviously, Samatoki wastes no time biting back as soon as he can.
“Ow! What-“
The way that Ichiro is looking at him, all wide-eyed and affronted, like a kid who got the last box of his favourite snacks snatched by someone else just before he could grab it - Samatoki is struggling so much to keep a straight face.
“You started it, brat.”
“Yeah, because you deserved it- oi!”
Samatoki dips down to nip at Ichiro’s jaw, letting the satisfied smile grace his face as Ichiro brings him back up to his lips. A sound of surprise loses itself between them as Samatoki places his hands on Ichiro’s waist and nudges a knee between his legs, getting an edge in their little squabble as he feels Ichiro melt against him just the slightest bit. A hand rises up into his hair, trying to bring him even closer; and he goes, lets it be easy, because shit, indulging - himself, or Ichiro, or, honestly, both of them - feels really fucking perfect.
Soon enough Ichiro’s other hand starts fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, crumpling it even more than it already is. The task must be particularly dear to him, because he pulls away from the kiss, shifting his focus to getting Samatoki’s shirt completely unbuttoned and leaving it to hang around his shoulders once he’s finally done. He lets out that same small laugh from before - and even Samatoki cannot contain his grin anymore.
“Come on then,” Ichiro says with a nod towards the stairs, and Samatoki wastes no time doing as he’s told.
Something in Ichiro’s brain snapped the moment Samatoki kissed him. Honestly, it raised way more questions than it answered, and Ichiro can feel the little people in his brain running around frantically trying to figure out how this could possibly happen; but at the same time, Ichiro knows Samatoki. They can talk about it later, and Ichiro can have his shoujo anime moment of everything clicking into place - now he should just let himself be in the present.
After all, Samatoki doesn’t plan ahead. For all Ichiro knows, he’ll regret it the moment it’s over. Maybe he’s already regretting it now.
Although it must mean at least something that he hasn’t forgotten where to go, that he almost drags Ichiro around the house like it’s his.
Ichiro wishes that didn’t make him nearly as emotional as it does.
But he has little time to be losing himself in memories. It’s wasted, when he can focus on Samatoki that can’t keep his hands off of him, that kisses him with bruising force; there’s the cold of his fingertips sneaking under Ichiro’s hoodie, the taste of coffee and smoke of his lips, the softness of his hair under Ichiro’s own hands. He’s spoiled for choice, really.
They’re just a step away from Ichiro’s room door, but there it stays, closed, because opening it means separating, and they can’t quite be arsed; there’s no rush, why would there be?
There’s no reason why they shouldn’t take a moment to get acquainted with the way each other feels, after so much time apart. Ichiro feels Samatoki’s hands travel further up his back, rucking up his hoodie; Samatoki lets him play with one of his earrings with his thumb, then with the hair at the nape of his neck.
It’s only when the cold wall hits Ichiro’s bare back and makes him whine a little that Samatoki finally pulls away.
“So, your room or what?” Samatoki asks, an amused, almost smug smile pulling at his lips. Ichiro can’t help rolling his eyes a little, but his priority of getting away from the wall gives him the incentive to push Samatoki away just enough to open his bedroom door - maybe with just a bit more force than strictly necessary.
Samatoki strolls into the room with utmost nonchalance, keeping a loose grip on Ichiro’s wrist as if it would bother him to let go of him. He only does once he takes a seat on the bed, moving to untie his shoes.
Ichiro can’t help thinking he acts a bit like a spoiled cat sometimes.
Samatoki must sense the slightly puzzled way Ichiro’s looking at him - because only a moment later a pair of red eyes fixes its gaze on him with a raised eyebrow.
“Whatcha lookin’ at?”
Oh, nothing, Ichiro thinks, you’re just sitting here on my bed, basically shirtless, completely at ease, as if we meet up to fuck every Sunday after dinner. Excuse me for finding it a little amusing.
But, well, he can’t exactly say that.
So he settles for: “You’re only just now taking off your shoes? For someone who goes on and on about being respected, you don’t exactly do a great job at giving what you ask for.”
A grin tugs at the corners of his lips; not like it’s a lie.
“You take that back, shitty brat,” Samatoki replies with a twitch of his eyebrow.
“Nah,” Ichiro says as he walks over, kneeling on the bed right above Samatoki’s lap. “It’s the truth. Nothing bratty about pointing it out.”
There’s a twinkle of something dangerous in Samatoki’s eyes, and Ichiro has barely a second to be intrigued by it before he’s pulled down into a kiss again. He almost tumbles straight into Samatoki’s lap as he loses his balance; he buries his hands in Samatoki’s hair to ground himself, mussing it up even more than he already has, but he soon has to realise his own patience, too, has a limit, when Samatoki grinds his hips up into him and Ichiro suddenly takes great offence in the shirt that’s still hanging off of his shoulders.
He doesn’t know and doesn’t care where he sends it flying. He keeps his focus on Samatoki, on trying not to show how affected he is already - Samatoki is relentless in the way he pushes up against him, hands gripping tight around his waist, and were Ichiro not holding back, Samatoki would be drawing a symphony of sounds out of him already. Ichiro retaliates the one way he can think of, moving down to leave just a couple of marks on Samatoki’s neck, enough to revel in looking at. It’s a welcome boost of confidence to feel Samatoki’s hand in his hair, tightening the more he kisses and bites the skin.
He lets himself wonder, just for a brief moment, what it means that Samatoki doesn’t mind getting marked up by him.
But when Samatoki bucks up into him particularly hard after the last mark he leaves, Ichiro can only think about a sudden vengeance he has obtained against Samatoki’s trousers as well.
He undoes the belt as quickly as he can manage, but that is, obviously, not the obstacle he has to face. Because he forgot one simple detail about Samatoki’s choice of outfit.
“Why are these things so fucking tight?” Ichiro complains. It takes him a few strong tugs to pull the pants down, and promptly gives up on them once they make it past Samatoki’s knees. Ichiro just opts to leave him to kick them off all the way, to which Samatoki gives a very predictable huff.
“Oh fuck off, mister baggy jeans, they’re-“
“Vintage, I know,” Ichiro drawls. He does know - doesn’t make the damn things any less annoying, even for how good they look on their owner. If anything, now Ichiro finds them the most offensive item to ever exist, because if Samatoki looked good in them, without them he is sending Ichiro’s brain on a crash course.
He may be exchanging jabs with Samatoki like it’s nothing, but there is no denying how - not unpleasantly - overwhelmed he is getting with every minute. After all, the only reference he has for how he should act is one specific section of his extensive mental manga library, and honestly, no manga or light novel in the world could have prepared him for the absurdity of what it feels like to have Samatoki’s skin against his, Samatoki’s lips on his.
On the other hand, Samatoki makes it really difficult to concentrate on anything that is not himself; his mere presence is somehow a cheat code against Ichiro’s nervousness. There’s a sort of familiarity in the way they move with each other, even now: picking up what the other puts down with no hesitation, as if it’s a challenge. It gives Ichiro the same rush, but it’s a thousand times better, because now he doesn’t have to hate himself for getting pulled in by the sight of Samatoki.
Before, he would have to force himself to look away, for a matter of principle.
Now he’s allowed to say fuck that.
He lets himself feel. He doesn’t know when they ended up lying down, but somehow they did and he’s not complaining; he gives and takes as much as he desires from Samatoki’s kisses, and lets a hand travel down, from Samatoki’s neck, to his chest, his side, slowly mapping out what he’s only ever been allowed to look at from afar.
The next time he blinks, Ichiro finds himself on his back, the longer strands of Samatoki’s hair tickling his face as he hovers over him. They’re both breathing heavily already, and Samatoki is only a little better at hiding it.
“You gonna get to it or keep stalling like a little virgin?” He teases with another of those insufferable grins of his. Ichiro is spellbound for a second that seems to stretch for so long, but the sight of that smirk kicks him into action.
He turns them back around, and Samatoki lets out a surprised little “Oi-!” as his head hits the pillows that immediately gets a chuckle out of Ichiro. Their eye contact doesn’t falter, and Ichiro doesn’t want to let himself feel shy under that gaze.
“This is still my house. Don’t think you can order me around here, kashira.”
Reflexively, Samatoki’s first thought is, you’ve got some guts.
But he can’t deny that the words make him grin against Ichiro’s lips, make him want to push back all the more, just to see what it’s like when Ichiro loses his cool. After all, Ichiro is not one to back off from a challenge.
And, well - Samatoki is indulging; because he wants it, because something in him needs it, too.
He can hear a voice in the back of his head that sounds suspiciously like Jyuto, telling him you’re always seeking him out, ask yourself what that means some time.
It’s been a few sleepless nights, and maybe he’s started to come to terms with it.
It’s Ichiro he needs.
Not an opponent, hell, not even physical pleasure - there’s thousands of people who could provide either or both of those. But only Ichiro understands.
The cold of Ichiro’s rings on his skin snaps Samatoki out of his head. He registers all at once that his underwear is gone, that Ichiro took him in his hand, and a groan spills out of him that could have been a fucking finally if Ichiro had bothered to let him breathe for a minute.
Samatoki lets him get away with just a few dry pulls before he’s getting Ichiro’s hand out of the way to get at his belt, because how’s it fucking fair that Samatoki's buck-ass naked already and this little brat still has all his clothes on?
He doesn’t bother past getting Ichiro’s stupid baggy jeans unbuttoned though, because that’s enough to get a hand around him, squeeze just the slightest bit. He breathes Ichiro’s gasp in through the barely-there space between them, doesn’t even try to hide his smirk.
“Impatient much?” Ichiro says in a valiant effort to keep his composure. Samatoki just scoffs at him.
“Get some fucking lube and get in me already.”
There’s plenty to be admired in the way Ichiro soldiers through the shiver the words seem to give him, nipping almost playfully at the skin under Samatoki’s ear before sitting up - so that the little shit is looking down at him.
“What did I say about ordering me around?” There’s a stupid cockiness in the way he’s got an eyebrow raised, a self-satisfied grin on his face that Samatoki would want to rip clean off if he didn’t like it way more than he should. “Maybe you should ask nicely.”
“Oh, fuck off.”
Samatoki drags him right back down - because if he’s not gonna beat Ichiro’s grin off of his face he should at least kiss it off. He makes it bruising, makes sure to steal Ichiro’s breath until he’s gasping. He wants to take, and consume; because if Samatoki has had to be plagued by thoughts of Ichiro for nights on end, he’s going to make it so that by the end of this, Ichiro can feel him on every inch of his skin.
“Get this shit off,” he says with a tug on Ichiro’s hoodie, his voice even rougher than usual. “That nice enough for you?”
Ichiro gives a little scoff, but then he’s pushing himself off the bed, finally getting rid of his already unbuttoned jeans and his stupid fucking hoodie that for some reason he still bothered to wear even in the late spring heat. Samatoki’s eyes follow the movements reflexively, appreciatively; and he immediately lets a smirk grace his lips when he notices the combination of a grin that’s almost bordering on smug and the unwavering cute flush on Ichiro’s face.
Thing is, he can’t even give Ichiro shit for being smug this time around. If anything, Samatoki wonders why he bothers with the baggy, oversized clothes at all; even if the thought of other people looking at Ichiro the way Samatoki is right now makes bile rise in his throat. He resolutely pushes that image down, beats it to pieces.
“When did you get so fucking ripped?” he asks eventually, giving Ichiro another purposeful once-over just to revel in the way he averts his gaze for a second.
Ichiro shrugs.
“Work.”
Samatoki hums, tilting his head a bit.
“Bless work.”
A bottle of lube is flung at his face.
When Samatoki looks back at Ichiro, his grin has turned shy. He’s keeping his gaze on one of the stupid posters above his bed, teeth worrying at his bottom lip around his smile.
He’s never looked this fucking cute, but he’s taking way too long to get back to where he should be, which is on top of Samatoki.
So Samatoki takes the situation into his own hands.
He reaches out to grab at Ichiro’s wrist and pull him down, making him fall unceremoniously onto the bed. Ichiro catches himself just before he ends up crushing Samatoki, his feet still hanging off the mattress; somehow they both start laughing like idiots the moment their gazes lock, and Samatoki is left to wonder about how easy this is, how much easier it could have always been.
He’s never been one to wallow in his regrets - hell, even losing Nemu, for how painful, hadn’t slumped him for more than a day before he was up and fighting back for all he was worth. He takes action quickly, sometimes too quickly, and hardly ever looks back at what’s behind him. But fuck if he doesn’t want to beat his old self purple for treating Ichiro like shit for so long, when the alternative is to feel Ichiro kiss him around a smile.
“Turn around?” Ichiro asks when they separate, an earnest glint in his eyes.
“So that’s how ya like it, huh?” Samatoki teases, earning himself an eye roll; however he’s immediately nudging Ichiro off so he can comply. It’s not like he’s opposed.
He’s barely settled in his position when he feels Ichiro’s warmth on top of him, almost glueing himself to Samatoki’s back; Samatoki contemplates shoving him off and telling him to get on with it, but there’s something undeniably soothing in the pecks Ichiro’s leaving on the back of his neck, for how frustrating it may be to feel him right there and have him do nothing about it.
It’s the combination of a bite and a still-clothed half-thrust that finally makes Samatoki glare back at him.
“I can’t fucking stand you.”
“Neither can I.”
But once again, Ichiro’s laughing around the jab, and Samatoki’s brain is traitorously thinking I could get used to this.
Not like it would be bad. It just sometimes takes an extra mental step to remember that whatever’s happening with Ichiro is real, when he’s the guy Samatoki conditioned himself to hate for two years.
The very same guy who’s now got a finger in Samatoki’s ass, looking in no hurry at all to get to the fucking point.
“Get on with it, I’m not gonna break,” Samatoki rasps out, something of a bored expression on his face as he looks back at Ichiro.
Well fuck, Ichiro may be inexperienced and a bit nervous, but he’s not gonna let this be fucking boring. He slips in a second finger with a roll of his eyes, preening a little when Samatoki gives a pleased hum, and picking up the pace as soon as he goes silent again.
He gets to three fingers sooner than he would have liked, but that’s mostly because of Samatoki pushing back against them and huffing out his frustration like Ichiro’s dangling a carrot right in front of his stupid horse nose. Sue him for wanting to drag things out a bit, he’s not the quick and dirty type.
Although he has a feeling Samatoki isn’t either, not with him at least.
It’s when he presses up against a spot that makes Samatoki let out a noise more strangled that the others that he seems to decide he’s done with Ichiro’s bullshit.
“Quit that, I’m ready, get the fuck to it.”
There’s an edge to Samatoki’s voice that’s different from before, finally a little layer of desperation to his impatience, that really shouldn’t make Ichiro feel so good.
He finally gets rid of his underwear, then reaches for a condom that he struggles opening and getting on with his slippery fingers - he can see Samatoki trying not to laugh at him, however he is courteously pretending not to -, on top of trying not to shiver too much from finally touching himself.
It’s when Samatoki does let out a snort that Ichiro realises that hey, two can play at this game, and a wonderful memory from a while ago manifests itself in his brain.
He’s got his clean hand on Samatoki’s side, just shy of the swell of his ass, and makes a show of feasting his eyes, of pressing against him without making any move to slide in. He waits until he knows Samatoki is about to complain, and drops the bomb.
“Remember when you asked me how your ass looked from hell?”
Ichiro can see the snarky comment die in Samatoki’s throat, an indignant “What the fuck?!” getting out instead.
“I can’t quite tell from that perspective yet, but from here it looks pretty great.”
Samatoki is now proper glaring at him.
“When the fuck did I say that.”
Ichiro bites back his grin, trying to morph it into an almost-pout. “You don’t remember?”
“You’re fucking with me.”
“I’m not.” Ichiro leans back down so he can press a few more kisses to the side of Samatoki’s neck, right where the scent of smoke and coffee and perfume is strongest. Maybe it’s becoming his favourite spot; or maybe it was just an excuse to speak right into Samatoki’s ear. “Wanted me to look that bad?”
“Shut the- fuck.”
Ichiro presses against Samatoki with purpose, only dragging it out for a few more seconds before Samatoki finally feels him slide in. It punches a groan out of him, as he grips the blanket underneath him so tightly it’s the way his fingertips hurt that forces him to notice he’s actually doing it.
There’s nothing monumental or anything about it; it’s not like Ichiro finally fucking him altered his brain chemistry or tilted the world on its axis or any of that sappy shit.
But with Ichiro’s warmth on his back and the sound of his voice by his ear, Samatoki can’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be right now.
That’s got to count for something.
Obviously, Samatoki knew from the start that while he talks a big game, Ichiro’s shaky breaths and trembling fingers immediately give away how affected he is as well. Samatoki would make fun of him for being about to burst so early, if the fact didn’t fill him with a pleasant satisfaction that has nothing to do with his slightly better ability to keep it together.
Nevertheless, he graciously gives Ichiro a moment - takes in all the sensations that come with having him like this, until he hears Ichiro’s breathing get a little steadier, and he’s wasting no more time pushing back against him, urging him to move.
The pace starts relaxed, comfortable - a so very Ichiro way of going about it. Samatoki’s brain is screaming at him to chase every single feeling frantically, to make up for lost time as intensely as they can; but Ichiro seems to want to do it differently.
He seems to be putting his entire focus on every single movement, like he wants to make them burn on Samatoki’s skin. He’s got a hand splayed on Samatoki’s abdomen and the other wrapped around Samatoki’s hand that’s gripping the sheets; there’s not an inch of them that isn’t touching in some way, to the point where it’s almost overwhelming.
Nevertheless, for how much Ichiro seems to want to savour the moment, the need starts to get to him as well. His movements become sharper, drawing more and more sounds from them both; he’s still nestled against the curve of Samatoki’s neck, and hasn’t had any intention to move for a while, so Samatoki hears every single one of his breathy noises in high definition. He barely even realises he’s being just as expressive until Ichiro does something - he shifts, he moves, Samatoki doesn’t fucking know - and a groan escapes Samatoki that’s way louder than he’s used to being.
“Fucking hell, Ichiro.”
He turns his face into the pillows a bit, tries to muffle himself, but Ichiro catches on quick: his thrusts get faster, his grip a bit tighter. Samatoki doesn’t know if he does it on purpose, or if he’s just chasing his own need, selfishly taking everything he can get until he’s had his fill - whatever it is, it doesn’t fucking matter. It feels good; it sounds good, to the point where Samatoki doesn’t bother to keep anything in anymore. They sound fucking amazing together. And the louder Samatoki gets, the more intense Ichiro makes his movements - as if every sign that Samatoki is feeling good fuels his own ecstasy, a vicious cycle of perfection.
“Fuck, Samatoki,” Ichiro breathes out against Samatoki’s skin. He’s settled into an unrelenting pace now, getting messier the more he continues. He pries Samatoki’s fingers away from the blanket underneath them, fitting his own between them and squeezing, while his hold around Samatoki’s waist gets tighter, his breathing even more laboured.
“Samatoki-san.”
Fuck.
This fucking brat. The little shit. How dare he.
How dare he - he must know what it does to Samatoki, to hear Ichiro call him that in that desperate voice when he’s surrounded by Ichiro’s warmth and his scent and the insane way that he feels inside him; Samatoki lets out a few moans that probably sound broken, not that he particularly notices nor cares what he sounds like right now when his ears are full of Ichiro’s noises.
The Samatoki-san thing - it was a stupid way for Samatoki to cling to some semblance of familiarity in a new Ichiro he barely recognised anymore. Two years have done wonders to him, where they have done nothing at best and damage at worst to Samatoki; but the fire in this older, stronger Ichiro’s eyes was so startling that Samatoki had felt the need to grasp at a straw that would make him feel a little less like a stranger.
But now, Samatoki feels both like he never should have brought the damn thing up at all and like he should edge Ichiro to his wit’s end just to hear him say it like that again.
To be fair, he probably doesn’t even need to; not with Ichiro’s movements getting more and more frantic and half-finished calls of Samatoki’s name littered among his sounds.
He’s clinging to Samatoki like a lifeline, both hands holding him so tightly it’s probably on the verge of hurting; but Samatoki isn’t complaining, and Ichiro cannot bring himself to let go. He’s burning all over, coiled so tight to the point his eyes sting. He can feel Samatoki returning the squeeze on his hand as much as he can; gets drunk on the way his rough voice says his name.
If it were for Ichiro, he would stay in this insanely delightful bubble forever.
And yet the way the bubble pops is possibly even more mind-blowing. Ichiro barely realises it’s happening until it’s his body that gives up on keeping up the pace for him, a series of broken sounds escaping him as he’s overtaken by warmth. It slams into him - the tension leaves his body all at once, and he gasps in one, two, way too many breaths to make up for all the ones he forgot to take, readjusting to the real world right there where his head falls to the space between Samatoki’s shoulder blades.
The grip of his hands has slackened, but he doesn’t want to give up on the contact just yet. As he catches his breath Ichiro lets his thumb play absentmindedly with the beads of Samatoki’s bracelet, still holding him close even as he finally pulls out. They both hum at the feeling, and Ichiro flops right back onto Samatoki’s back, mostly just so he can excuse his giddy little laugh as just a reaction to Samatoki’s oof.
Sue him for it, he’d been expecting anything but this when his day started. He can barely believe it actually happened. He has to really focus - on their hearts that are cacophonously loud, and their ragged breathing; it feels absurd, like he’s two years back in time and having a ridiculously vivid wet dream.
“Get off.” Samatoki snaps him out of it, grumbling and pushing back against him.
“Nah.” Ichiro breathes out, smiling against Samatoki’s skin, before hooking his chin onto his shoulder. “I’m comfortable.”
“Fucking heavy is what you are.”
Samatoki gives him a more decisive push, and Ichiro ends up sprawled half on the bed and half against the wall. He sends a few choice words to past-him who for some reason decided to get himself a twin-sized bed; however he has to concede past-him didn’t buy it with the intention to fuck in it, so it’s not really anyone’s fault it’s not a bed made for two tall-ass grown men to occupy together.
Ichiro has barely had time to blink before the cold hardness of the wall is gone from behind his back, and Samatoki is dragging him back to the centre of the bed, settling on top of him. What little is left of his breath is stolen away as Samatoki kisses him once, hard, and when he shifts a little bit - oh.
“You’re still hard,” Ichiro blurts out when they separate, blinking up at Samatoki with an expression that’s probably a bit stupid.
Samatoki huffs out a laugh, an eyebrow raised.
“No shit, Sherlock.”
He lets his gaze roam across Ichiro’s body, then traces the path with his hands: a flick to a nipple that has Ichiro sucking in a surprised breath, then a slow descent along his sides, until he settles around Ichiro’s hips. He discards the condom that’s still wrapped around Ichiro, then grinds against him; and fuck, Ichiro just came - the stimulation from even such a simple gesture is so much it almost hurts. He winces a bit, but Samatoki doesn’t seem to care. If anything, he enjoys seeing Ichiro squirm: the smirk on his face doesn’t move an inch, possibly even gets a bit sharper.
“It was cute to let you have your fun,” Samatoki says with a tinge of danger in his voice, “but now it’s my fucking turn.”
There’s something in his tone, an edge to it that reminds Ichiro of the way Samatoki talks to the sorry punks he battles on his turf. It’s a voice Ichiro used to be obsessed with, once upon a time; it would give him almost as much of an adrenaline rush as the battle itself.
Being on the receiving end of it almost makes Ichiro’s brain turn to mush.
Samatoki doesn’t do him the courtesy of letting him gather himself; he barely lets Ichiro gasp in a breath before he’s on him again. Ichiro reflexively buries a hand in Samatoki’s soft hair, but after a moment he finally gathers the strength to push back against him, to try and prove something - he himself isn’t sure what. It’s not that it’s unpleasant to have Samatoki find him cute, but he’s not going to let his feet get stepped on so easily.
Except that Samatoki barely gives him the time to reciprocate the kiss he started before he’s pulling away, fiery eyes tracing every line of Ichiro’s face. And the place they stop - it’s as if someone suddenly slotted a disc behind Ichiro’s eyes and pressed play on a long, long sequence of memories.
Ichiro, freshly seventeen, faced with the most fascinating man he’d ever seen, thinking there would be nothing more awesome than to be even a little bit like him. Taking small steps, asking too many questions, and despite that wishing Samatoki wouldn’t see him just as an annoying kid.
A slightly older, much wiser Ichiro now knows how much of it was bullshit, that Samatoki is just as broken as him if not more, and that he doesn’t need to be like Samatoki - but just to have him in his life. His absence was felt like a missing limb: possible to work around, but impossible to ignore.
After all, they’re the only ones who truly understand each other.
“You let ‘em close up,” Samatoki says as he lets a thumb flick one of Ichiro’s earlobes, his tone so close to neutral that anyone else would not have noticed the slight disappointment in it. “Shame.”
And, well, Ichiro cannot read minds, but the clouds in Samatoki’s gaze seem to speak for a little trip down memory lane going on in there as well.
Samatoki snaps himself out of it with a huff of a laugh, manhandling himself between Ichiro’s legs and closing his teeth around the skin of his chest, once, twice, enough to leave a little reminder. The suddenness and the sting punch a small gasp out of Ichiro - and he knows there’s no point in trying to hide it. The sharp smirk returns to Samatoki’s lips in a way that makes Ichiro want to do something drastic about it. Like throw himself out the window.
“Needed to get back to the good boy look, huh?” Samatoki teases, rubbing circles into Ichiro’s hip with one hand as he reaches for the lube that ended up who-knows-where in their mess of limbs and blankets.
“Wasn’t gonna become a pincushion like you or anything,” Ichiro retorts, a bit absentmindedly. His mind is completely focused on the way Samatoki’s hand moves to his thigh to hold him open; he doesn’t know where he gets the brain power to hold Samatoki’s gaze, and honestly he wishes he wouldn’t, but those damned blood-red eyes don’t let him look away for a second even as Samatoki brings his lips to Ichiro’s inner thigh, so so close to where he’s valiantly trying to get hard again.
And maybe Ichiro has been harbouring a masochistic side all this time, because the prick of Samatoki’s teeth on his skin or the occasional brush of his fingers or his nose where he’s still too sensitive feel too good. Ichiro feels almost a little pathetic; he doesn’t know if he loves or hates just how much Samatoki is visibly enjoying this.
“Imagine if they knew, huh?” Samatoki rasps out as he finally stops torturing him, warming up some of the lube in his hand before he slides a finger inside at last. He barely gives Ichiro any time to adjust, letting a second finger in way too soon.
Ichiro definitely does have a masochistic side.
“Imagine if the nice little grannies down the street knew what the young man that always helps them with their groceries and shit gets up to, huh? And with who.”
The image almost makes Ichiro laugh out loud.
“Don’t talk about the grannies down the street with your fingers in my ass.”
Samatoki’s grin turns even more evil. He curls and moves his fingers, making Ichiro bite his lip to contain his sounds.
“Bet they're always talking about their pretty granddaughters they wanna introduce to you. They have no idea their cute little Ichiro-kun has had a crush on a big bad gangster since he was seventeen.”
Ichiro finally feels a third finger slide in, and his already half-assed “Shut the fuck up,” comes out even breathier than intended. However, he is not so far gone that he doesn’t notice Samatoki’s grin slip a little.
“They’d be appalled at your taste in men,” Samatoki says almost seriously, taking his fingers out all at once and moving away to rummage for a condom with his clean hand. Ichiro blinks some clarity back into his mind, and when Samatoki is facing him again he meets his gaze dead on.
“They don’t know you like I do, though.”
Samatoki holds his gaze for a few dragged-out moments. His long eyelashes blink a few times, and Ichiro can’t look away from him - not when he looks almost surprised by what he heard, as if it doesn’t quite click in his brain that Ichiro doesn’t see him the way everyone else does.
So he pushes in, almost as if trying to distract Ichiro from whatever little storm is happening in his eyes, and maybe also so that the tightness and the warmth will clear the clouds a bit.
Samatoki doesn’t want to think about what it means to be seen.
Not right now, at least.
He prefers to focus on the way Ichiro throws his head back a bit, on the way the light shines on the marked-up skin of his neck; his slightly glassy eyes, his messed up hair. He rushes into a hard pace almost immediately, just so he can see Ichiro’s eyes squeeze shut at the sensations and open again even shinier than before; gets to hear how much breathier and more broken he can make Ichiro’s voice with his movements and just how tightly he can get Ichiro to grab his arm in a cute little attempt to ground himself.
Maybe having Ichiro underneath him is making Samatoki a little insane.
“Not so chatty now, huh, Ichiro?” He taunts with a smirk, and there’s just no way to take Ichiro’s glare seriously - not when it disappears behind his eyelids on the next thrust accompanied by a half-formed curse.
The more Samatoki hears Ichiro’s deep voice break, the more he sees him bending and tensing and relaxing, the more he feels himself slipping - his thoughts getting lost in a fog of sensations, the movement of their bodies taking over him so completely that even his whereabouts stop making a whole lot of sense.
It’s a familiar feeling, comfortable even - he’s gone looking for it enough in his life to recognise it. This Ichiro underneath him - right now, he could be anyone; a warm body, a broken voice, a mop of tousled hair. All of Samatoki’s attention is laser-focused on where they connect, because he’s not ready to pay attention to anything else. He doesn’t want to. It’s just give and take, give and take, until he comes or his body gives out, whichever one comes first.
But this is not anyone. This is not a random fuck he picked up and brought home out of boredom or frustration.
This is Ichiro.
And things with Ichiro are never that simple.
Because he opens his eyes - his stupidly beautiful mismatched eyes, teary and big, staring right into Samatoki’s soul, snapping him out of his reverie of muscle memory and pleasure-seeking. Samatoki doesn’t slow down, doesn’t stop, but those two eyes feel like the stare of a thousand, compelling him, refusing to let him slip anymore.
This is Ichiro, sweaty, marked up, impossibly tight around him.
Ichiro that knows him like no one else does, that understands the things Samatoki never says out loud.
Ichiro that looked up to him, then grew up so much better than Samatoki ever could.
His Ichiro, that loved him-
“Samatoki-“
Samatoki goes boneless.
His orgasm feels like it lasts a century; wave after wave of pleasure runs through him until he is entirely sucked dry of energy. Every single muscle in his body goes loose and unravels, and he collapses on himself like a card castle, sticking to Ichiro’s sweaty skin as the aftershocks run through him.
He can hardly keep his eyes open anymore. He breathes deeply in the crook of Ichiro’s neck, barely registering the little chuckle that escapes Ichiro as Samatoki’s exhale tickles him, and has just enough presence of mind left to lift himself enough to pull out, before flopping back down with a groan.
Ichiro, on the other hand, tries to catch his breath, even though it’s not easy with almost seventy kilograms of passed-out Samatoki lying right on his ribcage. His hand comes up to gently brush through Samatoki’s hair, trying not to pull at the tangles they ended up creating in their movement. He knows from experience that a rude awakening makes for an irreparably unbearable Samatoki, and Ichiro’s not quite ready to give up this peaceful sleepy version of him yet.
Because this was a rare sight even back then, and Ichiro has to fight with his entire willpower not to give in to sleep himself just yet, just to enjoy it for a few more minutes: a relaxed Samatoki, vulnerable and safe in Ichiro’s arms. His flushed face, slightly parted lips, his sharp features and cloudy-soft hair; Ichiro has thought Samatoki beautiful thousands of times - and felt the urge to slap himself after each one - but even compared to his fiery beauty of every day this feels like so much more.
Everyone sees flamingly, scorchingly beautiful Samatoki.
This is a privilege for just one pair of eyes.
A brief panic runs through Ichiro as his lids start growing heavier - that he may wake up alone, with no answers and even more questions.
But this is Samatoki.
Ichiro allows himself to trust him one more time.
Ichiro wakes up slowly, who knows after how long, in a meltingly relaxed way he hadn’t experienced in a while. He’s clean - well, cleaner -, covered with soft blankets, and unbelievably sore, but -
He’s also alone.
It takes him a moment to register that Samatoki is, in fact, not in the room as he should be, and the panic and glumness hits him all at once. Did he actually leave? Did he actually just abandon Ichiro there after one of the most insane and vulnerable experiences of his life? Did he-?
No, but he can’t have. Ichiro knows him better than that. With all his flaws, Samatoki wouldn’t leave him hanging after something like this.
Of course he wouldn’t. He didn’t. His shoes are still right there where he left them, and his shirt is crumpled up on the floor near the bed from how Ichiro threw it at some point.
Ichiro allows himself a sigh of relief, sitting up against the headboard. He properly takes in the messy room, full of discarded clothes strewn about, the tangible proof that what happened wasn’t just one of his absurd dreams. Samatoki is here, in his house, still here after Ichiro has somehow been allowed to say and do everything that he only ever dared imagine in secret, almost away from the judgement even of himself. Now, Ichiro is allowed to ask-
The door creaks open, and in he walks: a half-dressed Samatoki, towelling off his hair, who stops just past the doorframe once he sees Ichiro awake. His eyes are laser-pointed on Ichiro, something in them almost similar to surprise, as if he also can’t quite believe that they exist in a reality where the past few hours actually happened.
Ichiro straightens up; he feels studied. He feels really, properly naked, and not just because, well, he is.
“How long you been awake?” Samatoki asks. His voice is low, like he also isn’t sure how to break the silence.
“A few minutes.”
A hum. A sigh. Samatoki’s eyes finally leave Ichiro, darting around the room and desperately looking for something to fix themselves upon that won’t stare back.
There’s a million options and none are good enough.
“Can I-?“ Ichiro starts, unsure, stopping to clear his throat immediately because his voice has never been that hoarse. “I know I probably sound like a broken disc and this is one hell of an awkward moment to bring it up, but there’s no good moment for it and I just want to get it over with.”
“It was you that said we should forget about it.”
“And I meant it!” Ichiro takes a deep breath, hands wringing the blanket around his waist. “But I also realised that it’s going to be impossible for me to forget if I’m still left wondering what the fuck even happened.”
Samatoki heaves a sigh.
“That’s fair.”
He takes a few steps forward, choosing to lean against the back of the couch. His hands squeeze the towel on his shoulders, until he crosses and uncrosses his arms; his mouth trying to mould around words that never seem right.
“I was tricked,” is what he settles on. “They wanted Nemu and they took advantage of me being tired and emotional to take away everything I had in one go.”
Ichiro nods a little, his eyes narrowing.
“They thought we’d be less dangerous alone, and I had one weak spot. They knew that even if I lost Nemu the first thing I would have done would have been running to you, and they couldn’t have that. So they had her tell me it was your fault.”
Ichiro lets out a little confused “what?”, his gaze uselessly searching Samatoki’s.
“That she was going with them. She told me it was your fault, that you talked her into it or some shit. It’s absurd when you think about it, but in that moment I’d have believed anything. I was high on adrenaline and angry like I’d never been. And I-“
Samatoki runs a hand down his face, guilt and shame and regret painted all over it.
“I hadn’t known you that long yet, Ichiro. I trusted you, but not enough.”
Ichiro can’t stop a sharp inhale at those words. It stings, and yet he can’t help but nod along. Because Samatoki is right: they hadn’t known each other that long, and while Ichiro was a young naïve boy at the time who still had it in him to let others in, Samatoki’s life had forced the trust out of him long before they even met.
They let the long silence sit for a while, not looking at each other, searching for words and buried feelings.
It’s Samatoki that breaks it again.
“I was, though- I mean, still, unfair to you. All this time.”
“Life is not fair,” Ichiro replies with a half smile.
“No, it’s not.”
Samatoki lets it hang in the air for a moment, and when he speaks again it’s with a sort of sureness behind it.
“Doesn’t mean I can’t be.”
Ichiro’s eyes snap back up to him, and this time Samatoki is looking back.
“Thank you,” Ichiro says, “for explaining. It had gotten to a point where I started thinking you never would.”
A bitter laugh escapes him, and Samatoki keeps his furrowed gaze on him.
“It was just that-“ a sigh, as he closes and reopens his eyes to focus himself. “I was really hurt that you could lose trust in me that easily. I’m the first that can understand how terrified you must have been to lose your sister, but I think that-“
He’s staring at his hands again, torturing the blanket in all sorts of directions.
“Even if it makes me a bit selfish, I think I’m allowed to be hurt about the fact that I wasn’t important enough to you to even deserve being heard out.”
Samatoki’s eyes widen, but Ichiro can’t see that. He only vaguely registers steps getting closer as he is once again rebuilding his and Samatoki’s entire relationship in his head, shamefully humbled by the realisation that he has always been so much more irrelevant than he thought, and even now-
“Oi,” Samatoki’s voice reaches him from much closer, shining blood-red eyes staring straight into him as his gaze is forced back up.
“Don’t you ever think, not even for a moment - that you were at any point not important to me.”
Ichiro’s lips purse, and holding the eye contact starts feeling uncomfortable. He hears Samatoki sigh as he tries to look somewhere else, before his face is cradled by a rough pair of hands that smell of smoke and his own body wash and he has nowhere to run anymore.
“Ichiro,” Samatoki starts. His brow is furrowed and his voice a little quiet, a little slow, trying to figure out the right words one by one.
“What you make me feel, I don’t know if I can call it love. I don’t know what that kind of love is even supposed to be like,” he says with a certain harshness in the last words, biting around memories Ichiro isn’t familiar with. One day, Ichiro thinks, he wants to hear all of it: they have both been bearing their crosses alone for far too long.
“I don’t want us to hurt each other again,” Samatoki continues. “You don’t deserve that.”
“We’ve hurt each other enough for a lifetime, Samatoki,” Ichiro replies, hands wrapping around Samatoki’s wrists. He takes a deep breath, regaining conviction as much as he can muster. “I’m not going to let that happen again.”
Samatoki nods then, his brow hard in the usual way that it gets when he’s laser-focused on something.
“Good,” he says. “Me neither.”
Ichiro nods in turn, and is suddenly not sure what more to say. There’s a so what do we do now on the tip of his tongue, and a little voice at the back of his head that makes him terrified to say it; and Samatoki is just staring at him, in such an infuriatingly intense way that keeps making Ichiro lose his train of thought if he pays too much attention to it.
Ultimately they don’t know who moves first. They kiss with less hurry than before but just as much intensity, and it’s not long before they end up splayed on the bed again, skin to skin, holding each other like they never allowed themselves to before today.
Samatoki must have fallen asleep again at some point - sue him, he hasn’t slept properly in days, with Nemu and the second division rap battle and Ichiro and what not -, because he ends up rudely woken up by a series of pings and a subsequent string of expletives he is somewhat shocked to hear in Ichiro’s voice.
He blinks his vision into focus, and there Ichiro is: hair still a mess, upper body completely littered with marks, balancing himself on one leg to try and shove his jeans back on.
“The fuck are you doing?” Samatoki grumbles, not bothering to move from his very comfortable spot. “You look like a squirrel with its ass on fire.”
Ichiro turns to look at him, wide-eyed and frozen, both legs now in his jeans but belt still undone.
“Jiro and Saburo just texted,” he rushes out. “Actually, they texted around fifteen minutes ago, and I told them to go to the store to get some stuff for dinner to stall them but they’ll be here any moment and I need to make myself and the house presentable and get you out of here before they do because how the fuck do I explain this?”
He gestures somewhat wildly to the two of them, and Samatoki has to hold back a laugh. He could point out that the state of Ichiro’s neck is pretty self-explanatory, and he almost does - but then he just shakes his head and leaves him to it. It’s hilarious, and has the added bonus of a shirtless Ichiro running around for him to look at.
Ichiro goes to open the window, then crouches down to the floor to recover his hoodie and Samatoki’s shirt, which gets promptly thrown in his face.
“Stop lying there like a dead fish and give me a hand,” Ichiro complains, and there’s this edge of petulance in his tone that would have pissed Samatoki off coming from anyone else. Because it’s Ichiro, he just rolls onto his back while Ichiro puts his hoodie back on, and stares him straight in the eyes with an eyebrow raised.
“Or what? Huh?”
Ichiro sighs, then bends down to hover over Samatoki, placing a hand on the bed next to his shoulder.
“Or I will have to kick you out, Samatoki-san.”
Fucking hell.
Samatoki immediately grabs onto Ichiro’s hoodie, and is about to drag him down - when Ichiro’s phone pings again a few times in succession.
Those damn brats and their horrible timing.
Ichiro immediately goes to check the messages, leaving Samatoki to huff and get his shirt back on at last. Next time, he thinks, they’re doing this at his house. The bed’s bigger and there’s no one to cockblock them.
“Fuck, they’re already done,” Ichiro mutters, running a hand through his hair. He checks his reflection in the window, and there’s no way he doesn’t realise how disheveled he looks. Whether he likes it or not, he’s going to have to come up with some excuses for Jiro and Saburo - there’s only so many hickeys you can explain away as bug bites or hair dryer burns.
“Ichiro,” Samatoki starts, now fully dressed and sitting upright. Ichiro turns towards him again, eyes still a bit wide and panicky, and Samatoki stands, crossing the distance between them in two steps.
“I’m a man of my word,” he states firmly. “I meant what I said. I won’t let us hurt each other anymore, and I’m not leaving you behind again.”
Ichiro seems to relax somewhat at his words, a warmer expression replacing his apprehension as he nods.
“I know,” he replies, the same sureness as Samatoki in his tone. “I trust you.”
Ichiro’s trust. One of those things Samatoki was sure he would never have again, right up there with his parents, his youth, and his innocence.
“There’s always that part of me that says I shouldn’t,” Ichiro continues. “But I don’t want to listen to it. I’m telling it I know you better than that.”
They let them hang between them for a bit, these new promises and new show of trust.
And then, for some ungodly unnecessary reason, the brats text again.
Samatoki rolls his eyes, but Ichiro just sighs and goes to try and give some semblance of sense to the bed, then starts scanning the room for anything too out of place before once again worrying about himself, this time concernedly eyeing his appearance in his phone camera as Samatoki sits and puts on his shoes.
“Why are you even so pressed about this,” Samatoki asks. “What’s the big deal if they figure it out?”
Ichiro puts down his phone with another heavy sigh, and runs another hand through his hair which in Samatoki’s opinion only makes it worse - both for Ichiro’s goal of seeming presentable and for Samatoki’s sake, who seems to be becoming less and less good at pretending Ichiro isn’t stupidly attractive.
“For all they know we hated each other’s guts until yesterday, and I’ve only ever talked about you in a bad light for the past two years. I don’t want to keep this hidden from them, but finding you in the house on a random day as they return from school doesn’t exactly seem like the best way to tell them, don’t you think?”
Samatoki blinks up at him, the picture of innocent confusion.
“They’re not children anymore, they can handle it,” he says with a shrug.
“Of fucking course they can handle it,” Ichiro replies almost exhaustedly, half-throwing his arms up in disbelief. “I’d just like for it to make a little more sense to them, because as I’m sure you’re aware, if they see you in the house they’ll whip out their mics at the minimum, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Jiro just decided to punch you in the face.”
“I’d like to see that little cockroach fucking try.”
“No, you really wouldn’t,” Ichiro deadpans. “Moreover, I wouldn’t, so…”
He gives Samatoki’s shoulder a little push for him to stand, then starts leading him not-so-gently out of the bedroom and down the stairs. Samatoki lets out a continuous stream of aggravated grumbles as they go, and Ichiro promptly ignores every oi, watch it and if I trip down these fucking stairs I’m taking you down with me with a couple eye rolls and a huff.
He all but sprints to the front door and swings it open, as Samatoki keeps a calm pace behind him like whatever happens next isn’t his problem. He steps outside as leisurely as a tortoise, and turns to look at Ichiro almost expectantly, even though his gaze can’t quite seem to stay fixed.
“So,” he starts, with a shrug and a twitch of his eyebrows.
Everything that he could say next feels dumb. I’ll see you soon? Call me when you can?
He doesn’t want to seem desperate. Then again, he was the one to call Ichiro this morning after spending the better part of a night ruminating over it.
He just settles for: “I’ll go then.”
Simple, innocent and true. Can’t go wrong with it.
Ichiro nods, bites his lip a little. Samatoki has almost made up his mind to just turn around and go, preserve the last of both their dignities, but Ichiro was always the braver one with the cringy statements.
“Don’t be a stranger,” he says softly, a hint of a smile curling around his lips, “yeah?”
Samatoki feels the same expression on his own face, forming without permission; tries to hide it with a quick nod.
“‘Course.”
But it’s hard to hide when his confirmation makes the smile bloom on Ichiro’s face, alongside what in any other light but the weak led of the landing would have been a blush.
Samatoki rolls his eyes, at himself more than anything else, and takes a step closer to leave one last quick kiss on Ichiro’s lips - before turning around and taking the stairs, almost hurrying out of the building.
“Aniki! We’re back!”
Barely a couple of minutes went by between Samatoki’s departure and the loud call of Jiro’s voice from the door. About half of that time was spent by Ichiro staring at nothing, in an - albeit pleasant - state of shock, and the rest panicking over how to get himself out of the sticky mess of having to explain why he looks… like this and why Samatoki is actually not a horrible person after all, the past two years have just been a soup of misunderstandings and bad judgement, sorry guys.
A minute was not enough. He’s going to have to wing it.
“Welcome back, Jiro, Saburo,” he says with his usual warmth.
He immediately feels two pairs of shocked, concerned, and curious eyes staring at him like he’s grown a second and a third head.
Here goes nothing.
Samatoki wonders for a second whether the amount of absurd things that happened to him today ended up giving him hallucinations.
Because as he is peacefully walking, lit cigarette finally between his lips, well into the second block away from Ichiro’s house, it seems to him to hear a very loud WHAAAAT??? coming from the direction he just left.
Or maybe the conversation between the Yamadas is simply going exactly as expected, because Samatoki has barely turned the corner when his phone pings with a notification.
ichiro
we’re going to yours next time.