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The first time Yukihira meets Shinomiya Kojirou he doesn’t like him at all. And not just because he’d immediately locked eyes with him from across 1,000 students and then expelled the boy standing next to him.
Whatever, he’s here to be the best and if Shinomiya can help him on the way, he’ll take it.
And okay, fine, the man is hot. He carries himself like he knows he’s better than everyone and Yukihira wants to have that level of confidence, like he can just walk into a room and know he’s the best chef in it.
Sitting there on his dumb fancy chair trying to pit them against each other. The nerve of this jerk to try and expel Tadokoro for what was clearly a rigged challenge. He wants to fight him and his dumb weird-shaped glasses. More infuriatingly, he wants to fight him on his own merits, not as a sous chef. Fuck.
Later, after the shokugeki is over and he’s practically vibrating with leftover adrenaline, he watches Dojima’s takedown and Shinomiya’s ensuing emotional cascade and wonders if maybe Shinomiya would have been interested in trading something else for his appeasement. If he’d take that red neckerchief off and tie Yukihira’s wrists with it and see what else he’d be willing to offer up.
He’s an enthusiastic teenage boy, it’s not his fault his dick decides to take an interest in the proceedings every 30 seconds. He gets hard whenever Isshiki bounces by in his loincloth or Erina just says the word “tongue,” it doesn’t mean anything that Shinomiya’s smirk sets him off.
-
When he runs into Shinomiya just as they’re about to leave training camp, he nearly trips over himself. He wishes Shinomiya had gotten a chance to finish whatever he was going to say to them before Hinako had descended to try and kidnap Tadokoro.
As he runs back in to grab his forgotten wrist cloth he spots Shinomiya turning a corner. “Hey, Yukihira,” he says, slowing down and checking over his shoulder to make sure his friends aren’t about to swoop in again.
Yukihira’s pulse rate immediately goes into double-time. “Yes, senpai?”
Shinomiya looks less harsh now and his smile seems like less of a taunt. “You can never tell anyone I did this,” he says, looking intently at Yukihira and leaning forward. Make that triple-time, and it’s like the two of them are in a tunnel staring each other down. “But…thank you.”
Yukihira is going to faint. “Ah, no problem,” he manages, and hopes he doesn’t sound as suddenly incapacitated as he is. The smokescreen he’s envisioned around them recedes as Shinomiya straightens up. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again,” he says as the sun glints off his jewelry and he turns to walk away.
Yukihira’s legs take long enough to function again that he misses the stupid bus.
Later, back in his room at Kyokusei, he thinks about Shinomiya’s clever hands dicing the finest vegetable cuts he’s ever seen and what that necklace would feel like pressed against his back and bites down on his hand to stay quiet as he groans. If Isshiki is in the ceiling again and hears him gasping Shinomiya’s name he will never live it down.
-
So maybe he’s not quite as casual about it as he seems when he walks into Shino’s Tokyo for his stagiaire. He may have had a minor crisis a block away trying to get the hand trick to work without a second person and wondering how, exactly, he is going to get through this without making an absolute idiot of himself.
“Leave a visible mark.” He wonders if receiving a visible mark counts and thinks about Shinomiya’s teeth grazing his neck and tries to slap himself again. He is here to learn. Not spontaneously combust every time he looks across the kitchen.
It does not help at all that Shinomiya keeps working with him personally to lift things and change lights and sweat and bend over. It only gets worse after lunch. Two glasses of wine later and Shinomiya is lounging in one of the dining chairs with his shirt half-open asking if Yukihira can “keep up with him until the end” and calling him “Monsieur Yukihira” and yes fuck yes he can keep up he’ll do anything.
That confidence is very quickly ruined once the kitchen falls terrifyingly silent and guests start streaming in. He will not in fact outpace Shinomiya at this exact minute because he is going to pass out the second he sits down, but he’s never been happier.
-
When Shinomiya says he can submit a dish to the menu competition, he sees his opportunity not just to find his specialty but also prove himself to Shinomiya as a peer, not just some upstart “carefree student.” He knows what he’s doing, damn it. And what he wants. And what he particularly wants right now is to see what kind of noises he can get Shinomiya to make with his food.
Hinako pops up behind him in her usual manic fashion before they get to the tasting. “How has Shinomiya been treating you?” She asks. “He hasn’t thrown you around too much? Or tied you up or anything?”
He laughs nervously. If only. “Ah, no, mostly he’s very quiet and scary.”
She nods enthusiastically. “He’ll do that. Hey, how is my spirit of fortune Tadokoro-chan? Still as cute as ever?”
“Stop perving on the students, Inui,” Shinomiya rolls in like a thundercloud to pick her up and nearly throw her away.
“No fair!” she protests. “Weren’t you just texting me yesterday that—”
Yukihira is pretty sure he sees a visible lightning strike in the restaurant as Shinomiya chucks Hinako halfway across the room.
He may have gone seven days on less than 10 total hours of sleep but it’s all worth it when Shinomiya takes one bite of his food and gasps.
It’s good, he knows it, and yet he’s still terrified that it’s not good enough but he heard those noises Shinomiya made. He may replay them in his mind forever.
“I could beat into you what I’d do if I were to make the dish. How about it?”
He is pretty sure they can hear his response in Hokkaido but he will actually beg if Shinomiya wants him to.
He feels like he’s flying in the kitchen as Shinomiya explains the new steps to him and one by one their Tohtsuki guests and the other employees filter out rather than watch the Yukihira-Shinomiya cooking show.
It’s pushing 6 a.m. by the time he’s sprawled out on the floor and Shinomiya finally has nothing left to critique, not even the way that Yukihira has washed the dishes. Between the exhaustion and various taste tests and half-consumed glasses of wine that he’s been sneaking and the adrenaline, he’s practically delirious and not sure he remembers what having a physical body even means.
Shinomiya plonks down next to him uncharacteristically gracelessly and leans against the front of the oven. He tilts his head back and Yukihira watches his throat work as he takes a long drink from his wine glass.
“Probably time to switch to coffee by now,” he mutters but doesn’t put the glass down. He nudges Yukihira’s foot with his own. “Looks like you aren’t totally hopeless after all.”
Yukihira grins back at him. “We make a good team, eh?”
Shinomiya tilts his head to the side as though he needs to examine Yukihira from a new angle. Their faces are very close together and Shinomiya’s eyes flick down to his mouth just once.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Maybe we do.”
For a second Yukihira thinks maybe he sees something there, that maybe Shinomiya is going to lean just a little closer and—
“Goooood morning!” trills Hinako as she flings open the front door. “We’re here for breakfast!”
When he arrives back to Kyokusei to a box full of challenges he wonders if it’s possible to cook the sexual frustration away.
-
Takumi drops a stack of books down next to him in the dorm common room angrily, which isn’t unusual in itself, until he starts yelling at Yukihira when he’s just sitting there and genuinely can’t remember what he did this time.
“You got an item on the menu at Shino’s Tokyo!” Takumi shouts, loud enough that now the whole dorm is going to come down any second now.
“Oh, ha, yeah, I guess,” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.
“And you didn’t tell us!” He’s muttering in Italian now which means he’s extra furious.
And yeah, normally he’d have stolen a copy of the menu with his dish on it and framed it in his room after waving it around the dorm like a banner. But part of him wanted to keep it for himself without having to answer any questions about what working with Shinomiya was like or how he managed it or “wow, a whole night in the kitchen together, how did that go,” because he’s going to sound like an idiot if he says something about, “well he touched my hand to show me a deboning trick and now I can’t look at that knife ever again without all my blood going straight to my dick.”
“How did you find out, anyway?” He asks instead.
“My parents went when they were visiting and sent me a picture of the menu because it reminded them of me,” Takumi grumbles. “Obviously I knew it had to be you.”
-
For a while he’s too busy to spend too much time obsessing, even with Shinomiya’s orders to “go and get it” echoing in his head. He needs to work harder, work better, and then also make sure the Azami administration doesn’t ruin his plans by ruining the entire school along the way. He can’t nurse this crush forever if it’s going to distract him from his mission.
But he’s pretty sure his heart skips a beat or something else ridiculous when Shinomiya boards the Tsukikage and he has to try not to swoon like a character in a shoujo manga. He’s managed to get his Shinomiya-related thoughts down to less than twice a day, but he wants so badly to show him how much progress he’s made so Shinomiya can see him. Turns out he’s not quite that lucky.
He gets paired with his dad for training instead, who, fine, is apparently the best chef Tohtsuki had ever seen or something, but he’s still his dad and that’s embarrassing. Shinomiya is never going to see him as an adult if he sees his dad ruffling his hair every 30 seconds.
Besides, he knows what Tadokoro’s manga are about. He knows how romantic she thinks that table tennis coach is.
His dad catches him scowling just one time in Shinomiya’s direction. “Aw, is someone jealous?” He asks and laughs and oh no how does he know. Yukihira is saved from certain death by mortification by his dad’s blatant misunderstanding of the situation. “He’s too old for her,” Joichiro continues. “I’m sure you’re still Tadokoro-chan’s favorite.”
He hates every adult on this train. He’s happy that Tadokoro will get to improve like he did and give them a better chance to save their friends. He is. He is.
He decides maybe he doesn’t hate Shinomiya when he’s sitting in the dining car their last night on the train, chewing on the end of a pen and thinking about how much he’s going to enjoy beating Eizan’s smug face again, and Shinomiya slides into the booth across from him.
“Shouldn’t you be practicing?”
Yukihira rolls his eyes. “I’ve been kicked out of the kitchen. They told me 16 hours was long enough at this point.”
Also Tadokoro had told him his cackling was getting scary.
He pushes the notebook he’d been scribbling in across the table. “Hey, would you mind looking at this recipe, since you’re supposed to be helping us and all?”
Shinomiya raises one eyebrow. “No one said I was here to help you.”
Yukihira just huffs at him. “Nah, you can’t pretend to be mean to me anymore, shishou, I know better.”
Shinomiya reaches across the table to whack him on the head. “You don’t need to call me that.”
Yukihira just grins at Shinomiya’s discomfort and drops his voice lower into what he hopes sounds seductive. “I only wish to serve, shishou.”
Shinomiya dramatically rolls his eyes but Yukihira thinks he almost catches a blush and absolutely does not think about sliding to his knees under the table and servicing Shinomiya right where anyone could walk in and hear him gasp, hands tangling in Yukihira’s hair, head thrown back and eyes sliding shut behind his glasses as Yukihira...
“Go ahead then,” Shinomiya says and Yukihira nearly chokes on his pen. Shinomiya’s facial expression indicates that he absolutely did that on purpose. “The recipe.”
Right. The recipe. He hands over the notebook and absolutely does not fixate on Shinomiya’s fingers grazing against his own as the man just sits there looking insufferably smug.
“Hmm,” he takes the pen out of Yukihira’s hand and as he is thinking, begins idly tapping it against his lips. They’re basically indirectly kissing now. Yukihira is going to explode. He is going to fling himself across the table and grab that stupid pen and throw it away and crawl onto Shinomiya’s lap and grind against him until neither of them can think.
“Hey, idiot,” Shinomiya says, and has the nerve to laugh at Yukihira when he realizes the man has probably said his name a few times now and visibly shakes himself. Shinomiya puts the notebook down on the table between them and leans over, so that Yukihira has no choice but to also lean closer until their heads are almost touching. “The problem’s here. You’re not accounting for the change in the oven environment as you add more trays. And some of these vegetables are really too delicate for batch roasting anyway, you philistine.”
The delight of epiphany almost breaks through the cloud of lust that Yukihira has been consumed by. “Oh!” He almost shouts. “But wait, won’t that clash with the—“
He pulls the paper over to him and grabs his pen back from Shinomiya and absolutely does not think about Shinomiya’s mouth he has work to do and starts scribbling frantically. “Maybe cauliflower? When I was working with Hayama—“
Shinomiya shakes his head. “No, you’ll want—“
And then they’re off and it’s like everything Yukihira could possibly want, the two of them bouncing ideas off each other and legs almost tangling together under the too-small table and talking over each other and he already can tell it’s going to be so much better, that he’s going to be better.
He doesn’t even realize how late it’s gotten until he feels Shinomiya’s hand on his shoulder shaking him awake more gently than he would have expected.
“You passed out mid-sentence,” he says, not removing his hand, and his skin where Shinomiya is touching him burns. “Get some sleep or you’ll be useless tomorrow.”
He pushes a chunk of Yukihira’s hair back off his forehead and gently caresses the side of his face on the way down and Yukihira hears his own breath catch, unsure if he’s even really awake. Shinomiya’s hand pauses under his chin to tilt his face upwards and their gazes lock. “Good luck tomorrow, Souma,” he says, voice darkly wrapping around the syllables and drawing out his name. “I’ll be watching you.”
They go their respective ways to their rooms. Yukihira staggers back to his sleeper to fling himself into bed and it takes barely three rough tugs on his aching erection before he’s coming all over his hand to the replay of Shinomiya murmuring his name.
-
He’s flipping through that same notebook a few days later, thinking about another experiment, when he lands on the page Shinomiya had been reviewing. A note in one of the margins says “don’t fuck it up,” followed by a phone number.
He saves it in his phone as Magical Girl Legume-Chan out of spite and almost regrets it when even the thought of Shinomiya in a sailor fuku is enticing. Almost.
-
To Magical Girl Legume-Chan: “You want me to join you at the top, eh?” Followed by three suggestive eyebrow emojis.
From Magical Girl Legume-Chan: “Pervert.”
From Magical Girl Legume-Chan: “Why don’t you show me what you can do first.”
-
So he does. He fights harder than he has in his life and saves his friends and takes the top spot and it all goes so quickly.
One day he was just walking into Kyokusei for the first time, back when it was just some weird mansion in the middle of nowhere and not his home, and then he turned around and the next minute he was graduating. Yuki’s crying on everyone and Isshiki, who somehow managed to put on clothes long enough to sneak away from his restaurant and attend their graduation ceremony, is trying to hug all of them every 30 seconds like a proud parent. And he loves all of them, so much, even with all the yelling and the stress and sleepless nights, but he knows he’s not quite done yet.
“So have you decided where you’re going now?” Nikumi asks him with feigned casualness like she still has to pretend she doesn’t care about the answer. He’s had no shortage of offers, ones almost impressive enough to consider leaving the diner.
He shakes his head. “Not yet,” he says. “I think I might travel a little first.”
-
He didn’t really mean to spend so much time in Europe, but there were so many places once he got there and so much food. He falls in with a group of backpackers when they share a table at a sardine festival in Portugal and they tell him about a famous restaurant they’re going to in Spain which leads to him texting Shinomiya from sun-baked stone plazas outside Barcelona. He sends him photos of the most ridiculous and ultimately most delicious ice cream concoction he’s ever seen in his life (to which Shinomiya responds with a derisive “Spaniards”) and tiny sandwiches of just bread and jamon iberico.
Sometimes he tries to flirt. He’s in Copenhagen in winter which was such a mistake, it’s freezing and dark all the time, but he loves how warm and homey they can make a simple coffee break and sends Tadokoro a million texts trying to explain hygge because it’s the perfect concept for her.
He texts Shinomiya a picture of his single place setting in front of a snowy window and spends half an hour trying to figure out the perfect way to say “it’s cold and I’m lonely and you should be here to warm me up” without actually saying it. He settles on “getting chilly” and watches the phrase "Magical Girl Legume-Chan is typing” appear and disappear so many times before he just gets back, “Have you considered a blanket?”
He does not respond, “I’d prefer you.”
Maybe if he just thinks it hard enough in Shinomiya’s direction he’ll get it.
If he happens to post a few extra sauna selfies or pictures of himself tonguing the insides out of a chimney cake to the Instagram stories he knows Shinomiya watches, that’s just a coincidence.
“So when are you coming to Paris?” he finally gets, weeks later, after midnight when he’s posted a photo of one party in Budapest that involved multiple rounds of body shots. He’s pretty confident the two are related. Still under the sway of those multiple shots, he quickly sends back, “why, you want me to lick tequila off your abs?”
Is typing. Is typing. Then silence. Fuck.
He meets a nice girl from Australia who offers to “help with his English” by way of her tongue down his throat and then a nice boy from Alsace who speaks to him in French as they rub against each other in a sticky booth in a dimly lit club. Suddenly Yukihira is thrown back onto that train again as his back presses into the vinyl and the boy is murmuring something in his ear that he can barely understand over the throbbing bass line. He thinks of Shinomiya’s hand in his hair and his pen touching his mouth and nearly ruins his jeans.
-
Eventually, of course, as he always knew he would, he ends up in Paris.
Maybe sneaking into Shino’s and weaseling the location of their usual after-work bar from Wei had been slightly underhanded of him. But he wants to surprise Shinomiya and getting one over on the man has always been a challenge. And besides, Yukihira knows his twenties look good on him. He’s spent two years walking everywhere and carrying his entire life on his back and it shows in his arms and his tan and his longer hair, now almost brushing his chin. He was worried that his selection of increasingly threadbare t-shirts would be a problem but Wei had sworn the bar was “basically a dive, but their collection of weird wines is insane, Chef only ever agrees to go out with us if we go there.”
He lounges a little dramatically against the bar, talking to the bartender about this liqueur he’d tried in Italy and maybe trying to show off his shoulders just a bit. He thinks he’s allowed to feel just a bit of satisfaction when out of the corner of his eye he catches the unmistakable sense of someone checking him out.
“Watch out,” the bartender says teasingly, “this guy’s got a thing for redheads.”
“I’m never bringing a date here again,” says Shinomiya as he approaches and it takes every ounce of control Yukihira has not to turn around and tackle him immediately at hearing his voice again.
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Yukihira grins, turning around.
Shinomiya Kojirou, cooking world prodigy, Tohtsuki-top-seat, Michelin-starred, Pluspol-award-winning chef, drops his glass and doesn’t even look down when it shatters.
“Another glass of the Medoc, monsieur?” The bartender asks overly politely, trying very hard and somewhat unsuccessfully not to laugh.
Shinomiya looks at Yukihira again, looks at the remnants of his glass on the ground, and says, “Actually, make it two—no, three—fingers of the Domaine D'Aurensan please. Neat.”
-
“You may as well join us,” Shinomiya says, new drink in hand as he sees Wei waving cheerfully from their table.
“Great!” He cheerfully picks up own glass of the house red.
“You’re drinking wine now? From a glass, like a civilized person?” Shinomiya comments.
“This is about the body shots, isn’t it?”
Shinomiya rolls his eyes. “An appalling use of even more appalling alcohol.”
“You remember!” Yukihira crows. That had been practically months ago. If Shinomiya’s still thinking about it, well. Luckily he doesn’t have too much time to dwell on the fact that Shinomiya has been thinking about Yukihira’s tongue on his abs before they reach the table.
“So this is the famous brazen youngster!” A brunette with a trendy undercut says as they sit down. “I heard all about you from Wei and Lucie. Chef was so much nicer when he got back from Tokyo that we all had to know why. We just assumed he’d finally gotten laid.”
Shinomiya glares at her over the rim of his glass and sighs. “This is Emmeline, my head sommelier, I’ve been trying to fire her for years.”
Emmeline laughs at him. “You can’t, no one knows shit about pairing with wine with vegetables in this country,”
“That and Chef’s already fired so many people that half the city is on his shit list now,” chimes in the last member of their party, a slim blue-haired individual who introduces themself as Jules.
Shinomiya pinches the bridge of his nose. “This is why I don’t go out with you people.”
Yukihira leans forward, delighted, and folds his arms on the table. “So tell me everything embarrassing he’s done since then.”
If they’re surprised that he’s so casual with Shinomiya they don’t show it. He rests his leg against Shinomiya’s under the table, just to see what will happen. Shinomiya doesn’t pull away.
-
After an hour or so of trading kitchen stories, during which Shinomiya threatens to fire his entire staff at least three times, Wei yawns dramatically and exaggeratedly looks at her watch just as Shinomiya is coming back to the table with a new drink.
“Oh, look how late it is,” she announces.
Shinomiya looks at his full glass, back at Wei, and frowns suspiciously. “We’re closed tomorrow,” he says.
“So late! We had to open so early!” Emmeline joins in. Jules manages to finish half a glass of wine with remarkable smoothness and speed before going for their bag. “So nice to meet you, Yukihira!” Jules says as they push their chair back and the three of them giggle as they exit the bar.
“I am going to burn Shino’s to the ground and move back to Tokyo with the insurance money,” Shinomiya grouses once the other three have left.
“You would never,” Yukihira teases him. “And besides, they seem to really like you, for some reason.”
Shinomiya smiles slightly. “You can’t tell them I said this, but they’re good. The best, in fact.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to settle for anything for less,” Yukihira says.
“I don’t,” he responds, and holds their eye contact.
-
“Tell me about these ridiculous Spaniards, then,” Shinomiya says. “I’m certainly not going to let this drink go to waste.”
Yukihira does. The candles on the tables start to flicker down as they go back and forth, Yukihira sharing his travel stories and experiments in street food and Shinomiya telling him about his Michelin-star quest and the latest recipe competitions until they’re the last ones left in the bar. Yukihira hasn’t missed that as the levels in their glasses go down, Shinomiya’s expression gets more open and he smiles more freely. Yukihira pushes his luck with casual touches—a hand on the arm or shoulder here, a light shove there, slowly inching further into Shinomiya’s space. He doesn’t seem to mind. At one point Shinomiya leans over and puts his hand on his leg and the blood leaves his head so fast that Yukihira thinks he might black out.
“Try this,” Shinomiya says and pushes his glass in his direction. “Their new head winemakers used to work in perfume and they’re going to bring some fascinating things to their process.”
Yukihira takes it, purposely slowly licking his lips first, and he can see Shinomiya’s eyes darken as they watch his mouth. He picks it up to sip it slowly and can’t help but let out a low moan as its flavors wash over him and he feels Shinomiya’s hand tighten where it’s been sitting on his thigh.
“They just sent me a new batch personally,” Shinomiya says slowly, deliberately, as he tracks a drop that Yukihira licks off the side of the glass. “It’s not quite fully mature, but it has a lot of potential. My apartment isn’t too far from here, if you’d like to try it out.”
Yukihira sets the glass down and doesn’t break eye contact as he pushes his chair back to stand up. “Lead the way, shishou,” he murmurs and hears Shinomiya’s breath catch.
-
Every nerve in Yukihira’s body feels like it's crackling with barely harnessed electricity and one touch will set all of it off. Even still, the beauty of Paris isn’t totally lost on him as he follows Shinomiya down the smaller winding streets that hide this particular bar away from the tourist traffic.
He gasps as they exit the maze out onto the boulevard, broad streets lined with towering trees and curving lampposts and the Arc de Triomphe lit up in the distance and, too busy looking up and slightly dizzy from the wine, stumbles over a cobblestone. He pitches forward, briefly weightless until he hits a well-muscled chest and feels strong, callused hands grab his arms. He inhales sharply, looks up at Shinomiya looking down at him, and the livewire between them snaps and he feels his back hit the building wall behind him as their mouths collide.
Shinomiya’s tongue flicks skillfully against his lips and his body envelops him as Yukihira grabs a handful of his hair and it feels like victory. He wraps one leg around Shinomiya, trying to get closer, to demand more contact, and hears himself whimpering but can’t bring himself to care as Shinomiya pushes back against him equally desperately.
They’re both panting when they finally break apart and Shinomiya looks absolutely wrecked, hair a mess and glasses askew. “Not here,” Shinomiya breathes raggedly. “Come on.”
He practically drags Yukihira the rest of the way there, the streetlights passing in a whirl. Yukihira spares a brief coherent thought for the fact that the lobby of Shinomiya’s apartment building is so shiny before they’re in the elevator and he’s yanking Shinomiya down by his collar to kiss him again.
They stumble out onto what is apparently Shinomiya’s private floor and Yukihira is relieved to see that in the chef toss-up of “Spartan” versus “full hedonist,” Shinomiya is the latter.
“So do you want to try the Armagnac,” Shinomiya smirks at him as they break apart to toe off their shoes.
Yukihira tackles him onto the couch in response and straddles his lap. “I have had a crush on you for five years,” he hisses, scrabbling to get Shinomiya’s shirt off, “so unless I get to lick it off you, it’s going to have to wait.”
Shinomiya just looks at him, stricken, before he grabs Yukihira’s face with both hands and kisses him hard. Shinomiya’s pushing up into him in small, needy thrusts as he grinds down and he can already feel the tension building low in his center as he breaks the kiss to bury his face in Shinomiya’s neck. “Please,” he groans into his skin, not even sure what he’s asking for.
“You’re not going to last at all at this rate, are you,” Shinomiya breathes, one hand wrapped in Yukihira’s hair. “We can’t have that.”
He flips them somehow almost effortlessly, scooping Yukihira up and over until he’s sitting splayed open on the couch and Shinomiya has dropped to his knees in front of him and even his most delirious fantasies hadn’t included this.
“You have no idea what you look like, do you,” Shinomiya rasps like he just read Yukihira’s mind as he tugs Yukihira’s pants and underwear off together and descends to swallow him whole.
Yukihira is overwhelmed by the sight of Shinomiya on his knees and his hands tangle back in his hair as Shinomiya works him over with his clever, clever tongue. “Please, you were right, I’m going to—”
Shinomiya just looks up teasingly. He wraps one hand firmly on Yukihira’s hip to control his movement but doesn’t stop moving and Yukihira feels his fingers digging in and thinks about being covered in Shinomiya’s fingerprints and he is undone.
Shinomiya doesn’t pull away, and keeps going with teasing, gentle licks until it’s almost too much and Yukihira is swearing again. “Shino, shishou, please,” and Shinomiya’s hand tightens possessively on his hip and he digs his fingernails in as he slowly, torturously draws back, dragging his tongue up along the way and Yukihira shudders and tugs on his hair as Shinomiya chuckles.
“At this point,” he says, standing up and somehow grabbing Yukihira up along the way so he has no choice but to wrap his legs around Shinomiya’s hips and be carried, “it’s Kojirou.”
Shinomiya is far too coherent and smug considering that Yukihira is a boneless mess squirming in his arms and he already feels himself starting to harden again. He burrows his head into Shinomiya’s neck and bites and feels Shinomiya’s groan vibrate through his chest before he’s roughly deposited onto the fluffiest-looking bed he’s ever seen.
He only gets a split second to contemplate Shinomiya’s choice of burgundy bed linen though because Shinomiya is stepping out of his jeans and, fuck, looking at him like he’s going to be carefully dissected and then devoured piece by agonizing piece.
“This suits you,” he says as he pulls his glasses off with one hand and drops them to the side before falling onto him, pressing their foreheads together. “Tell me what you want,” he says against Yukihira’s mouth and kisses him again and Yukihira arches up into it. They part and his eyes flick toward the chair with Shinomiya’s red neckerchief carelessly thrown over its back.
“Hmm,” Shinomiya murmurs. “Well then.” He gets up slowly, like it’s impossible to drag himself off of Yukihira, and stands silhouetted against the windows for just a moment. Paris’s famed lights come in softly through the curtains and shadows wrap around him artfully and Yukihira tries to memorize all of it because no win has ever felt as good as this one.
He doesn’t have long, because Shinomiya has pulled the neckerchief into his hands and is slowly crawling back up his body and he can feel the drag of the kerchief following him. It’s softer than he would have expected, what was clearly once-stiff fabric washed and worn into submission.
“Tell me if you need me to stop,” he says, one hand on Yukihira’s face. Yukihira just nods and he feels Shinomiya pull his hands above his head and tie his wrists together.
“I could blindfold you next time,” Shinomiya says idly as he sits astride Yukihira’s hips, tracing lazy patterns down his side, like he has all the time in the world and Yukihira can’t feel his erection digging into his side. “But I think I’ll enjoy watching your face.”
Yukihira glares up at him and shifts his hips up so they brush together and Shinomiya makes a punched-out guttural sound. “My face isn’t going to do anything interesting if you don’t stop talking,” he scowls. He tries to bring his hands down, even tied together, and Shinomiya grabs them lightning-quick in one hand and shoves them back down and presses him down with his full weight.
“Cheeky,” he purrs. “But no.”
He whines in his throat and Shinomiya has the nerve to laugh at him as he slowly slicks up his fingers with something from a fancy pot in the nightstand. Fine, change of tactics needed.
“Please,” he sighs, looking up from under his eyelashes. “Please, Kojirou. Shishou.”
He can feel Shinomiya’s full-body shudder against him and rubs into it as the fingers that have slowly, so slowly been stretching him open stutter. Yukihira is going to break him and he writhes on Shinomiya’s hand because it’s not enough. “Damn it,” he breathes again, “Just fuck me.”
The fingers disappear and he can feel Shinomiya pressing at his entrance and makes a noise like he’s been punched as he slides in. He’s got one hand on Yukihira’s hip and the other pressing his wrists down as he leans down to kiss him again. Yukihira feels like he’s being consumed, like Shinomiya is taking him over and he needs to touch him or himself but he can only arch upward and try to blindly rub against him as Shinomiya slowly rocks into him.
He hooks his ankles together behind Shinomiya’s back and tries to pull himself up and Shinomiya shifts back on his heels and pulls Yukihira into his lap. Yukihira throws his bound hands over Shinomiya’s head and pulls him in close, shoving their mouths together sloppily and dragging his hips down as Shinomiya groans into his mouth. “Whatever you want,” he pants into his ear. “Anything, just touch me, fuck.”
Shinomiya growls and shoves one hand roughly between them to finally take Yukihira in hand and he nearly sobs with relief and Shinomiya’s other hand digs in on his ass as he works between them. They’re hardly kissing so much as panting against each other’s mouths and he still can’t touch so he tries to push into and against Shinomiya with his entire body and all it takes is one particularly deft twist of Shinomiya’s wrist over his head before he’s coming again, shuddering and gasping against him. Shinomiya bites down on his shoulder and shoves his body down before his head falls forward and he’s moaning his own release into Yukihira’s neck.
They sit there for a minute before Shinomiya tilts him forward to gently put him down on the mattress and disentangle his arms. He unties his wrists, running his fingers gently down the inside of Yukihira’s wrists and making him shiver. He tosses the neckerchief aside and tugs Yukihira toward him and kisses him with lazy intent, like Yukihira is some new flavor to be explored.
“Looks like you aren’t totally hopeless after all,” he murmurs into Yukihira’s ear. Yukihira flings an arm over him and bonelessly smacks him on the head.
-
Yukihira sleeps in whenever he gets the chance and doubly so when he wakes up in Shinomiya’s obscenely comfortable bed. He feels like he’s wrapped in a marshmallow and makes a pleased noise as he snuggles further into the comforter until he realizes the other side of the bed is empty.
He’s concerned for a brief moment until he hears a light plucking on a guitar from the other side of the room and rolls over to a sight that he once would have put on a poster on his dorm room wall.
“You fucking play the guitar?!”
Shinomiya looks up from the chaise against the window, where he’s sitting with one bare foot folded underneath him and loose pants just barely hanging off the sharp points of his hip bones. He hasn’t put his glasses on yet and the light filtering in through his fancy curtains makes him look uncharacteristically soft and his laugh isn’t mocking. “If I offer to serenade you, will you cook breakfast?”
“Absolutely not,” Yukihira replies, rolling out of the bed and stumbling over to the chaise to throw himself over Shinomiya amid protests about the guitar being very expensive thank you. “Buy another,” he growls, already shoving the soft pajama pants down because he needs Shinomiya in his mouth right now.
“What, twice wasn’t enough for you?” Shinomiya asks, smirking again like he isn’t getting hard just from Yukihira trying to climb him
“Not when you’re going to sit there looking like porn, you jerk,” he says.
It’s aperitif o’clock by the time they actually leave the bedroom and Shinomiya bitches about Yukihira’s impossible youthful enthusiasm all the way to the bar. Yukihira is too busy basking in satisfaction and late afternoon sunshine to pay any real attention as they sit down and Shinomiya orders for them.
“So, five years, hm?” Shinomiya asks, and Yukihira elbows him in the side.
“You told the media I was a ‘promising young chef,’” he replies smugly. “You were ‘eager for me to join you at the top.’”
“Mm,” Shinomiya hums, mock-pensively. “And yet you didn’t seem to be doing very much topping.”
Yukihira looks at him sideways, suspicious of any potential mockery, but Shinomiya’s regular smirk looks fond and his eyes are warm. “You’ll just have to beat it into me,” he replies.
The waiter brings over their drinks and he holds his glass up in toast. “To the top?” he suggests, waggling his eyebrows. Shinomiya sighs but raises his drink anyway. “To the top,” he says as their glasses clink together.