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Kuramochi gets off the train with a spring in his step, jogs up the stairs to be first out of the station because that’s what he always does, 11:53 on Sunday mornings. Then he turns left and walks along the tracks for a hundred meters, and then there’ll be another couple of turns and in a few minutes he’ll be at Ryou-san's door.
They haven’t really discussed what they’ll do yet, but that’s not unusual: Kuramochi’s been craving okonomiyaki all week so they’ll probably head out for lunch and make up the rest of the plan on the way. Sometimes there’s a game one of them wants to see, but mostly they go for a run in an unknown direction, or take a trip to the batting center, or stay in and talk shit about whatever shows play on TV on Sunday afternoons.
They seldom have a plan but Kuramochi still shows up every Sunday, even if it’s just to replay video games on his own old PS2 while Ryou-san writes a report.
And today, for sure, he’ll tell—
Well, ask—
Well, suggest that, you know, possibly, after they’ve been making time to see each other every week for six months, now that neither of them has been seeing anyone for almost as long, now that Kuramochi has a change of sports clothes and shoes permanently residing at Ryou-san’s and the neighbors all know him, it might not be unthinkable to reclassify one of these outings as a date? Maybe?
And then he’ll die of mortification.
It’s more than a little pathetic. Kuramochi isn’t sixteen and baseball-obsessed and awkward anymore. He’s twenty-one and baseball-obsessed and something approaching smooth, okay, he can flirt and banter and proposition, can take a ‘yes’ to bed and a ‘no’ gracefully. But Ryou-san was his first serious crush and the mere memory of his scorn still keeps Kuramochi up some nights.
Though to be fair, half of those involve a hand down his boxers and the taste of blood on his lips as he replays their early clashes at Seidou with minor variations — the kind that ends with them angrily pawing at each other against a vending machine instead of Kuramochi venting his frustrations by ripping off virtual heads, fingers clenched tight around the controller.
In an ideal universe, there would have been as many marks on Kuramochi’s body made by Ryou-san’s hands and mouth as there were from stray balls and diving leaps. He didn’t have that then, but he might now, if only he could transform into someone with an actual backbone.
Kuramochi rings the doorbell and takes a long steeling breath, forcing his body into a more relaxed posture as he waits for Ryou-san to come out.
The door opens, and Kuramochi gapes.
"Um. I. Am I early?" He’s not. He took the same train as he does every week, didn’t run on the way here. And even if he had, that doesn’t explain why Ryou-san is standing in front of him wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his hips.
"Not at all," Ryou-san says as Kuramochi steps in hastily and closes the door, loath to let anyone sees this who wasn’t invited to. "I just finished preparing."
Preparing for what, Kuramochi wants to scream, and possibly run away right afterward because wow that towel is hanging low and there’s a happy trail and he’s pretty sure Ryou-san’s body didn’t have that many beauty marks last time they shared the bathtub at Seidou and oh, wow, look at that, turns out Kuramochi is still a sixteen year old virgin.
He forces a laugh. "Preparing for what?" His voice is about as shaky as his hands are. His legs feel like they’re going to give out under him. This isn’t fair. Ryou-san looks perfect, plain and simple, and way too comfortable standing here in front of a friend who secretly wants to devour him.
Though if Kuramochi doesn’t manage to keep his tongue inside his mouth, that secret is not going to be one for long.
Ryou-san tilts his head. "You said you wanted to eat me out," he says, voice lilting up at the end like he’s asking if he got the time wrong for a dentist appointment.
The sun dies and bequeaths all its heat to Kuramochi’s face as he stammers incoherently, trying to reconnect his brain to the reality in front of him. Because surely Ryou-san didn’t just say that.
"I," he manages to say, and Ryou-san is still looking at him, still calm, still patient, still wearing only a towel.
That seems to be sliding down.
"I said I wanted to eat out," Kuramochi says weakly, because he did, that is what he said, and he’s not going to take out his phone to check that he didn’t make a horrible Freudian slip in their last text exchange. "As in. Outside."
"Oh," Ryou-san says. "Did I misunderstand? That’s embarrassing."
Except Ryou-san is fundamentally embarrassment-proof: it slides right off him, or bounces back to any innocent bystander in the vicinity. Which is good for him and terrible for Kuramochi, whose entire body is still burning.
Kuramochi, whose brain is finally catching on, sending him images of Ryou-san preparing himself, shaving and washing, thorough, making himself pristine for Kuramochi’s mouth.
Then the thought: wait, does this mean that all this time the only thing I had to do was ask?
And finally, a long list of sex acts unrolling in his mind like an ancient scroll, every way Kuramochi has ever thought their bodies might fit together. He has to shake that off because Ryou-san just turned around, is heading back to his bedroom, and Kuramochi can spend the entire afternoon standing here glassy-eyed in the entrance thinking about licking his way down Ryou-san’s spine, or he can—
"I changed my mind, let’s stay in after all," he says, words tumbling out of his mouth like an avalanche. It’s ridiculous. He’s a grown man, he is capable of talking about sex without wanting to hide under the Earth’s surface, and yet here he is with his face burning up and his palms sweating. "If you’ll have me."
Ryou-san pauses, looks over his shoulder. There’s a quirk at the corner of his mouth that Kuramochi always wants to either bite or lick. "I won’t go easy on you."
That’s familiar ground, at least, and Kuramochi is never better, never more alive than when he’s trying to prove himself. He grins, trying to toe off his shoes at maximum speed without looking like he’s in a hurry. "I don’t want you to," he says, challenging.
Ryou-san bares his teeth, and a second later a towel comes flying at Kuramochi’s head.
Omake
Ryou-san is warm and pliant under him, body still lax from his second orgasm as Kuramochi layers kisses between his shoulder blades.
"Still hungry, huh," Ryou-san teases, rolling onto his stomach and spreading his thighs in what is either invitation or demand.
"Starving," Kuramochi admits, scooting a little further down Ryou-san’s body, palming his ass in both hands and thanking every deity he’s ever heard of. "Hey, Ryou-san. Did you really misread that text?"
Ryou-san chuckles into the pillow. His muscles work under Kuramochi’s hands as he pushes up on his knees. Definitely demand, and Kuramochi will happily supply. "It’s been six years," Ryou-san says. "I got tired of waiting."
Kuramochi growls against pale skin, and commits his first act of rebellion by sinking his teeth into a flawless buttock.