Chapter Text
His skin is like a tactile testing ground: soft brush and rough fingers, cool ink and hot hands, smooth tongue and sharp, merciless teeth. After such a storm of sensations, his brain should short-circuit and completely shut off all sensitivity. But with each new touch, everything only escalates. Tetsurou cups Tsukishima's face and pulls him closer, licking into his tender mouth without holding back. The silky skin on the inside feels cool as water, and that's all Tetsurou is able to think about right now as the air between them ignites and explodes six hundred times a second, like the fuel vapours in a jet engine.
Tsukishima hovers over him, trying to unbutton his jeans, and Tetsurou draws in his stomach, giving him room to manoeuvre. Then he’s suddenly swept up under his ass, his pants yanked down along with his underwear. The advantages of having sex with a guy your height: you never know who's going to get undressed first.
“No fair," Tetsurou hisses, licking Tsukishima's ear, and grabs him by the collar of his shirt. The buttons rocket across the room like cheerful plastic fireworks.
“I liked that shirt," Tsukishima informs him in an utterly colourless voice, and slides lower, his tongue tracing a wet path to Tetsurou's navel.
“It's a pain to wash it now anywa-a-ah," his voice betrays him, turning into a pathetic whimper as Tsukishima's lips outline the muscles of his lower abdomen and touch his balls.
“Are you always this loud?” Now, he’s smiling.
“You know I'm not, but I'm already losing my mind,” he spits out through a shuddering exhale. “So shut up. And do something, Tsukki.”
Tsukishima straightens up briefly, takes off his glasses, and pushes them on the windowsill.
“It's not two actions, just so you know," Tetsurou manages to hear before his cock sinks into the smooth, slippery warmth, and he forgets how to breathe.
He grips the edge of the desk with one hand, the other trying to reach for Tsukishima. His fingers don’t obey him, trembling and slipping from the back of Tsukishima’s head to his neck and shoulder and clenching there, nails digging into his skin. A long moan escapes from Tsukishima's throat, vibrating around Tetsurou's cock, and Tetsurou has to squeeze his eyes—so hard, he sees rainbow circles under his lids—trying to focus on the small of his back rubbing unpleasantly against the hard tabletop.
“That was close.” As the sudden wave of near-release recedes a little, he pulls Tsukishima’s face closer and kisses him again. “Get your pants off, now. Or I'm getting up and leaving.”
And it's definitely unfair how Tsukishima, raising his eyebrow, can look both a sarcastic bastard and some kind of Christian archangel with a blazing gaze and soot-stained face. But he obeys: yanks and twists off his shirt, eventually seeming to tear off the buttons on the cuffs too, then somehow disentangles himself from his pants, losing his balance and grabbing Tetsurou's arm.
When he covers Tetsurou with his body again, each muscle responds with a sweet, hungry shiver. He moves lower, taking Tetsurou into his mouth again. He sucks lightly, doesn’t take in deep, rolling him like a lollipop on his tongue, then lets him out and licks along his perineum and sack. The world before Tetsurou's eyes takes a sharp turn.
The tip of Tsukishima’s tongue dances at the very entrance, pressing against the rim, slipping effortlessly deeper as Tsukishima runs the thick head of Tetsurou’s cock between his thumb and forefinger—barely touching, agonisingly, making Tetsurou see stars.
“God, Tsukki,” he pushes through his gritted teeth, “do you want me to come right now? Two months of abstinence, mercy!”
He expects Tsukishima to say something sarcastic in response—anything to distract him, to make him laugh, to bring him back to the surface for a moment to catch a breath of air. But Tsukishima lifts himself up on his elbows, blindly searching Tetsurou's face with his eyes, and his drunken gaze slips away. He jerks the drawer of his desk, almost turning it entirely onto the floor, takes out the lube, and the touch of the cool gel clears Tetsurou’s head a little.
Not for long, though—as soon as Tsukishima pushes a finger inside, Tetsurou shudders from head to toe. They've been through this before, it feels familiar, but this time—Tetsurou is afraid to admit it even to himself—so long awaited that it seems he's already come. From the careful strokes alone, from the way his body relaxes, goes pliant without waiting for a conscious decision, from the way it absorbs every sensation, every caress, every spark, gradually getting hotter.
Tsukishima tangles his fingers into Tetsuro's hair and kisses him—greedily, almost roughly, while pressing a second finger inside. It doesn't hurt but also doesn't feel as good, and the anticipation mixes with slight anxiety.
“Tetsu," Tsukishima mouths at his nipple, and it pierces Tetsurou with an electric discharge. He arches his back and unexpectedly slides all the way down Tsukishima’s fingers. He freezes, shivering, eyes wide with confusion. His muscles refuse to obey, tight around Tsukishima's fingers. Tetsurou winces and growls, slowly letting his breath out. Tsukishima's gaze is gentle and slightly quizzical, his lips darkened and seem brighter than his tongue slipping quickly across them. The movement is distracting—just enough for Tetsurou to forget about the uncomfortable pressure and swing his hips slightly, hinting that it's okay to continue.
“Take your time," Tsukishima whispers and licks Tetsurou's cock with a wide stroke, from the base to the head, then takes it into his mouth, and the soreness mixes with the scorching pleasure, his entire body a stretched string. Tetsurou digs his heels onto the tabletop, trying not to squirm as Tsukishima takes him deeper.
“No need to be so careful, I won’t break," Tetsurou teases, trying to grin, but his chest feels tight and he can't take a full breath.
Tsukishima attempts to spread his fingers inside, awakening the nagging pain again, then curves them, and Tetsurou feels something unfamiliar and probably sweet. Well, yes, if he forgets the fact that his muscles are still burning and can't get used to the pressure. He squeezes his eyes shut and winces.
“It was stupid of me not to let you bring your stuff here,” Tsukishima says suddenly. “You left your T-shirt in the laundry anyway.”
“Yeah," Tetsurou hums. “The black one with the institute's logo. Noticed only in Tokyo-o-ohh," the last syllable turns into a deep moan as Tsukishima flexes his fingers again, and heat spreads in Tetsurou’s lower abdomen.
“But the shirt wasn’t the actual problem.” Tsukishima takes his time, licking Tetsurou’s cock again, going lower and sucking on his balls.
“What was it?” Tetsurou doesn't open his eyes—his body gives like wax under Tsukishima's hands, melting, spilling across the desk. Every touch and movement inside sets his skin on fire.
“You," Tsukishima carefully withdraws his fingers, leaving an unbearable mixture of relief and emptiness; to keep from whimpering, Tetsurou bites his lip until it hurts. The cool lube runs down his perineum again, soothing the stretched muscles, and three fingers start to slip inside. “Or me. You slept in my bed, worked in my chair, made coffee in my kitchen. You made…” he trails off.
Hurt by Tsukishima's aloofness, Tetsurou has never once thought of this. While Tsukishima has been living in his head all these months, he himself has literally been staying here, in this apartment—and never left. It finally dawns on Tetsurou with a painful tug of guilt and crushing tenderness under his ribs; it was all too easy to keep worrying about his dissertation, his job, his sexuality and just go with the flow, taking without a second thought what Tsukishima gave him.
“One day you showed up, distraught and unsettled—maybe because of some problem with your studies or this stupid determination of yours to find a real job as soon as possible, you never said—you unlocked the door and, barely taking off your boots, burst into the kitchen. I didn't even have time to turn around from the window…” Tsukishima kisses Tetsurou's happy trail, his fingertips dancing over the head of his cock, smearing the occasional drops of precum. Tetsurou can barely hold his head up, his vision swims as he’s looking at Tsukishima’s knitted eyebrows. “It was weird, you hugged me from the back and clenched your arms as if you were trying to break my ribs…and then started to rut…”
It was rough, and greedy, and dirty, and so hot—Tetsurou had been feeling guilty for days then but not sorry for a second. He’d rutted against Tsukishima’s ass and from the muffled sounds coming out of Tsukishima’s throat, his ragged breathing, and his hands, roaming along Tetsurou’s arms, knew he was allowed to and welcome. The mere memory of it made him horny while being away in Tokyo, made him miss the warmth and tangibility of Tsukishima’s responsive body and ache for his proximity. Even now he’d flush at the image if he wasn’t already glowing with arousal.
“And when you came, you turned me around, took me in your mouth, and... it was the most unforgettable fucking blowjob of my life.” Tetsurou wants to say “Kei” but chokes on the sounds and air and just runs the wheat locks of Tsukishima's hair through his twitching fingers again and again. “I couldn't sit on that windowsill anymore without thinking of you.”
All the while, Tsukishima continues to slowly but persistently work Tetsurou open, and he realises that this unfamiliar loquaciousness and frankness have a specific purpose: to drive him to the brink, to push him over the edge where it doesn't matter how you offer pleasure, doesn't matter whether you're top or bottom—all that exists is the acute urge to give. Tsukishima strokes him inside, presses his prostate, and Tetsurou really doesn't care anymore how or where, as long as it's happening already.
“I’m gonna come, Kei.”
“’Course you are. Eventually. But not now.” At last. Here’s the snark Tetsurou needed.
But he’s too far gone by now to hold on. Every stroke fills his insides with liquid fire, and his need to come becomes unbearable. Another minute of this sweet agony and he’ll melt and evaporate completely, each muscle, every bone in his body burning, dissolving, and scorching.
“Please,” he blurts out, unconsciously, inanely at first. He doesn't understand what he's pleading for but it's the only word he's able to remember and say right now. “Pleasepleasepleaseplease!”
Obeying him, Tsukishima pulls away for a moment—Tetsurou can hear the prickly rustling of a condom pack; he frowns in annoyance at this precaution and delay, tingling with anticipation.
And then Tsukishima makes the first prod against his entrance—a short, restrained move—picks Tetsurou up under his shoulders, forcing him to raise his head a bit, and waits. He’s waiting for him to open his eyes, for some sign, some final decision, as if giving him one last chance to change his mind and stop everything. And Tetsurou lifts his wet lashes, squints vaguely at Tsukishima’s white-bitten lips and quivering eyebrows, and with a loud exhale sinks into the dark, stupefyingly piercing gaze. His head’s a ball of lightning, his whole body’s the last burst of the sun sinking below the horizon.
That gaze seems to penetrate him all the way to the top of his head, his fingertips, and toes, making him blaze and beam. It makes him lose any identity and form, any idea of himself—his ridicule and bravado, insecurity and convention, exhaustion and longing, dreams and reality. There only remain Tsukishima's arms, holding him tightly to his chest, and Tsukishima’s lips at his temple, while their bodies thrust greedily towards each other, like crazy clusters of energy, chasing some impossible, unimaginable limit, into infinity.
When Tsukishima halts, his whole body trembling, and Tetsurou feels everything inside him pulsing, caressing, and reverberating, he’s only able to blindly find Tsukishima's lips to let out the light caught in his chest.
*
By the time Tsukishima comes back from the shower, Tetsurou is already swaying on the thin edge of sleep. The long flight and time difference keep him from falling over the brink, but the fragrant warmth of Tsukishima's body, pressing against his back, seems to outweigh those reasons. Tetsurou turns his head, making Tsukishima reach up, and kisses him, lazily, sleepily.
Tomorrow’s going to be a busy day, and Tetsurou knows he has to sleep to stay focused but he can still feel some tension. It seemed to have been drowned in the moments of their intimacy yet floated to the surface later when Tsukishima went to shower after Tetsurou. Now, it’s jerking like a cork float when a fidgety fish in Tetsurou’s stomach tugs at it.
“Why didn’t you text that you were coming back?” Looks like Tsukishima can also sense that cork, deciding eventually to take the rod.
Tetsurou sighs softly. “I didn’t know you were waiting for me. You never said you would.”
Tsukishima remains silent for a while, his face buried in Tetsurou's shoulder, his breath flowing down his shoulder blade. Tetsurou inhales the scent of his damp hair and shampoo—linden and chamomile.
“I've spent my whole life learning not to hold on, not to get attached, not to clench my fingers. I've learnt to let go and not regret it.”
“So…you wouldn’t regret it if I didn’t come back.”
Tsukishima’s arms tighten instinctively around Tetsurou, and he can sense a quickened thudding against his back. This is answer enough; he wouldn't want any other. He reaches back, gently tangling his fingers into Tsukishima’s soggy locks.
“Just so you know. I’d regret it till the end of my life if I didn’t come back.”
“To Florence?”
“To you, smartass.” Tetsurou chuckles, and Tsukishima shivers slightly, goose-bumps covering his forearms.
“We're different,” he says after a small pause, raising his head so he can be heard. “I didn't end up in Florence because I wanted to come here, not even because I wanted to study at Palazzo Spinelli. Just because...I could? But you're not afraid to pursue what makes you happy. You're not afraid of making mistakes, and even if something goes wrong on the way to your goal, you don't think the goal isn't worth it.”
“Kei," the name flows over Tetsurou’s tongue like hot chocolate, and he finally turns to face Tsukishima. The dim glow of the night wraps around them, casting shadows that underline the delicate contours of his features, adorned with an unexpected tenderness. And Tetsurou is so far gone, so far gone. “You’re one of the bravest people I know.” He almost expects Tsukishima to make his signature eye-roll, he can see it in the slight rise of his brows, and hurries to cover Tsukishima’s eyes with his hand.
Then he continues: “Listen. We are different but not because I’m braver than you. It’s easy to pursue things most people consider to be worthy of pursuing. Easy to face the world that doesn’t turn its back on you. And it was easy to reach out to you, tease, and pester, and just be my usual annoying self.” Tetsurou can feel Tsukishima’s face shift in a smile and his lashes flutter like a butterfly's wings. “But you did the difficult part. You took my hand. You allowed me to call you by your name. You became my friend. You met my every step toward you with your step. And I know, this was not like you at all.”
Removing his hand, Tetsurou looks Tsukishima in the eye.
“I thought I was straight and never ever questioned that. It was easy to be straight in the straight-thinking world. Until I met you. And even before I realised I wanted you, I cowered. But somehow you didn’t reject me. You welcomed my feelings and me. You—damn, Kei, you made everything so easy. I think this scared me most of all.” At this point, Tetsurou wants to cover his own burning face so badly that he presses his forehead into Tsukishima’s chest. “And I decided that if I wanted your trust, I should confront my fears first.”
“Trust is scary,” he hears Tsukishima whisper. “I’m still scared. Aren’t you?”
For now, Tetsurou feels too happy and at home to fear anything.
“I was. I probably still am but somehow I don’t feel it when by your side.” Tsukishima’s hands sneak around Tetsurou’s back in what feels like a protective gesture, and what was simmering in his heart suddenly boils over the brim. “The most beautiful and precious things are fragile. You know this. Actually, it’s their fragility that makes them so treasured. So maybe fear and trust are parts of love.”
Tsukishima swallows hard. With his face buried in Tsukishima’s chest, Tetsurou can feel every powerful beat of his heart, a wondrous sound. He's not expecting any answer right now—God, he didn’t expect himself to say anything like that! But after all that has already been said and done tonight, it doesn’t seem to be too much.
Tetsurou raises his head to see Tsukishima’s eyes glimmering beautifully with some reflective light, coming from nowhere. Their look is so vulnerable, it’s heartbreaking.
“You gave me the power to hurt your heart and were ready to bear this pain alone. So the least I can do is make sure I’ll never break your trust…that’s why I came back.”
The kiss that touches Tetsurou’s lips is tentative, almost reverent. There’s no hunger or possessiveness in it, yet it seals something that, Tetsurou knows, he’ll never be able to share with anyone else. It’s a promise, which weighs more than any verbal vow.
“I’m happy you did.”
Falling asleep that night with his arms wrapped around Tsukishima and his body firmly pressed against Tsukishima’s back, Tetsurou thinks that if there is happiness in the world, it smells of Kei's damp hair.
Epilogue
May in Florence is a turbulent surge of the tourist season when sometimes the city is still showered in rains but not for long, the air is warm and weightless, there is still time before the heat spikes, and it’s a very difficult time for museum staff. Tetsurou has already learnt it the hard way: the Italians, emotional enough as they are, become irritable and uncooperative, and he has to call on all his charm and diplomatic skills to resolve conflicts that erupt because part of the events of the Japanese Culture Days takes place in major exhibition centres.
Tetsurou returned from Rome in the afternoon, and by the end of the working day, he’s feeling incapable of any diplomatic negotiations or conversations in general. So he simply takes out his phone and texts Kei:
<< I'm a zombie 🧟 Going to drop at the first table available on SC. Pick me up 🙏
A nearby patio supplies just what he's looking for—in the furthest corner, by the wall. Through the windows, he can see a few vacant seats inside, but now everyone prefers to sit outside. There's something vaguely familiar about the name of the patisserie, Déjà vu. Apart from what it implies.
Tetsurou is lucky to take his chosen seat before anyone else notices it, and then he just sits there for the entire ten minutes, even glad that the waiters haven't noticed him yet: he finally has an opportunity to keep silent.
He relaxes in the chair, thinking of lighting a cigarette but ultimately deciding against it, and glances with an accustomed gaze over the diverse crowd of Santa Croce.
Surrounded by American colleges, the square is flooded with students from across the Atlantic: girls, wearing high heels, tights, and shorts, dressed strangely and garishly; boys, more like punks and misfits who have escaped from their parents' care. This need to show off their independence stresses out the unprepared tourists. Tetsurou watches with a smile as a flock of neat elderly ladies in light-coloured suits, probably from somewhere in Northern Europe, hurriedly leave their chosen photo sight when a group of young men stops next to them, speaking loudly and not very decent English.
A server notices him eventually and with a guilty smile brings the menu, taking his coffee order.
“Strawberry ice cream, please." Kei stops her on her way back to the cafe, then comes up to Tetsurou and sits down across from him touching tenderly Tetsurou's temple with his lips in the wake.
Tetsurou squints contentedly at his fluffy wheat hair and beautiful long neck in the unbuttoned collar of his white shirt, at the way the thin grey cardigan hugs his broad shoulders; he thinks that there's a pencil and an old notepad with Gigi somewhere in his bag, it’ll take no more than a couple minutes to make a sketch—
“Don't even think about it," Kei rolls his eyes.
“How do you know what I'm thinking about?” Tetsurou lets out an amused chuckle.
“I can see. Forget it, I won't pose.”
“Then I'll have to get your guard down first," Tetsurou sighs.
“You'll have to put me to sleep first.”
“As an option. Not the worst, by the way.” Tetsurou reaches for Kei's hand and passes his fingers through his hand, squeezing them for a second and feeling a squeeze in return.
“And before you fall asleep yourself, how was your trip?”
“They agreed.”
Kei catches his satisfied look and smiles with his eyes and the corners of his lips; Tetsurou wants to kiss them so badly.
“So? Are you my senpai now?” Kei asks, his voice bubbling with a smirk.
“The best one." Tetsurou nods.
The Ministry of Culture of Japan has awarded a grant, and in September Tetsurou is starting to work on his doctorate at Palazzo Spinelli in the Museum Management department.
Opening the menu, Tetsurou glances over the pictures of the desserts but he’s so exhausted he doesn't feel like eating at all. He flips the pages back to start over and opens the title page, which reads in English:
"Déjà vu is fate's way of telling you that you are exactly where you are supposed to be. That's why you feel like you've been here before. You’re right in line with your own destiny."
Tetsurou mentally pauses at that and looks up at Kei, who is looking back at him with a very similar expression—his menu is open on the same page.
Tetsurou snorts. “A serial killer, standing over yet another dead body, catches déjà vu. ‘Oh,’ he thinks, ‘right in line with my destiny’.”
Kei looks at him for a couple of moments with a look that clearly reads: I can't believe you're making such a disgusting joke, and then starts shaking with laughter. Tetsurou barely manages to put back the coffee he was just about to drink and laughs too.