Chapter Text
“Hey, senpai. Have you ever thought about fucking me?”
Kasamatsu stares at him, noodles falling back into his bowl. His gaze is still heavy, eyes as blue as Kanagawa’s waters. Ryouta thinks about their team outings to the beach, the full day of sun and saltwater that left his hair tousled and curling, ultimately hidden under a cap that Kasamatsu dragged out of who-knows-where.
(“Are you even wearing sunscreen?” His senpai asks, flicking the end of Ryouta’s sunburnt nose. Ignoring his complaint, Kasamatsu turns to rummage into Moriyama’s tote “of shit” until he finds the sunscreen. Coincidentally, when he turns back, Ryouta’s too busy enjoying a popsicle to take the bottle of sunscreen. “Pampered brat,” Kasamatsu breathes out, clearly torn between irritation and resignation. He flicks open the bottle. “Hold still at least.”)
Even though Kasamatsu has yet to speak, the answer is yes. The answer is always yes, Ryouta knows. He knows what want looks like on other people. He knows what other people look like when they want him. Ryouta could read Kasamatsu’s lingering looks and lingering touches for what they were. His senpai just needs a signal—permission, like the whip-quick look shared on the court.
“I have,” Ryouta says. He wants to reach across the table. Push aside the ramen. He wants to tangle his fingers in Kasamatsu’s tie, pull it free from his shirt pocket, and pull him close. Adulthood looks good on his senpai. Then again, his senpai always carried responsibility and maturity well. “I think about it all the time.”
- - -
“This wasn’t what I wanted,” Ryouta complains. He resists the urge to smack Kasamatsu’s pillow, the childish desire to rage and cry held back by Kasamatsu’s unmoved, unamused expression, and his firm grip on Ryouta’s legs. He hates how much he likes it. His eyes burn. “Senpai, fuck me properly.”
Kasamatsu kisses the curve of his calf. “But this is what I wanted,” he says mildly. He rolls his hips, his cock sliding wetly over Ryouta’s. Ryouta’s breath catches, and Kasamatsu readjusts his grip, pulling Ryouta further into his lap. With both of Ryouta’s legs hooked over his shoulder, Kasamatsu loops one arm around Ryouta’s knees, forcing his thighs to press together and giving him a warm, tight area to fuck into. The lube is noisy and sticky, but Kasamatsu doesn’t stop rutting against him. “You have amazing legs.”
I know , Ryouta wants to say, but his senpai’s words stoke the fire in his belly. He flexes his feet, bearing down to meet Kasamatsu’s fucking and he gets rewarded with the feel of teeth against his ankle. His breath skips and the slow drag of Kasamatsu’s cock over his keeps him from catching it again. The tip of his penis is flushed dark red each time it pushes through his pale thighs, and Ryouta squeezes them together. If only Kasamatsu hadn’t insisted they both wear condoms, he’d be able to feel the drip of Kasamatsu’s precome on his skin. He wants more than the smear of lube on his thighs.
(“Hold still,” Kasamatsu says. His palms are rough against the tender skin of Ryouta’s inner thighs, and he teases the crease where Ryouta’s groin starts with his thumb. Even though senpai warms the lube, the air leaves him cold. Ryouta squirms and tries to focus on anything but the steady sweep of Kasamatsu’s hands and his keen gaze.
He’s felt these same hands on his shoulder, curled around the back of his neck, splayed against his back. These hands have pulled him off the court and pressed his face into Kasamatsu’s neck. Ryouta doesn’t want any other hands against his skin, sometimes. He squirms.
Kasamatsu leans over him and kisses his cheek. “I said, hold still.”)
“Senpai,” Ryouta murmurs. As much as he can, he stretches out, hands on either side of his head. Kasamatsu looks away from where they’re pressed together to Ryouta’s face. Ryouta kicks his feet. “Fuck me.”
“You’re so . . .” Kasamatsu sighs, rolling his head back. But he obliges, in a way. Shifting on his knees, Kasamatsu pushes Ryouta’s knees towards his chest. The new angle brings Kasamatsu closer, even if he maneuvers Ryouta so he’s half-twisted into the mattress. Kasamatsu drops onto his forearm, his breath coming heavier as he starts to fuck Ryouta harder. “Happy?”
Ryouta’s stomach swoops, heat pooling where Kasamatsu ruts against him. Ryouta wants to curl his fingers in Kasamatsu’s hair, maybe trace the ridge of his ear while he fucks him. It’s so warm between them. Kasamatsu groans, his voice cutting through the slap of their skin, the noisy squelch of lube each time Kasamatsu fucks his thighs. Ryouta feels sweat slide down his temple and closes his eyes, focusing on the warmth and feel of Kasamatsu’s body, the pull in his belly. He pushes his palms into the mattress, moving with the insistent push of Kasamatsu’s hips.
“Kasamatsu-senpai, Kasamatsu-senpai,” he says, voice pitching into a moan when Kasamatsu grabs his thigh and folds over him. His mouth trembles against Ryouta’s collarbone. Ryouta tosses his head back, back arching off the bed when Kasamatsu swears against his skin.
- - -
“Hello, Kise-san.”
Ryouta smiles pleasantly but doesn’t stop swinging his legs. He ignores Kasamatsu grumbling each time his heels knock against the desk. “Takahashi,” he greets, taking in Kasamatsu’s direct report.
Ryouta is a familiar sight at Kasamatsu’s office. If his face wasn’t on the billboard across the street, he’s sure that Kasamatsu’s coworkers would think he’s just a louse benefiting from his old senpai’s patience and pity. People have stopped doing double-takes at him whenever he shows up to visit Kasamatsu, and a few even commend him on being such a dutiful kouhai and bringing Kasamatsu brightly wrapped bentos.
Kasamatsu never explicitly told him not to come by his work. His only concerns were that it would interfere with Ryouta’s career, but he stopped bringing them up after Ryouta’s Bvlgari billboard went up in Shibuya.
(“So you’re not in danger of losing your apartment, I guess.” Kasamatsu throws an arm over Ryouta’s shoulder and pulls him down so he can tousle his hair. Ryouta isn’t sure, but Kasamatsu’s hand lingers, the hold becoming less playful the longer Kasamatsu keeps Ryouta.
“Senpai,” Ryouta says. The angle keeps him from seeing the other man’s face. Hesitantly, he slides his arms around Kasamatsu and presses his face against his shoulder. His heart pounds, and he hopes Kasamatsu can feel it too. He wants him to feel it, too. “Kasamatsu-senpai?”)
Takahashi is younger than him, and slender and mousy in a way that Ryouta thinks appeals to some men who prefer other men. He calls Kasamatsu manager softly, in the type of tone that gets promoted. Kasamatsu never complains about his work and gives Ryouta a warning look from time to time when Takahashi drops off files for Kasamatsu to review.
Takahashi also isn’t fazed by finding Ryouta perched on Kasamatsu’s desk, fiddling with Kasamatsu’s pens and paper clips.
“How was your last campaign, Kise-san?” Takahashi asks, hands folded behind his back while Kasamatsu’s brow furrows as he reads over the printed reports.
“Fine,” Ryouta shrugs. He knocks his heels against the desk again. Kasamatsu’s eyes flick up to him in warning. To stop kicking the desk, or to be nice. Ryouta sighs. “Tiring.” He nudges his foot against Kasamatsu’s knee. “Hey, senpai, let’s go out tonight. A new monjayaki place opened up nearby.”
“Sure,” Kasamatsu says. His chest swells at the easy victory, and Ryouta can’t hold back a pleased smile.
- - -
Monjayaki gets canceled because an emergency drags Kasamatsu out to the plant so Ryouta hits the first number in his phone and calls for company.
Midorima is unsympathetic to Ryouta’s pain, but he listens and scrapes the monjayaki so it doesn’t burn while Ryouta recounts the tragic turn of his day.
“Die,” Midorima says, watching carefully for burning batter. “Do you have any real problems, Kise?”
Ryouta sniffles, taking sad, tiny bites of monjayaki. “Why didn’t you bring Takaocchi, Midorimacchi? He’s much nicer than you.”
At length, Midorima answers. He avoids Ryouta’s gaze when he does. “I tried, but he switched last-minute shifts. He wanted nothing more than to be here.”
“Don’t be sarcastic. I’ll cry.”
“I’m not. Takao adores your nonsense. He says it gives him strength to get through the day.”
Ryouta hides a grin behind his spatula. “Takaocchi is awful.”
- - -
This wasn’t the order of things. Kasamatsu was supposed to be on the couch, head tipped back and ignoring the dull film Ryouta would choose so neither he nor senpai would focus on it. He’d finish telling Ryouta about his latest project, and Ryouta would settle between his legs.
“Senpai needs to relax more,” Ryouta would say. “Aren’t you lucky to have me?”
(“Go to sleep, Kise,” Kasamatsu says, pushing Ryouta’s bangs out of his eyes. Ryouta looks away, mutinous and silent. “You’ve been up for 30 hours, at least.”
“I slept on the plane,” Ryouta says. He’s washed away the stink of travel, warm in borrowed clothes and from mint tea. He wants to stay on the couch with Kasamatsu.
“Doesn’t count.” Kasamatsu strokes his hair. “Come here.”)
Ryouta’s fingers curl around the door and he stares at Kasamatsu, something gritty in his throat.
“Should I not have come?” Kasamatsu asks, holding himself back with one hand on Ryouta’s doorway. Like Ryouta hasn’t left open every door for him already. “I’m sorry, Kise. It’s late.”
Ryouta pulls him inside and drops to his knees, fighting the gritty feeling in his throat. Kasamatsu came to him. He won’t let him leave now.
He drops to his knees and brushes away Kasamatsu’s hands when he tries to help him up. He looks up at Kasamatsu, fluttering his lashes when he says, “Haven’t you thought about this, senpai?”
Kasamatsu looks at him wide-eyed. His fingers twitch against Ryouta’s face, and Ryouta turns into the touch. He wants to bare his neck. He wants Kasamatsu to wrap his hand around the exposed skin.
“Haven’t you thought about this?” He repeats, softer.
Kasamatsu curls his fingers, skimming his knuckle across the curve of Ryouta’s cheek. There’s something soft in his voice, like wonder, like want, when he says, “I think about you.”