Work Text:
i. Not a kiss as much as it is lips bumping against each other, too light a tap to even be a peck, as Iroha leans too close to Miki’s face, tipsiness clouding her ability to distinguish a freckle from a speck of dirt, and a crash from the other room jolts her body forward. Followed by a “sorry,” muttered, no eye contact, and a, “was just a freckle.”
ii. A light peck dusted with the taste of citrus martinis right after Iroha, teetering on her bar stool, declares, “Love ya!” as Miki steadies her. After, she mutters, “God, you’re the best,” and jerks away to vomit on the floor. Instead of having the chance to process what happened or even take the time to be flustered, Miki holds back Iroha’s hair and keeps her still against her arms.
iii. Slow and deep and clumsy after Miki closes the last few centimeters of distance, with too much teeth, Iroha’s mouth not open enough and then open too wide before she almost pulls away, then presses against Miki’s lips again, a comfortable medium found. “I love you, too,” Iroha had said before, but after Miki said, “I love you,” and after Miki sat them down in their living room and threw away all the words she’d spent days rehearsing and preparing so she could tell Iroha what felt right. This feels right, too, for all its flaws; Miki smiles against Iroha’s mouth and Iroha starts to laugh and, still tasting each other, they pull apart at last, fingers still intertwined as they giggle until they’re breathless.