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Youichi had always known Narumiya came from money. It had been obvious the first time he’d seen him, in the way he carried himself with that effortless arrogance, the kind that came from never having to second-guess himself, not about his talent, and definitely not about whether he could afford the things he wanted.
Even now that they were living together in the only crappy dorms Youichi could afford, he could see it in smaller ways. It was in how Narumiya threw cash at convenience store snacks and coffee runs without a second thought, while Kuramochi was still calculating the best way to stretch his budget for the month.
But knowing and seeing were two different things.
Getting out of the car — a sleek, black Mercedes-Benz GLS — and standing in front of Narumiya’s house, Kuramochi felt like he’d stepped into an entirely different world.
This wasn’t the kind of wealth he was used to seeing in Tokyo, those high-rise apartments crammed with more luxury items than they could hold, or those modern penthouses with overpriced views. This house came with land, and a front gate that looked like it belonged to a foreign embassy, a stone pathway extending towards the house, lined with neatly trimmed hedges and lanterns, looking straight out of a magazine cut-out. It was the kind of house he’d never imagined existed anywhere near Tokyo, and just the air smelled expensive.
The house itself was massive, traditional elements mixed with sharp edges and floor-to-ceiling windows. To anyone else, it could have looked austere, but the house was well-lived in, signs of life ingrained in concrete in the form of foot and pawprints, surely dating back to when the house was built, or in the soft music emanating from one of the opened windows upstairs, curtains swaying in the wind outside.
And Kuramochi was supposed to be staying here. For a whole damn week.
If it wasn’t for his boyfriend, Youichi would surely already feel out of place, with his ratty t-shirt he’d owned since his Seido years and a pair of ripped jeans that had probably seen better days.
The inside of the house was just as impressive as the outside, all polished wooden floors and minimalistic décor, some paintings on the walls he swore he recognized from art classes in high school.
And waiting for them at the entrance was a woman who looked like a carbon copy of Narumiya, if he’d been reborn as a CEO of a Nikkei 225 company instead of a pain-in-the-ass pitcher. She was all short blonde hair cut into a pixie style, her sharp blue eyes framed by office siren glasses, and when her weight shifted onto one hip in a stance that was on this side of intimidating, it was in a way that felt entirely deliberate.
Mai Narumiya was, from the stories Youichi had heard from his boyfriend, the kind of woman who could command a regimen of men without raising her voice. And he could see it in the way she slowly let her gaze travel from Youichi’s messy hair, down to his dirty sneakers, and then back up again, as if she was a hiring manager assessing an under qualified candidate.
But if there was one thing he’d learned over the years, from dealing with coaches who thought he was too much of a punk to take seriously or rival players two head taller than him who decided he wasn’t worth the trouble, it was that he wasn’t about to be thrown off by a little scrutiny from overly confident people.
So Youichi met her gaze evenly, dead set, not flinching, letting the silence between them stretch just long enough to make it clear that he wasn’t going to enter her game, that he’d done this before — with the very reason why he was standing here now.
Because Narumiya had looked at him the same way, once. Back when they first met and Narumiya was all pompous attitude with his bubbling, self-absorbed laugh, looking at Youichi like he was some nobody that didn’t belong anywhere near his orbit. And just like then, Youichi didn’t back down, because he’d already won against her brother, after all.
Finally, Mai hummed, unimpressed but seemingly satisfied with whatever conclusions she’d come to. “I see,” she said, dryly, directing her gaze at her brother. “You two deserve each other.”
Before Narumiya could shoot back something defensive, the sound of heavy, excited stomps thundering down the stairs, followed by a gasp so dramatic it felt rehearsed. “Oh my god, the pictures did not do you justice!”
Maemi Narumiya was a whirlwind of a woman. Youichi had seen her in passing on his instagram multiple times, hair like a lion’s mane but the energy of an overexcited cub with her neverending enthusiasm and dramatic gestures. She moved fast, her long blonde hair swaying from side to side behind her in wild waves, chaotic energy reminding him of a pitcher he once roomed with.
Youichi had barely registered her words that she was suddenly in front of him, hip-checking Mai without hesitation, without a care in the world. Her manicured hands took hold of Youichi’s as she gave him a once-over that was far more scrutinizing but a lot more appreciative.
Mai sighed, adjusting her glasses with a slow push up the bridge of her nose. “That’s not a way to greet someone, Maemi,” she muttered.
And Youichi didn’t miss the way Maemi ignored her older sister entirely, zeroing in on Mei instead, long nails latching onto one of Narumiya’s shoulders. “Mei-mei, I thought you were better than this at taking pictures!” Maemi said, almost scolding him, exasperation dripping from every syllable. “How could you make him look so plain when…” she huffed, pulling back just enough to glance at Youichi again, “When he’s this cute in real life?”
“Don’t call me that,” Narumiya muttered, already red as a tomato. “And stop— he’s right there!” he hissed like an angry cat, throwing a pointed glance at Youichi.
Youichi blinked, his brain still catching up with the speed at which things were happening, but one thing was certain; Narumiya’s sisters were a lot. And they were also both really pretty. It definitely ran in the family.
The three of them had already broken into the usual sibling bickering, overlapping voices bouncing off the walls in a cacophony of noises that he hadn’t been used to since his rooming days with Sawamura. All Kuramochi could do was stand there, listening but not being quite part of it all, all the while feeling that slow, creeping sensation of not belonging.
It wasn’t just the house with its polished floors and impossibly high walls that seemed to stretch for kilometers on end, it was also the way his boyfriend fit here so effortlessly, the way he bickered with his sisters like this was just another weekend at home and he hadn’t spent the last five years in dorms away from it all, an overall closeness that couldn’t be replicated, not by an outsider.
“Girls, you’re making him uncomfortable,” The voice that cut through the discord was calm but firm, Youichi already familiar with it from the car ride over. Narumiya’s mother had picked them up from the station, filling the car ride with easy conversation, neither too formal nor too prying, sending knowing smiles their way through the rear-view mirror whenever Mei picked up on something Youichi had said.
Narumiya’s mother's presence alone was enough to shift the atmosphere in the room, and instantly the bickering softened. “I hope they won’t be too much for you, Kuramochi-kun,” she said softly. “They can be overwhelming.”
“I’m used to it,” Youichi said, half-laughing, more in disbelief at the whole scene than anything else. But the words had barely left his mouth that Narumiya was already elbowing him in the side, hard enough to make him grunt, and when he looked at his boyfriend, his scowl was so deep it might as well be imprinted on his face forever.
Before Youichi could retaliate, a shift in the air stopped him cold. A different kind of presence entered the entryway, one that demanded attention without a single word.
If aura was personified, it would be in the shape of Narumiya’s father.
Dark eyes, dark hair, and equally as dark clothes; he looked like he had walked straight out of a yakuza movie. He was tall, broad-shouldered and intimidating in a way that felt entirely effortless. And Youichi, for all his bravado, had never felt smaller in his life.
Immediately, Youichi bowed, as deep and respectful as he could without overdoing it but also without making a complete fool of himself.
Then, he looked up, and met Narumiya’s father’s eyes, expression unreadable as he only nodded in response. “Dinner will be ready soon,” was all he said before he stepped back into what Youichi guessed was the kitchen, disappearing as quickly as he had appeared.
Long after the man had left, the tension in Youichi’s shoulders refused to leave, still coiled tight from the sheer presence of the man. But before he could dwell on it too much, Narumiya was already moving, grabbing his wrist and ushering him down the hallway and up the stairs with an impatient, “Come on,” like nothing had just happened.
So Youichi followed, letting himself be pulled along, taking in the details of the house, well-decorated and nothing like the tasteless displays of wealth he’d seen on TV. None of that poorly-designed slop rich people seemed to love so much.
The door to Narumiya’s bedroom had barely clicked shut behind them when Youichi felt Narumiya’s grip shift, fingers curling around his wrist before sliding up to his shoulder, curling around the strands at his nape.
The noise Youichi made as their lips pressed together was small and desperate, but the kiss wasn’t rushed, wasn’t impatient, just slow and deliberate, Narumiya’s cherry-tasting lips against his grounding him in a way that nothing else in this house could.
Youichi melted into it, hands finding Narumiya’s waist, fingers tightening just enough to keep him there. He pulled him in like he needed something, someone to anchor himself. Because this — Narumiya’s warmth pressed up against his body, the way Youichi’s tongue stroked the roof of Narumiya’s mouth, head tilting at just the right angle — this was familiar. This was his. And it sent something hot curling in Youichi’s stomach.
For a moment, the exhaustion of the past twenty or so minutes dulled, replaced by the slow, intoxicating pull of Narumiya against him, by the way his fingers curled tighter at the nape of Youichi’s neck like he didn’t want to let go just yet, like they were still horny teenagers sneaking kisses in Meiji Jingu stadium’s bathrooms, the thrill of it all making those stolen moments that much more exhilarating. And Youichi was more than happy to oblige, to stay like this, to get lost in the heat of his boyfriend’s body —
Until a sharp knock on the door had them jerking apart.
“You know the rule Mei,” came his mother’s voice, perfectly calm and perfectly firm from the other side of the door. “Door stays open.”
Against Youichi’s mouth, Narumiya groaned, before letting his head thunk back against the door, squeezing his eyes shut. “Mom, please,” he drawled, voice thick with frustration.
“I mean it,” she continued, entirely undeterred. “Dinner is ready.”
The sound of her retreating footsteps left a heavy silence between them, only broken by the breathy, almost disbelieving laugh that slipped past Youichi’s lips. “Busted,” he said, swiping his thumb over his spit-slicked lips, removing any incriminating evidence.
Narumiya cracked one eye open, glare sharp and unimpressed, before reaching out and pinching Youichi’s cheek, hard enough to be annoying but not enough to actually hurt. “You think this is funny?”
Prying Narumiya’s fingers off his face, Youichi only grinned. “Very,” he muttered against his lips, amusement curling in his voice.
Narumiya groaned again, this time pushing Youichi’s face away from his, muttering something under his breath about “worst boyfriend” and “worst mistake of my life,” but Youichi simply smirked, because the tip of Narumiya’s ears were red, and that was all the proof he needed that his boyfriend wasn’t actually mad.
Yet despite it all, despite the way he was still buzzing a little from their kiss, exhaustion curled deep into his bones, dragging a yawn from him at the thought of their first of many dinners to come.
And it was only Monday.
᳝ ˖ . ֺ ָ ֙⋆ ᳝ -; ༉‧₊˚✧ ˖ . ֺ ָ ֙⋆
Mei should have known something was up the moment Maemi had gotten up from the table after lunch with that mischievous glint in her eyes, the one that always meant trouble. And when she’d come back with the old family albums, stacked precariously in her arms, Mei had simply just sighed, already knowing where this was going.
Now, twenty minutes later, Mei was slouched into the couch, his back cushioned by the armrest, legs stretched out lazily across Kuramochi’s lap, watching the disaster unfold in front of him with all the enthusiasm of a pitcher getting benched after a particularly bad inning.
Kuramochi, on the other hand, seemed to be having the time of his life, watching as Mei’s entire childhood was spread out before them, flipping through the pages eagerly as he discovered a treasure trove of blackmail material.
And Maemi and Mai were right there with him, providing unnecessary commentary, because despite never agreeing on anything anymore these days, one thing that still united them was tormenting Mei. “Oh! I love this one!” Maemi’s grin stretched wide as her nails tapped a particular photo on the album, and Mei barely had to look to know it was going to be bad.
Tiny, chubby-cheeked and pink in the face, his hair a wet mess sticking to his forehead, mouth open mid-wail, and his face scrunched up in distress, all the while being completely naked in a plastic tub, hands gripping the edge of it like he was holding on for dear life, surely no more than three years old at the time.
Mei exhaled slowly through his nose, cheeks burning with embarrassment. He hated his sister for digging all of this up, but he hated Kuramochi’s expression more. It was far too innocent, with the smallest of smirks playing at the corner of his lips betraying him completely. “Hasn’t grown much since then,” Kuramochi said, gaze flickering down to Mei, who was purposefully staring at the ceiling, trying to manifest his own death, crushed by the chandelier.
On the other side of the coffee table, Mai made a sound of pure disgust. “That is too much information none of us needed to know,” Mai muttered, shooting Kuramochi a death glare.
But Maemi, sitting next to Kuramochi, just cackled as she flipped the page before Mei could lunge forward and rip the entire album out of her hands. “Mei-mei was such a crybaby,” she sighed, far too nostalgic for something that never should’ve been brought up in the first place. “You always screamed if things didn’t go your way.”
“He still does that,” Kuramochi mused, tone light, as if he hadn’t just handed Mei another reason to commit murder. Mei clenched his jaw so tightly he thought he might break a tooth. His foot twitched where it was still resting against Kuramochi’s thigh, and for a brief moment, he considered just going for it, just slamming his heel right into his boyfriend’s stupid smirk. But somehow, he held himself back.
Maemi hummed as they all continued flipping through the album, grin widening with every embarrassing photo they uncovered. “He was such a little brat too,” she added, tone dripping with amusement. “Always making a fuss about everything, doing the exact opposite of what Dad told you just to be a little shit.”
“Guess that explains a lot,” Kuramochi said, his fingers tapping against Mei’s shin as he stared down at the album with an expression that seemed far too entertained for Mei’s liking. “Still as stubborn as you were back then.”
At this, Mei simply scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest, sinking further into the cushions. “I had a backbone—”
“You were so picky with food too,” Maemi continued, easily talking over him. “Do you remember? If something green so much as touched another food on your plate you’d throw a fit.” Her long nails tapped another photo, one of a tiny Mei staring down a plate of vegetables with an expression of sheer hatred, hoping that if he stared at it long enough, the plate would surely disappear.
And Mai, actually agreed for once, perhaps just for the sake of adding to Mei’s never-ending humiliation. “Oh yeah,” Mai muttered, leaning in slightly to get a better look at the photo, flipping through another page of the album like this conversation wasn’t ruining Mei’s entire life. “He used to pick the peas out of his fried rice one by one.”
His boyfriend let out a soft snicker, fingers idly tracing circles against Mei’s shin which barely had any effect on his growing frustration. “That’s why you’re so small,” Kuramochi said, casual, like they were just empty words and not a direct attack on one of Mei’s greatest insecurities.
Mei’s entire body stiffened as he processed the sheer audacity of it all, nails digging into his arms where they were still crossed over his chest, pressing crescent indents deep into his skin. He hated being reminded of it, especially when it came from Kuramochi, like it wasn’t a big deal.
Because for Mei, it was a big deal.
He had spent years obsessing over his height, measuring himself against teammates, against opponents, against the expectations that always loomed over him like a ghost. Pitchers were supposed to be tall, intimidating presence on the mound, and while he’d gotten that latter part right, Mei had still convinced himself that he still had time, that his late growth spurt would come, until it didn’t.
And to think that Kuramochi, his boyfriend of all people, would give in to this blatant betrayal, made something tight coil in Mei’s chest. “Excuse me?” his voice rose as he sat up straighter, eyebrows knitting together into a frown. “I have to remind you I was taller than you when we met!”
Kuramochi, completely unfazed, barely spared him a glance, flipping lazily to the next page of the album as if he hadn’t just mentioned something Mei had spent years pretending didn’t bother him. “Yeah,” Kuramochi drawled, utterly indifferent, “and I still ate my peas and you didn’t.”
But Mei could only gape at him, jaw dropping open, caught somewhere between rage and disbelief, still quite not processing that his boyfriend, not even twenty four hours in, would join in on the merciless torment he had been subjected to by his sisters his entire life. Mei clenched his hands into fists, resisting the urge to throw a pillow — or maybe the entire coffee table — at Kuramochi’s head. “I hope you all choke.”
Mai, who had been mostly observing with detached amusement, turned the page without a hint of sympathy. “If anyone is choking, it’s you,” and her smile only grew larger, middle finger pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “On your own wounded pride.”
Mei didn’t say anything. He just glared, lips pressed into a thin line, arms still locked over his chest like it would somehow keep his dignity from slipping out. But when Kuramochi snorted at Mai’s taunt, low and amused, it was the final straw.
Without a word, Mei rammed his foot down onto Kuramochi’s hand, the same one that had been idly tracing circles on his leg, but much to Mei’s growing despair, his boyfriend barely budged. If anything, Kuramochi simply tilted his head to the side, glancing down at where Mei’s heel was digging into the back of his hand, as if a small bug had just landed on it. “Really?”
Grinding his heel down harder, Mei simply scowled. “Fuck off,” Mei hissed, voice dripping with venom, though it only made Maemi and Kuramochi grin wider.
The teasing continued, picture after picture, page after page, as if the album was an endless archive of some of his worst childhood humiliation, carefully curated for the exact day Mei would even dare bring his boyfriend home for the first time.
“Oh,” Kuramochi mused, and Mei knew that tone, could recognize it among many, knew it meant nothing good. “Is that Miyuki?”
And just like that, as he watched Kuramochi lean in closer, Mei felt all the blood drain from his face. Mei didn’t even have to look to know exactly which picture they had found.
Nine years old and barely a hundred and thirty centimeters, his baseball uniform clinging to him like second skin at the height of summer, standing next to an equally as young Kazuya. And it would have been fine, normal even, because after all, it was a known fact among their friends they’d known each other for ages now. But the issue, however, was in the way Mei was clutching at the hem of Kazuya’s jersey, his tiny fingers curled tight around the fabric with a pout on his face as if he’d die if he dared to let go.
It didn’t help either that Kazuya had the exact same shit-eating grin on his face that he still sported to this day, except in this very picture, it was directed at the camera, like he knew how pathetic Mei looked right then, and knew how it would surely backfire on him years, even decades later.
“So it was true,” Kuramochi let out a low chuckle, picking up the picture album and bringing it close to his face like he was admiring a rare artifact under a magnifier. “You really had it bad for him?”
That was the final straw.
Mei shot up from his slouched position, yanking his legs off of Kuramochi’s lap with enough force to knock the album from his hands, the object clattering to the floor loudly. “I’m done,” he snapped, already pushing himself off the couch, already storming down the hall and up the stairs, stomps as heavy as an elephant’s, and when he heard Maemi’s stupid laugh echoing down the hallway, he felt his entire face grow hot with embarrassment.
Mei threw himself onto his bed the moment he stepped into his room, the sound of the door slamming behind him enough to make the walls shake. Yanking his blankets over his head, Mei buried his face deep into his pillow, inhaling sharply against the fabric hoping it would suffocate him, but all it did was remind him of Kuramochi, of his warmth, of the lingering scent of his stupid cologne and body wash clinging to the fabric.
It was unfair, Mei thought bitterly, that even when he was trying to escape the humiliation of the past hour, his own bed still smelled like his traitor of a boyfriend. He should’ve just left him behind, let him rot at the dorms to stuff his face with borrowed snacks that he shouldn’t even be eating during the season.
But then the door creaked open, and Mei tensed, already knowing who it was. Before Mei could even think about telling him to fuck off, the mattress dipped under Kuramochi’s weight, the warmth of another body settling beside him slowly until Mei could feel the heat of him even through the blankets.
“You mad?” Kuramochi asked, and his voice was quieter now, like he was testing the waters.
“No,” Mei grumbled into his pillow, heat still burning at his face.
Next to him, Kuramochi made a long, thoughtful hum, his body so close Mei could almost feel the vibrations deep inside him.
But then, without an ounce of hesitation, Kuramochi draped himself over Mei’s back, flopped on top of him and enveloping him like the warmest of blankets, pinning him deeper into the mattress, an arm slung heavy over Mei’s shoulders while his chin rested against the back of his head.
Mei groaned into his pillow, tried hard to pretend he hated it, but despite himself, despite it all, he could already feel the anger slowly fading away under the weight pressing into his back, under the fingers curling, tightening , around the strands of hair at his nape. “Didn’t mean to embarrass you,” Kuramochi murmured, his voice still loud against the ear peeking out from under the sheets. “You’re too easy to tease.”
And Mei barely had time to register the shift in his voice before Kuramochi was shifting again on top of him, pressing his hips down just enough for Mei to feel the steady drag of his body against his own. Mei didn’t move, didn’t even breathe, but his heart slammed against his ribs, too small a cage to contain it. “Shut up.”
Mei heard a grin stretch across Kuramochi’s face. “Make me.” And as he said this, Mei could feel the pressure of Kuramochi’s lips in speech against his neck, like soft little pecks.
His entire body rolled into Mei’s with a little too much enthusiasm, with a little too much force, a teasing, deliberate press of his hips that was on this side of maddening. Mei could feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter inside him, the heat between them growing unbearable, and yet, it still wasn’t enough.
But in one horrifying instant, another weight came crashing down onto them, the air forcibly punched out of Mei’s lungs as who he guessed was Maemi sandwiched the both of them against the mattress.
“Oops,” Maemi said, though there was not a hint of regret in her voice. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry too.”
Mei felt like he could die right this instant, struggling beneath the combined weight of both his boyfriend and his menace of a sister. “Get off—!”
“Uh-uh.” She squeezed them tighter, practically melting into their backs like she belonged there. “Forgiveness through physical affection.”
A pointed ahem cut through it all, sharp enough to make even Maemi flinch on top of them.
Mei barely managed to lift his head from where it was smothered into his pillow, craning his neck just enough to spare a glance toward the doorway where Mai sure stood, her arms crossed over her chest, face twisted in pure disgust like she could exactly tell what had been happening before Maemi came crashing in.
His mouth opened, ready to say something, anything that could salvage even a sliver of his butchered dignity, but Mai only extended her hand as if telling him not to bother, before muttering a low, “I hate this family,” only to then turn on her heel and shutting herself in her bedroom.
Mei groaned, throwing an arm over his face as he registered the sheer horror of the situation, his ears burning as Kuramochi’s laughter sent vibration up his spine, as his sister, still hugging them tightly, simply grinned wider.
But despite it all, despite the humiliation he was sure he’d never be able to live down, Mei could still feel the soft scratching of Kuramochi’s fingers against his scalp, and all of it wasn’t so bad.
Still, it was only Tuesday.
᳝ ˖ . ֺ ָ ֙⋆ ᳝ -; ༉‧₊˚✧ ˖ . ֺ ָ ֙⋆
In the dimly lit bathroom, his reflection was staring back at him.
In the mirror, Youichi scowled at himself, his hands clenched against the sink so tight that his knuckles had become white. His hair was a mess, his breathing uneven, something like need and frustration humming just under his skin. And worst of all, his boxers were doing a poor job of hiding just how aroused he was.
He let out a sharp exhale through his nose, tipping his head forward until his forehead knocked lightly against the cool mirror.
For days now, even before they’d arrived at Narumiya’s parents, he’d been stuck in this miserable cycle. Every time he got Narumiya exactly where he wanted, right under him, a little breathless, warm and pliant, pupils blown wide in a way that made heat spread low in Youichi’s belly, something, or someone, would somehow ruin it.
It had been the dorm’s fire alarm going off, a knock on the door, a call from one of their teammates, Narumiya’s sister flopping on top of them like she weighed nothing while Youichi always sat there, hard as a rock, trying not to lose his mind over it all.
But tonight had been different. Because for once, nothing had interrupted them. No alarms, no knocks, no meddling family. With Narumiya’s parents out, it had just been the two of them, wrapped up in each other as the heat between them only heightened.
And Narumiya had let him. Had looked up at him through heavy-lidded eyes, breath coming in soft little stutters, spit-slicked lips just barely parted. He’d let Youichi’s hands wander along the divet of his spine, let his fingers skim along the curve of his hip, map out the familiar planes of his abs, feeling the way his muscles tensed under his touch.
Narumiya had let Youichi get himself closer and closer using the dip of his hip for nothing but his own selfish pleasure, had let Youichi suck marks and leave bites on his stomach, and just when he’d thought he was finally about to get what he wanted, Narumiya had let out a slow exhale, a little too theatrical for Youichi’s liking. Because then, and with infuriating ease, Narumiya had shifted under Youichi’s weight. “I’m tired,” Narumiya had said, rolling over and yanking the blankets up to his chin, leaving Youichi hovering there, stunned and aching, and suddenly painfully cold. “Good night.”
And through the faint glow of the moon, he’d seen the tiniest curl of Mei’s lips.
It had been payback. Retribution for all the teasing, for every picture in that album, for every time Youichi had laughed a little too loud at Narumiya’s suffering. And Narumiya had taken all of it, every last drop of shame and humiliation, tucked it away in a corner of his mind and waited for the perfect moment to strike. It had been stupid of him to think that Narumiya, his petty little shit of a boyfriend, was going to let something like that slide.
But Youichi respected Narumiya’s choice. Even if he thought it was unfair, even if he knew it came from a place of revenge, even if he was painfully aware that Narumiya’d wanted it, too.
So Youichi had waited. One long hour where Narumiya’s breathing had softened, body melting into the mattress, his face smoothed out into something soft, unguarded in a way that was still so rare. And Youichi had gritted his teeth and forced himself onto his back, staring hard at the ceiling and starting to count sheep, thinking about just anything to shake it off. But his skin still buzzed, pulse thrumming too fast in his veins, blood pumping hot and insistent, his cock throbbing.
He sucked in a breath, forehead still pressed against the mirror, boxer briefs still tented in the worst possible way. He’d thought about just sucking it up and going back to sleep, or splashing some cold water on his face as if that’d ever worked in his favor. But he kept thinking back to the way Narumiya had sighed when Youichi had kissed the line of his jaw, the way his body had shifted ever so slightly as if encouraging him. Heat coiled low in his gut, his fingers twitching at his sides before he even realized it.
A shudder ran down Youichi’s spine.
It was all it took for him to give in, fingers already sliding beneath the waistband of his boxers, drawing in a sharp inhale the second his hand wrapped around his cock. The feeling was exhilarating, just the barest of touches sending a pulse of relief through him that almost startled him.
Youichi’s breath stuttered, gasped at his own touch as his fingers tightened around himself, hand slipping over precum, sliding more easily down his cock and making him shudder.
It felt like being twelve again, buried under his blankets with the clumsy knowledge that touching himself like this would make him feel good, but not knowing just how good it could be. Just frantic experimental movements, chasing after the sensation with desperate little jerks of his hips into his hand.
Except now he knew exactly what he liked, knew what kind of grip he needed, knew how to run his thumb over the head just right to make his thighs tense up, knew exactly what, who to think of to get himself right there, mind painting images so vivid they knocked the breath out of him.
He stroked over himself, images breaking and fragmenting in his mind as his hips rocked into the touch. Narumiya on his knees, eyes dark with want, mouth stretching slow and obscene around Youichi’s cock, taking him deeper as his fingers curled loosely around the base. Narumiya beneath him, panting, arms locked tight around his shoulders, calves around his waist, thighs trembling as Youichi sank in deeper, burying his face in Youichi’s neck as he rode out his orgasm, his entire body unraveling around Youichi’s cock, that soft, shivery gasp Narumiya always let out when he was falling apart, when Youichi had him exactly where he wanted.
The second that sound echoed in his head, Youichi started to feel his muscles go tight, socked toes curling against the cold tiles, heat pooling low in his belly. Gooey spurts of precum dripped down his hands and splattered down to the floor, his body aching all over but all in the right places.
There were still so many things Youichi wanted to do to Narumiya. Wanted to see him lose himself completely, see him come undone over and over again until he was begging Youichi to stop, until he couldn’t do anything but cling to him. He wanted to bury himself deep inside Narumiya, to hold his legs apart and watch his face twitch up as he came, to taste himself inside of him even after it was over.
Then a sharp knock came, and his stomach dropped.
“Mochi-kun?”
His hand yanked out of his boxers so fast it sent a jolt of pain up his arm. His breath caught in his throat, muscles locking up in horror.
“Shit—” he hissed through his teeth, abs still trembling with residual need and a climax he was so close to reach, but the sheer panic had cut through everything else, killing the heat curling low in his belly.
It took him a second to catch his breath, whole-body quivering, still bracing himself with a hand against the sink. When he stared back at his reflection in the mirror, he looked wrecked, flushed all the way down to his collarbones, hair damp and sticking to his forehead.
“You okay?” Maemi’s voice was quieter this time, but still clear through the door.
Youichi swore under his breath, fingers scrambling to fix his boxers, grabbing the nearest towel to wipe his hands and stomach, and just about anywhere there might still be evidence of what he’d been doing just moments ago.
Turning the faucet on, Youichi splashed some cold water onto his face as if the guilt would follow the droplets down the drain. “Yeah.” His voice cracked, and then he cleared his throat. “Just a stomachache.”
“Oh, I feel you,” Maemi said with a sigh, her tone shifting from concern to something more exhausted. “I was going to grab some medicine. It’s that time of the month for me.”
Youichi blinked at the door, because there was something almost absurd about this whole situation. About the way his stomach was still burning with the remnants of arousal while Maemi, the sister of the very object of his desires and source of his every trouble, was standing on the other side of the door talking about actual cramps.
He watched himself press his lips together in a thin line in the mirror, before reaching for the door, swinging it open. “You can go ahead,” Youichi mumbled, mostly under his breath, before dragging a hand through his hair as if it would change anything to his disheveled state. “Good luck with…” Youichi waved his hand vaguely toward the bathroom, something between half-hearted sympathy and pure embarrassment, “that.”
And Maemi simply gave him a long, unimpressed look before brushing past him. “You men are so fucking useless,” she hissed, disappearing into the bathroom without another glance.
Youichi didn’t have the energy to argue, and so he dragged himself back to Narumiya’s bedroom and collapsed onto the mattress face-first with a muffled groan, pressing his nose into the pillow. The blood in his veins still thrummed with leftover tension, the heat still sat low in his stomach, but the moment was long gone.
Next to him, the mattress dipped. The room was quiet but Youichi could hear the subtle shift of Narumiya moving under the covers, rustling of fabric against skin. It didn’t take long for a leg to swing over Youichi’s hip, Narumiya’s warmth seeping into him. Narumiya always gravitated toward him in his sleep, limbs tangled, his body latching onto Youichi’s like it was instinct. But he wasn’t asleep.
Youichi could tell from the way his breathing hadn’t evened out yet, and when he opened his eyes, deep blue was staring back at him, Narumiya’s face half-buried in the pillow they now apparently shared. “I’ll ride you so good when we get back home,” Narumiya whispered, voice slow, hint of sleep at the edges. Narumiya’s knee slid up slightly, his body pressing in just a little more. “You’ll be begging me to stop.”
Narumiya’s little tricks weren’t going to work on Youichi anymore, and before he could even think about stopping himself, Youichi exhaled a small, disbelieving laugh, before slipping a hand into Narumiya’s hair, fingers threading in just enough to give a teasing tug. “You?” He leaned in, voice low right into his scalp. “Pillow princess Narumiya Mei?”
Against him, Narumiya’s body went rigid. And without a single word, he rolled back onto his other side, tearing the blanket away with him in one swift motion, leaving Youichi completely exposed to the cold. “Good night,” he announced, flatly.
And maybe Youichi deserved that one. Still, he wasn’t going to accept it, and with a heavy sigh, he shifted onto his side, reaching out to where Narumiya had wrapped himself into his self-made blanket burrito, pressing in until his chest was flush against Narumiya’s back.
Narumiya grumbled, but didn’t move away, his breathing slowing, their heartbeats synching.
It was only Wednesday.
᳝ ˖ . ֺ ָ ֙⋆ ᳝ -; ༉‧₊˚✧ ˖ . ֺ ָ ֙⋆
Mei woke alone, upside down in a bed to a sky colored orange with clouds. The last of the day’s sunlight shone through the windows, thin veil of orange and grey draping over his body. At some point, the sheets had been made again to cover him, but the warmth of a body next to him was long gone.
Far away, from somewhere downstairs, deep inside the house, Mei could hear the soft hint of a laugh, the sound filling the whole house, bouncing off the walls, punctuated here and there by a shout from a commentator after a good play. Mei still chose to close his eyes for another moment, basking in the sun like a cat, his body still sluggish with the remnant of sleep, enjoying his last few minutes of peaceful quietness.
When he pushed himself up, the sight before him made him groan. The floor was a mess of discarded clothes, a mix of his and Kuramochi’s from when they had collapsed into bed after a full morning of playing responsible university students, taking advantage of the week off from both practice and classes to be studious. Golden week was a rare opportunity to rest, but instead they had spent most of their free time catching up on homework, bent over textbooks, going over barely legible notes on their laptops.
Inevitably, exhaustion had gotten the better of Mei, and left him there, waking up alone.
The house was colder than before, the last of the sunlight pouring in through the windows barely enough to keep him warm. And so Mei stood up, stretching his arms above his head with a yawn, then dug into the pile of clothes scattered around the floor, picking out the softest, thickest one. When he tugged it over his head, he realized it was one of Kuramochi’s, slightly too big on him, smelling faintly of his boyfriend, with a hint of their detergent.
Mei padded his way down the stairs, following the slow increase of voices, and when he stopped in the doorway, he took in the scene that greeted him in the living room, warmth pooling low in his stomach at the image.
Both absorbed in a MLB game playing on the television, Kuramochi and his father sat on the couch, conversation flowing easily between them. Before them sat empty glasses on the coffee table, along with a half-eaten plate of fruits that must have been there for ages given the brownish color of the sliced apples.
His father’s expression was as unreadable as ever, giving off that menacing aura even from a few steps away, but his posture was relaxed, one arm resting against the back of the couch, an ankle resting over his knee, and his eyes narrowed in the way they always did when he watched baseball. Kuramochi, though, was the thing that made Mei pause.
Because, he hadn’t been sure, when he’d first brought Kuramochi home, how it all would go. His father had always been a force to be reckoned with, sharp-eyed, cold-faced, and on this side of intimidating, even Mei knew that. He had spent his childhood years fearing him, sitting in seiza for hours on end as he did homework under his father’s all too scrutinizing gaze. Expectations had always been firm, discipline stricter, even if Mei always had never been particularly good at following it.
But Kuramochi was anything but disciplined. He had told Mei, the first night they’d stayed over, rubbing the back of his neck in a way he always did when he was choosing his words carefully, about how everything in this setting made him uncomfortable. Kuramochi had grown up in a two-bedroom apartment, his single mother caring for both him and her father, and at a very young age, Kuramochi had started learning how to fend for himself. Structure had never been a necessity, and in the year or so they’d lived together, he’d gradually pulled Mei with him.
Mei, and he could admit to it now, had always gotten what he wanted, whether through sheer determination or a few dozen well-placed tears. Kuramochi, on the other hand, knew that if he wanted something, he had to work for it, knew that the world wouldn’t bend for him.
But looking at him now, sitting on the couch next to his father in a position that was as relaxed as he would be in bed next to Mei, he thought that maybe Kuramochi fit into it all better than he expected, maybe better than Mei himself did. They both exchanged so naturally, his father blabbering on and on about Imanaga Shōta, and Kuramochi meeting him in the conversation without hesitation, like two kids getting to know each other on the first day of school.
He walked over to the couch, bare feet slapping against the wooden floors, and dropped down next to Kuramochi, his head finding strong thighs, cheeks cushioned by them. And Kuramochi didn’t even react, but his hand still found Mei’s hair instinctively, fingers tangling in the curls at his nape, continuing the conversation like nothing had changed. “But his splitter is the real deal,” Kuramochi said, and Mei could almost hear the sparkles in his eyes. “Makes him tough to figure out, even for MLB hitters.”
His father gave a small nod and shifted his body forwards, his forearms resting on his thighs, gaze zeroing in on the screen with the kind of focus that meant he was anticipating some particularly good play. “Late break. And he makes them hesitate just long enough,” his father replied, wiggling in his seat as Imanaga wound up, then sank deep into his lower half and back leg before pushing down the mound, his fastball flying past the batter.
“They’ll figure him out soon,” Mei finally chided in, voice muffled from the way his cheek pressed against Kuramochi’s leg. “No pitcher’s unhittable. He gave up no runs in his first three starts but gave up two homers in his last two games.” He finished, so matter-of-factly that Kuramochi huffed a laugh above him.
“You really can’t help yourself huh?”
Mei scoffed, shifting in Kuramochi’s lap until he was facing up instead, glaring up at him. “I can’t help that I know ball.” But when Kuramochi only grinned down at him, clearly unbothered by his off-handed comment, Mei clicked his tongue in irritation.
He narrowed his eyes and reached up, flicking Kuramochi’s cheek, just hard enough to be annoying. And to this, Mei had expected at least a little reaction, a scowl, or at least a grumble, but instead, Kuramochi just stared down at him, face unreadable until his brow quirked up just slightly, face screaming Really?
But before Mei could get too smug about it, Kuramochi flicked him right back, his unkempt nails scratching Mei’s forehead in the process.
Mei made an indignant squawk of protest, more offended than actually hurt, and whichever retort he had on the tip of his tongue got swallowed by his father’s sharp exhale. “This is why I don’t watch baseball with you,” he said, never looking away from the screen as he sank back into the couch. “Especially when a lefty is starting.”
Above him, Kuramochi snorted, fingers still absentmindedly tangling in Mei’s curls, until out of spite, he gave one of them a small, deliberate tug. “If I had a yen for every time he’s said something like that—”
“Don’t even start,” Mei interrupted Kuramochi before he could start another whole slander session against him. He was not about to sit through that again. “Or you’re sleeping in the doghouse.”
Kuramochi blinked down at him, and he looked surprised, a little caught off guard. “But you don’t have a dog.”
And to that, Mei’s lips curled up into an innocent smirk. “Exactly.”
Kuramochi stared at him, patently unimpressed at the joke, then shook his head with a small, exasperated laugh. But he didn’t argue, didn’t have to.
The rest of the game passed without incident, his father and Kuramochi bonding over their love for the game, the two of them falling into easy conversation about pitch sequencing, while Mei, still sprawled in Kuramochi’s lap, continued his ongoing slander campaign against the Cubs.
Mei closed his eyes, lulled by the constant threading of Kuramochi’s fingers through his hair and the commentary from the television in the background. It was soothing, the way everything seemed to flow so naturally, and Kuramochi fit there in a way that felt effortless, like he’d known his family for years, like this had always been how it was meant to be.
It was already Thursday.
᳝ ˖ . ֺ ָ ֙⋆ ᳝ -; ༉‧₊˚✧ ˖ . ֺ ָ ֙⋆
Youichi woke up with his feet tangled in soft, baby blue bed sheets and to the sun shining strongly into his eyes. He blinked and rolled on the other side of the bed with a small huff, body still heavy with sleep, stubbornly closing his eyes again, chasing sleep that he knew wouldn’t return.
Even from Narumiya’s bedroom upstairs, he could hear the faint whisper of voices coming from what he guessed was the dining area, and a pair of slippers slapping against the wooden flooring, the sound of someone moving back and forth, surely setting up for breakfast. The telltale click of an electric kettle quickly arrived, only followed by the steady hum of water heating.
Youichi could get up. After all, he was more than acquainted with all the members of this household by now. Five days in and there was no more lingering awkwardness in between them, no reason to hesitate, because he knew that if he walked downstairs, he’d be welcomed with a cup of coffee set at his newly assigned seat, and would be greeted with a casual, quiet nod from Mei’s father, like he was a member of their family.
But the warmth beneath the blanket was too good to leave, and the body lying next to him was too tempting to resist.
Narumiya was still deep asleep, his chest rising and falling in a steady, constant rhythm, soft breathing almost on this side of snoring escaping his lips. Against his pillow, his hair was a mess, curls flattened where he fell asleep on them, and the bedsheets had slipped just low enough to reveal the curve of his shoulder, dotted with marks in different shades of purple and red.
Youichi shifted slightly, letting his head rest against Narumiya’s pillow as he took in the room. The decoration was what fourteen-year-old Narumiya surely had in mind, frozen in time, before he’d left for high school, for university, for a life outside those very walls. The room around them was bathed in soft morning light, early rays of sunshine catching on the edges of posters with players on them that, for some, had already retired in the last five years, the paper yellowed over time.
The desk in one corner of the room was still cluttered with old trinkets and school books Narumiya probably hadn’t touched in years, and on a shelf above it, sat a few trophies, gathering dust.
And it reminded Youichi of his own room back home, the one he knew his mother still kept just as he had left it and hadn’t turned into a storage room just yet. The closet still held clothes that no longer fit, his hand had outgrown the glove that still sat on his desk, all of it stuck in another era, back when he was just some punk who thought his baseball career was already over before it even began.
It was strange, this feeling. Like stepping into a version of the past that had been waiting for Narumiya to return, waiting for a kid that didn’t exist anymore to come back to it.
In one corner of the room, Youichi’s gaze landed on Narumiya’s cat, all curled up on top of the pile of discarded clothes they hadn’t been bothered to put in the laundry bag, tail flicking slightly even in her sleep. She must’ve pushed the door open some time during the night, the way Narumiya told him she always did, but had made sure to stay far from the bed, and far from Youichi it seemed, the little minx somehow being the only family member who had yet to warm up to him.
Youichi huffed a laugh mostly to himself before rolling onto his side, shifting closer to Narumiya, slipping an arm around his waist and pulling him in, their bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces.
The warmth of Narumiya’s skin started bleeding into Youichi’s, their bodies melting together, so close Youichi couldn’t tell where he ended and Narumiya began.
His lips found Narumiya’s nape in an instant, brushing lazily over sun-kissed skin, before pressing a soft kiss there, then another, then another. To this, Mei hummed under his breath, shifting slightly against Youichi but still not quite waking up, the softest little sigh slipping past his parted lips.
It was all the encouragement Youichi needed.
He let his mouth wander lower, kissing the space where shoulder met neck, before he planted another one a few centimeters below the first, but this time, his mouth opened and closed wetly on the skin of his scapula, sucking just enough to leave the faintest hint of a mark.
His lips ghosted along the divet of Narumiya’s spine, and then he found them — three tiny moles scattered in a geometrical shape between his shoulder blades, so small that they were almost easy to miss. So Youichi pressed a kiss to the first one, then the second, then the third, and when he was done, he parted his lips just slightly, exhaling warm air over the places where his mouth just had been.
Under his arm, Narumiya shivered, back arching just the tiniest bit into his touch. Youichi smirked against his skin, and he let his teeth graze the side of Mei’s throat, in a teasing way at first, before sinking his sharp canines into the sensitive skin of his jugular, enough to leave yet another mark, enough to make Mei jolt and inhale sharply, his pulse quickening under Youichi’s mouth.
Youichi closed his eyes, letting himself sink into the moment, letting himself bask in the natural warmth of the body pressed against his, and the rhythm of the heartbeat blending with his own. Youichi could feel every movement, every slight shift of Narumiya’s body against his as his lips continued their trail up and down his neck, kissing every last centimeter of skin.
Then it was his tongue, darting out, moving slowly, deliberately, leaving fire in its wake over Narumiya’s pulse point before dragging lower again, down the slope of his shoulder, back up along the sharp edge of his jaw. Against him, Narumiya’s body was loose, pliant, stirring only slightly with each lingering touch, still caught in that hazy space between sleep and wakefulness.
And Youichi’s hand moved along without thought, wandering lower on Narumiya’s abdomen, feeling the firmness of his abs, fingers tracing the defined lines of muscles. They felt softer, the flesh giving more than usual, the full week without practice and the full-course dinners settling into his body in the nicest of ways.
His fingers mapped out the dips and curves of Narumiya’s stomach, kneading the flesh at Narumiya’s waist, just enough to make him squirm some more. With his pinky, Youichi traced the faintest line of muscle, until it brushed against the soft, wispy little hairs just below his navel, and when Narumiya hummed, the sound reverberated all the way down Youichi’s ribs, down to his very core.
And when his pinky slipped just beneath the waistband of Narumiya’s briefs, the response was immediate, his body tensing, his breath becoming increasingly audible and coming in short, ragged gasp as his hips shifted instinctively against Youichi, rubbing against his already half-hard erection.
Narumiya exhaled a shaky breath, fingers twitching against the sheets, nose burying further into his pillow. “Youichi…” he said, barely more than a whisper, voice still hoarse with sleep that sent a hot rush of arousal straight to Youichi’s belly.
Youichi reached for Narumiya’s length, palm dragging heat in its wake, and his boyfriend gasped at first contact, hips jumping toward the touch, half-hard cock surging harder just after a small stroke of his fingers. His hand slipped over precum, sliding more easily down Narumiya’s shaft, stroking long and slow, and when his thumb moved over the head, it sent Narumiya reeling. “Door—” His boyfriend managed to say through a sharp inhale, through the accelerating pace of Youichi’s strokes.
With a muttered curse, Youichi pulled his hand away, and the loss of warmth made Narumiya groan. Still, Youichi pushed himself up and climbed over Narumiya’s body to get out of bed, arousal pressing hot and insistent against the fabric of his boxers, the friction as he moved only making things worse as he made his way towards the door to close it.
He’d barely touched the wood when Youichi froze.
Narumiya’s mother stood there, hand raised like she had just been about to knock, face warm and gentle and completely oblivious to the fact that Youichi’d just had her son gasping into his pillow seconds ago. “Oh,” she said, offering a small smile. “I was just about to wake you two up.”
Youichi’s ears burned, and his face probably did, too. And he was suddenly painfully aware of the heat lingering low in his belly, of how tight he still felt in his boxers. His heart slammed so hard and abruptly in his chest that he thought he might go into cardiac arrest right there and then. “Breakfast is ready,” Narumiya’s mother continued, unaware of his suffering.
All he could do was clear his throat, trying to force his expression into something remotely casual and relaxed, all that he was not. “We’ll be right there then,” he managed to say, before shutting the door, mindful as to not click it.
Still feeling the heat prickling along his skin, Youichi turned back toward the bed, sitting on the floor beside it. He rested his chin on the mattress, pout tugging at his lips as he looked up at Narumiya, his boyfriend now sprawled on his stomach. “We can continue this later,” Narumiya said, voice still thick with sleep and something else that Youichi tried hard not to look into. “At home.”
Youichi huffed out a laugh, but didn’t let that idea affect him more than it had to. “I’ve never been this happy to be going back to that shitty apartment,” he muttered.
And Narumiya chuckled at that, impossibly blue eyes meeting Youichi’s, before he reached out, cupping Youichi’s cheek in his hand, thumb caressing his skin gently. “But did you like it?” And his thumb moved down, brushing against Youichi’s bottom lip. “Here? With me?”
Youichi’s breath hitched, just slightly. “Well,” Youichi started, smirking. “Apart from the countless failed attempts at having sex because of your overbearing family —” And Narumiya gasped, a sharp, theatrical thing, one he’d definitely learned from Maemi. “I had fun. More than I thought I would.”
Under Youichi’s gaze, Narumiya’s smile had softened into a pleased curve, the corner of his eyes slightly scrunched. He didn’t say anything at first, just continued gliding his thumb once more over Youichi’s lip before leaning in and pressing a soft peck against his forehead. “Good,” he murmured, pressure of his lips in speech against Youichi’s skin like little kisses. “Me too.”
It was finally Friday.