Archive of Our Own ^beta

Akira’s phone buzzes between his butt and the floor. He’d forgotten to turn it off; it’s probably Chihaya. He remembers her mentioning something about getting together tonight or tomorrow while she was in town, and he had forgotten to tell her his plans. He should-

His brow pulls down. Had these come through late? They’re from Ryuji. Ryuji, who’s sitting a seat away from him next to Futaba, sipping at his shochu from the fancy bottle Haru had gifted him a few hours ago and grimacing at the taste less and less as the night wears on.

Ryuji: u look good tnite

Ryuji: cant say that out loud of else id get shit

Ryuji: ;)

He stares at his phone. Is this… some kind of joke? Ryuji doesn’t meet his gaze when he looks, more absorbed in his drink than the conversation around him. Akira looks down again and nearly spooks when he gets a new notification.

“Akira? Were you listening?” Makoto’s voice is tinged with stern knowingness.

“Sorry,” he offers diplomatically. His phone lands face down on the table. “What’d you say?”

It ends up being inconsequential, trivial in the face of whatever those texts were- are. Ryuji had perfected the art of texting in class in high school and apparently hadn’t lost that skill - Makoto, at least, hadn’t noticed, or else he wouldn’t be the only one stealth-chided for using his phone instead of face to face human interaction.

“Gotta pee,” Ryuji announces and both Makoto and Yusuke make faces.

“Too much information,” Futaba mutters. Curled up on her lap, Morgana agrees.

Ryuji ruffles her hair from above with a loose grin. “Be right back.”

It takes every molecule of restraint Akira has in his body (not much) to keep his hands off his phone-- to keep himself from rereading the three most devastating messages he’s gotten this year. Under Makoto’s sharp watch, he just barely succeeds.

After a haze of chatter that he can’t quite remember, Ryuji nearly drops into his lap. He jolts Akira back to semi-reality by plopping down so close to him that Akira might as well get drunk off the heat of his side, thigh, leg. No one seems to mention his impromptu seat change, even as Ryuji leans over to grab his drink back.

Ann leans over the table, sunny and flushed with the unmistakable glow of liquor. “I kinda can’t believe we got you to drink,” she giggles. “I would’ve thought it’d be too bitter for you.” Shiho places a hand on her arm to keep her righted. Ann’s one to talk - she’s thoroughly proven herself as the lightest-weight of everyone tonight.

“It’s not so bad if the company’s right,” Ryuji returns easily. Akira’s heart leaps into his throat. His hand is on his ankle. Squeezing. He thumbs a few little circles up and under his pant leg.

Maybe it’s a drunken hallucination, one prompted by a total of a drink and a half. One that feels so real it’s making him break out into a sweat unprompted by the summer heat.

The little light on the back of Akira’s phone blinks. “You get a text?” Ryuji asks innocently, nudging their shoulders together. Little shit. He obliges, pointedly ignoring Makoto’s disapproving look again.

Ryuji: yre so obvious dude

Ryuji: ;););)

Stiffly, Akira locks his phone and puts it down next to him. Isn’t this supposed to just be in the movies, getting hit on by a drunk friend? “How much have you had to drink?” He asks under his breath, not quite turning to talk to Ryuji.

“Mm, it’s my birthday.” That’s… a worrying answer. Ryuji’s fingertips inch up, five more reasons for the feverish heat blooming over Akira’s whole body. Half inch long strokes, tiny insanity-driven motions that run a shiver through his whole body.

“Oh,” Haru startles. Akira meets her eyes with a sudden flash of guilt. “Are you feeling alright? You look rather red.” She looks so kindly concerned that it makes him feel like he’s lying about something.

She and Shiho exchange glances and smile at him a little sympathetically. “Should we... cut you off?” Shiho asks placidly.

“I’m fine,” he demurs. “Just a bit warm.” With a hand inexplicably creeping hot and sly up his calf, that’s an understatement. Beside him, his phone goes off again.

Ryuji: how far up

Ryuji: bttr tell me or lse

Ryuji: aw look st ur face, so red

“If you say so,” comes Haru’s sweet voice and he feels a low tug in his gut borne of guilt and regrettable arousal.

A head lands heavy on his shoulder. Ryuji’s cheek presses into the seam of his tee, and he turns sleepy eyes up to Akira when he looks down in surprise. “You mind?”

It’s an act, it’s absolutely fake, Ryuji is lying through his teeth. “Go ahead,” he says, and blinks at the flash of a camera. Ann whoops and waves her phone above her head.

“Got it! Aw, we’re making memories, isn’t this so cuuuuute!” She brandishes it at the others, giving no one enough time to actually see it. “Akiraaa, you’re so photogenic! You’re not even posing and you look better than like every guy I’ve worked with.”

He knows that gleam in her eye - even under the influence, he’d never promise to accompany her to a shoot again. “No,” he denies flatly and she holds a pout for about a single second before breaking.

Makoto smiles indulgently. “I have to say, this does remind me of the old days. It’s nice to see everyone at once again.” She’s right; group activities are rare nowadays, now that there’s little urgency behind them. They’ve all got such busy schedules, too, that it’s nearly impossible to coordinate something like a party. It’s a testament to their team, then, and a blessing worthy of giving thanks for, that it’d be unthinkable for any of them to decline an invitation to Ryuji’s birthday.

Akira’s given a piece of himself to everyone sitting around the table tonight and they have, in return, given themselves equally to him and each other. Regardless of how seldom the Phantom Thieves convene years after their official disbandment, the bonds here touch his heart in thin, shimmering ribbons whenever he sees each and every one of them.

“Hey, uh,” Ryuji starts, loud as usual and inches from his ear, “that reminds me. It’s super lame, but I… wanted to thank you guys for all showin’ up.”

“As if we’d miss it,” Futaba says. “If you do anything dumb I’m putting it online.”

Before Ryuji can snark back, Yusuke chimes in. “Indeed. And none of us would miss a chance to get together again. Happy birthday.”

There’s a chorus of echoes from around the table and Ryuji hides his grin in Akira’s shirt. “Thanks, guys. Means a lot.” He raises his head and glass and the rest of the table mirrors him - save for Shiho (responsible for getting Ann home) and Futaba (who’d pouted briefly but cut it out at one of Makoto’s patented mom-glares).

Akira raises his own glass and sips along as everyone else does, watching Ryuji with as detached a fascination as he’s able. That’s to say, not at all. His Adam’s apple works once, twice, his summer-gold skin the very slightest bit damp with perspiration. The loose fingers around his calf tighten in a deliberate little squeeze, now nearly at the crease of his knee.

His phone buzzes next to his hand and, thank goodness, this time it isn’t Ryuji.

Futaba: if you’re that thirsty have some more beer

A red-faced side-eye is all Akira’s capable of. Futaba smirks like she’s won.

She has. As usual.

Akira swallows. He’s sweating from the alcohol and panic and his stomach flips with every hint of movement on his leg. He’s on the fast track to dizzyingly hard, thanks entirely to that hand of Ryuji’s, his blood running molasses-slow and all-too-willing to let that happen.

Futaba might be right, but he wouldn’t just admit that.

~

Fifteen minutes and five inches later, he’s getting ready to wave the white flag. Akira can only thank every deity in his memory that both him and Ryuji are sitting close enough to the table that his lap is hidden.

He’s only got the presence of mind to split his attention two ways, though, and the other half of his mind is also occupied by his best friend.

Ryuji: thse jeans mke ur cock look gud ;)

Akira swallows, eyes trained intently on his screen as a few more messages pop up.

Ryuji: nd ur ass

Ryuji: actually

Ryuji: not jst the jeans

Ryuji: u look real hot all the time

Ryuji: mkes me wnna get on my knees fr u

This isn’t fair, fuck. His breath comes shorter, his mind filling with honeyed fantasies of blond hair between his thighs. He presses his lips together, paranoid of making some kind of sound, something obvious and desperate.

Ryuji: but i got tired of waitin fr u to mke a move

He nearly drops his phone.

There’s a quiet scratch of denim, a gentle pressure tracing over his inseam. He catches a few remaining sweet drops of sake on his lips, an intense bolt of energy electrifying his limbs all the way down to his toes. He brings his glass back up to his lips to have something to do, purely to distract himself. That proves to be a mistake. He nearly chokes to death via sake inhalation when Ryuji’s thumb presses into his zipper, in, in, up, down, tiny measured circles designed to hide his hand moving.

Akira’s hips move on their own before he can control himself, snapping up an inch that he has to disguise with more movement. The bottom of his glass hits the table a decibel too loud and he coughs, cherry-faced as he brings the knee opposite Ryuji to his chest.

Makoto appraises him but Ryuji beats her to the punch. “Think you’ve had too much, man,” he says, dripping with fake concern. His hand leaves Akira’s crotch to slap him lightly on the back - everything’s cool, normal, innocent.

Akira shoots him a disbelieving glare before Makoto adds, “He’s probably right. Sorry for saying so, but you don’t look so good.”

Ryuji, the bastard, drops his arm back into Akira’s lap. He doubles down, pressing the back of his fingers, curled into a loose fist, up along the line of his cock. His mouth drops open and he clears his throat, nodding rather than taking a chance and speaking. He can feel himself twitch in his pants, eager for friction and too hard to feel ashamed.

Futaba snorts into her soda next to him. He knows she has old cameras up here still, and hopes to god that she can sense how very dead she is if she decides to keep the recordings.

“Anyway, it’s very late,” Makoto remarks, glancing at her watch. “I think we should start thinking about leaving.” It is, it is late. Everyone should leave - go home, so that-

“Oh, Mako-chan,” Haru fawns sweetly, “that sounded so motherly!” She giggles. “But it’s a special occasion, after all. Would it hurt to stay a little longer?”

Ann droops sideways onto Shiho’s shoulder and Akira hones in. “The trains will stop running soon,” he points out.

Shiho smiles at him regretfully. “You’re right. We should get going, at least.”

That, thankfully, sets off a chain of “we’ll clean up, don’t worry,” and mixed polite and enthusiastic “goodbye”s, and “happy birthday”s, and hugs, and Ann’s sloppily drunken but well-meaning cheek kisses.

And leaves him alone with Ryuji - finally, or maybe far too soon.

His eyes flare a little wider as Ryuji pounds back up the stairs after noisily shutting the cafe door behind Yusuke, advancing on him, wielding eyes hooded with deadly focus. The trap has snapped under him, hoisting him high into a net of his own woven desires.

Ryuji takes his time stalking over, combing Akira from foot to shoulder with his eyes and back down again, lingering very obviously in a few places. Akira’s heart starts tattooing a frightening rhythm in his chest, his fingers curling into his palms. There’s a swagger in Ryuji’s step and a lift to his chin that give a perfect home to the cocky grin he’s sporting. “It’s my birthday,” he says, once he’s near enough that Akira can feel the impact of the few inches Ryuji has over him. “Think I’m a li’l drunk.”

He could have gotten out. He could have very easily put a definitive stop to this - still could, but why would he want to?

“I think so too.” His neck is just below Akira’s eye level, all angular and stubbly and bare. It’s… his birthday. And he’s drunk. Yeah.

Akira’s not so sober himself. He’s not sure what consequences that might bring, but right now he’s positive that this is the best thing to happen to him since Ryuji himself.

“Y’gonna be a smartass?” Ryuji shifts forward to crowd him in and all it succeeds in doing is making his blood beat hard through his body.

Step on me, his brain contributes unhelpfully. He shakes that away, only for nothing else to replace it when Ryuji slips a finger under his waistband and drags them flush together. Akira reaches out, steadies himself on the sturdiest things in range: Ryuji’s arms.

Ryuji’s eyes brighten, one brow rising in blatant interest. A flush creeps up Akira’s neck, prickling the hairs at his nape, but he doesn’t move his hands an inch from the bare skin there. The muscles under his touch tighten, sinew stretching, and he gives Ryuji a Look. “Are you flexing?”

He grins, ‘shame’ a far-off concept. “Seen y’lookin’, not just tonight.” The finger in his waistband toys with the elastic of his underwear, the back of his nail scraping a line across the dip of his hips. Akira bites the inside of his cheek against the hard swoop in his stomach. Be cool. Suave. Don’t fall apart before he even kisses you. Telling his dick what to do, on the other hand, isn’t an option. If he shifts, it’d streak gross and sticky inside his boxers. Be a normal human , he amends, which might still be completely unattainable a goal.

Ducking his gaze, he asks, “What even were those texts? And doing that,” heat rises to his face, “while everyone was around?” he hisses. He’s probably red, and it probably gives him away as embarrassed instead of frustrated.

Ryuji studies him and Akira can feel the weight of his eyes. “Coulda stopped me.” There’s a long pause. Only when Akira looks back up does Ryuji murmur, “Y’can stop me now.”

As if he’d ever. Akira huffs at the lunacy of that, but it dies on his lips with the slight furrow in Ryuji’s brow. “No- no. You’re were right. I could’ve stopped you but-” he takes a breath and lifts his chin. His courage hasn’t needed rallying for a long time. “You’re going to take responsibility,” he finishes in a low timbre, finding purchase in the fabric of Ryuji’s tank top.

The understanding that dawns over Ryuji’s face creeps from his brows to his eyes and down from there like a comedy routine and Akira laughs softly despite himself. He recovers quickly. “Y’gonna let me kiss you?” Ryuji asks. Akira’s lips just curl up, by all rights too charmed.

He doesn’t see their first kiss. His eyes shut of their own accord, thanks in part to the warm fuzz that follows Ryuji’s touch on his face. His closed lips slant sweetly over Akira’s smile, and already it’s not enough. Maybe the alcohol has given him a taste for fast and hungry, or maybe it’s just the present company. Either way, he opens his mouth under Ryuji’s and sighs at the warmth of it all.

Ryuji makes a little sound, surprised, maybe. His other hand comes up to cup Akira’s face entirely, and it touches at a part inside him he didn’t realize needed to be held. If he’s honest with himself (and he has little choice), he hasn’t had many kisses in general. He hadn’t had much chance before he’d met Ryuji, and after, he’d been too infatuated to try much of anything with anyone who wasn’t a sweet-but-loud blonde jock.

His hand tightens in Ryuji’s shirt, probably stretching it. The other clutches at his back, arm slipped around his waist and vitally helping him to not keel right over.

This is his favorite kiss, with his favorite person, in the place that holds his favorite memories.

Akira sways and Ryuji catches his hips. “All right?” he chuckles right up against his lips, and Akira reassures him with a short nod and another caught little kiss. The dampness of Ryuji’s grin and the foreign taste on his tongue allay his fears that this is just another dream of hundreds. After all, in no dream does Ryuji breathe warm and short over his jaw or kiss his face until he tips his head up.

When he pulls back, Ryuji’s grin softens to something brighter. “This’ll be easier,” he promises, thumbs circling the protrusions of Akira’s hip bones. He lets go entirely to sit on the old bed, leaning back on his hands as if he’s got no worries on this earth. Akira’s not used to towering over him like this, still feeling as small as ever when faced with the affection and mischief in his best friend’s eyes. “C’mere,” a lazy finger hooks in his belt loop and drags him willingly, grasps his waist as he nears. “Siddown.”

One of Akira’s knees finds the mattress beside his hip. Ryuji straightens a little, grin slipping. His other hand joins the first, and they both slide down worn denim to the backs of Akira’s thighs. He guides him down, down, until he’s sitting and there’s no room for mirth.

They’re mostly level and Akira takes the freely given opportunity to study Ryuji’s cheeks and chin, eyes and mouth - not that he needs to. He’s only the boy who saved his life; he might know Ryuji’s face better than his own.

It’s rare to see Ryuji without a permanent smile these days. Just like back in high school when they were less frequent sunbursts, and now, without a trace of humor, Akira feels his bones ache with wanting. To share in every single instant that touches him, to chase the evil of the world off Ryuji’s brow should it ever mar him, to wade through the muck of existence together - that’s probably all he’s ever wanted for years.

Hands braced on Ryuji’s shoulders, Akira fills the space between them easily. Ryuji returns in kind, hugging him as close as he can get away with without straining their kiss.

He likes it this way, too, higher, more leverage, and he can plant his hips to line up with Ryuji’s. He might be new to all this, but finding where Ryuji’s dick is in his own pants is instinctive enough; grinding himself forward experimentally is even easier. The reward he gets, besides the rush of starry sensation behind his eyes, is a moan from deep in Ryuji’s throat.

Again, he shifts, and again, Ryuji reacts beautifully, falters, pulls in a gasp. “I shoulda done this years ago,” he says, half-drowned in Akira’s lips. Akira clings a little tighter; he could say the same, really. Under normal circumstances, his pride would keep him from admitting that they’re both too afraid of rippling the spider’s web, but in vino veritas and all - he’d fully admit to full-body terror at the prospect of ever confessing sober.

Ryuji’s hands on his back slip around him fully and he squeezes, breaking from Akira’s mouth to press wet kisses to his throat that make him shiver and rut firmer into Ryuji’s body. He’s so solid, real and firm and every little shiver comes from silky-sweet bliss.

“Shit,” his voice vibrates over Akira’s own vocal cords, a subvocalization that seems more like a kneejerk than anything. “Kira, hold on t’me-“ and Ryuji pivots, lining him up with and pressing him into the unforgiving cushion of the unmade bed.

He follows, his hand crushed to the mattress under Akira’s weight and mouthing insistently at his neck. His other hand, the one cupping the back of Akira’s head, drags across his chest and down his body, catching at his shirt and bunching, shoving it up in random clumps and wrinkles until Akira claws it off himself, flings it anywhere. “I wan’ this,” he mumbles, barely coherent against skin. “Hey, Akira, you too, right?”

It’s too easy to nod, to spread his legs, to feel the lips on his neck curve into a smile as Ryuji kneels between them. “‘S what I thought. God, I love you,” And somehow, hearing that drunkenly confessed isn’t enough to fill him with dread or turn his blood to ice, just sticky sweet syrup pounding in his ears. His core and bones accept that that’s been the status quo for years.

“Love you too,” he moans. His brain is more than a little muzzy. What can he do? How should he touch? Ryuji’s cock presses through his pants into Akira’s hip and beckons him. He feels big. Akira wets his lips.

“Wanna sleep w’you,” he continues, “you’re- oh, shit, that’s good, you're my, Akira-“

Ryuji’s face burns where he presses it into Akira’s neck. His mouth moves, open, in unquiet wordless pleas on his skin. He is big, Akira finds, mapping him under thin fabric with his fingers and palm. Bigger than him. Hard and wet and pressing into his hand like his life depends on it.

“Don’t,” he pants, “don’t make me- fuck, babe-“ his lips smack in an absent kiss over Akira’s pulse, “don’t w’nna shoot off- ‘n your hand- don’t whine like that, god.” He grumbles and bites down.

A sob, a half-moan, stumbles out - “ah , hah- ” gone before Akira can even clamp his mouth shut. His hand stills obediently, nodding to nothing.

Ryuji purrs against his skin, pressing a dagger-sharp grin there. “Hn, g’boy-“ He takes Akira’s wrist, drags it from him until it’s pinned to the bed. Akira doesn’t dare move it even after Ryuji lets go. And good, that’s good, because he has him shaking, gasping, a hand shoved between them and down the front of his undone pants, squeezing, thumbing at his tip, dragging his fist over his head where he’s wet and keen.

Teeth scrape a ghost of a bite over his chin and then Ryuji’s tongue is back in his mouth. Sloppy, overeager, smacking and out of step. He pulls back, kisses the corner of Akira’s mouth, and guides his lips into a better rhythm. “C’mon,” he murmurs, mostly overpowered in Akira’s ears by the static in his head.

“Yuji,” he interrupts, whining. Ryuji takes his lip between his teeth for an instant, scolding.

“You close?” He fastens his mouth under Akira’s ear. “Tell me y’are,” he begs.

“I am,” Akira sobs. Nothing’s real, nothing but Ryuji’s voice and Ryuji’s hand and Ryuji’s body, long and heavy and hard.

And then Ryuji’s up, shoved to his knees, hand still working nice and fast, and the head of his cock catches the air outside his clothes. “Akira. Kira. Babe. I gotta-” his breath catches over his words and through slitted eyes, Akira sees his lip caught, bitten for an instant. “Lemme,” he tries again, and it’s enough. It’s good, whatever it is, doubtless, he doesn’t care, he just wants it.

“Wha-hh, whatever you- want,” he promises and means it.

“I love you,” Ryuji vows back, and that’s the last he says for a little while.

His body folds nearly in half, pressing his mouth hurriedly to random inches of his shoulder, chest, stomach, hip. Ryuji tugs at his jeans and taps impatiently, until Akira gets the message and lifts up enough to drag them down, and then his cock is out and bare and in Ryuji’s mouth.

It’s better than life, so good that it’d be a crime to stay quiet.

So he doesn’t.

He’d been close, Ryuji’d made sure of that , and if- if that was his goal -

If Ryuji’s expecting it, Akira won’t disappoint. Not that he has a choice, really, not with the punishing heat of his mouth and the plush, wet push of his tongue, velvet-soft and maddeningly imperfect.

“Ryuji,” he pleads, helpless to resist arching off the bed and into his mouth. Above him - below him? - Ryuji makes a muffled choking noise and leaves Akira’s dick suddenly comparatively cold. “Sorry, sorry-“

“S’alright,” Ryuji says, rubbing a soothing circle into his lower belly. “S’fine.” Both his hands head down to where Akira’s waistband circles near his knees and tugs.

Oh, yes, that’s absolutely-

He nearly tears his jeans in an effort to get them off. Akira doesn’t even think he’d be mad, kicking them viciously off his feet and watching Ryuji hike his leg over his back to nibble the inside of his thigh. “Not gonna lie,” he breathes. “I wanted t’fuck you real bad t’night.”

Akira lets that settle between them as his eyes go wide. “We still can,” he croaks, but Ryuji shakes his head.

“Can’t. Don’t have nothin’ on me.” He kisses his shaft, wet and soft. “Next time. Promise.”

He’s not dumb enough to turn down a blowjob, no matter how good the hypothetical alternative might be. Ryuji sucks his soul out; his fingers press ardent bruises into his legs where he holds them still, frames his hip with the transparent motive of keeping him pinned.

He comes fast like that, lost in the bliss of showing off his body and having it appreciated so intimately. Ryuji licks his lips when he’s finished and meets Akira’s eye to wink, lewd and unfairly attractive.

Every cell in his body is tingly, loose and jelly down to his curled toes, and he has no inclination to move. Ryuji crawls up his body to lay next to him, nudges his head over with a clean hand and presses a kiss to his jaw. “That was fun,” he husks, gravel and smoke. “You wanna try?”

Oh, he’s- Akira giggles helplessly until he has to smother his face with his hand. Honestly, he’s so obvious.

Ryuji sounds affronted. “ What?”

Blissful laugher bubbles in his throat. “You’re so cute.”

He gets a blank, disbelieving stare in return. “ C’mon, man!”

Akira presses his face into his hand, laughing still. He’s just… happy. Inebriated and happy.

“You’re useless,” Ryuji whines without much heat. “Akiraaa, come on.”

He closes his eyes. “I need a minute,” he sighs. The mattress is old and the lumps are unfortunately worse than the last time he had to sleep on it, the air sticky and humid in the thick of a heat wave, but he imprints all of it in his brain regardless.

Ryuji groans. “Do I gotta start myself?” he gripes, rolling to his back. The movement of his hips canting to free himself catches Akira’s attention, and he flops his head to the side to watch, riveted, as Ryuji palms himself and starts up a practiced pace.

He props his head up on his hand. “Ryuji.”

“M concentratin’,” comes the airy reply.

“Yuji,” Akira insists. He wants- he wants, is all.

“You already got yours,” Ryuji tells him. “Stop complainin’, unless you’re gonna help.”

“I’ll help,” he says eagerly, lethargy dissolving, and Ryuji looks at him to grin. He can’t help but return it, a secret between them for this moment, and Ryuji’s hand drops from himself.

First things first: four years of crushing and now that he finally has the chance, it’s unfathomable that he hasn’t immediately pounced on the opportunity to fulfill one of his teenage shower fantasies.

He just wants to try it once, that’s all.

Ignoring a soft noise of surprise, Akira climbs onto him. All night, this has been the best seat in the house, and who cares if he’s naked and soft? Ryuji isn’t. One of those things is a problem, but he can work with it.

It’s just a matter of wiggling to snug his ass onto Ryuji’s dick, rucking up his shirt to his pecs, folding over to make dragging his tongue up the line of Ryuji’s abs easier. It pushes him back and Ryuji chokes at the friction, while the salty musk of skin and sweat makes Akira’s mouth water. It doesn’t cloy like the sweet sake, nor linger like the bitter mix of liquors in their kisses.

Most importantly, no one else gets to do this.

Satisfied, he straightens again, squaring his shoulders blatantly. Ryuji’s eyes, heavy velvet over Akira’s feverish skin, follow the line of his body with lips parted like he can’t suck in enough air.

Pride swells in him like he’s some kind of peacock. “Do I look good?” he can’t help but ask.

Ryuji shakes his head. “You know y’do.” Then, more to Akira’s chest than him, Ryuji mumbles, “Course y’look good. You always have.” His hands trail fire up Akira’s sides. “So fuckin’ pretty.”

It’s what he always likes to to hear: compliments that tingle straight down to the base of his spine. He preens, rolls his hips like he’s riding Ryuji’s cock, like he could through a pair of boxers. “Wish you were in me,” he complains lightly. really It’s more of an observation, he just wants it, but not without the right prep, not without Ryuji’s okay-

“For real?” Ryuji holds his hips tight, voice strained. “You gonna jus’ say that?”

“Then what-“ his head is all wrong, if this isn’t right, “-what’d’you want?”

“Same ‘s you.” He sounds regretful. “But s’long as it’s you I don’t care.”

Akira reaches behind himself. He doesn’t know- he doesn’t have to know, that’s fine, but he wants to be good for Ryuji and make him cum with the same exquisite intensity Ryuji had given him. Under his fingers, Ryuji’s boxer briefs are tented, stretched taut where he presses into the cleft of Akira’s ass. He finds damp and rubs tiny circles there until Ryuji squirms and the growl in his chest runs down Akira’s spine like high voltage.

“Course you’d be a tease. Ass.”

He’s not, really. Scooting back on Ryuji’s thighs until he can get a good grip will prove that, until he can see the way his underwear stretches over the curve of his dick. It is wet up near his waistband, and for a single shuddering moment, he wants it in his mouth.

Still, he’s more hazily fascinated at the way it jumps under his touch, twitching at a single finger running from base to tip, beating a steady pulse against his palm when he crawls his fingers underneath and takes him fully in hand.

“Mmn,” he says appreciatively. This is better than before, better than rushed and slightly more sober, where he can focus and study how Ryuji gasps into his own hand, muffles himself.

That’s not right. His forehead creases. “No,” he tells him, reaching to drag Ryuji’s wrist away from his mouth. “I want…”

Ryuji whines a little, nodding, and twists his grip into his own sweatpants. “Nn, ‘kay.”

He’s wet, but there’s still a little drag of skin. Akira’s lips twist to the side and he spits into his palm, so far past revulsion that it doesn’t even faze him. Ryuji, for his part, has his eyes squeezed shut, and just makes a happy noise when a hand returns to his cock.

Akira watches with as sharp eyes as he can where Ryuji grips for purchase - his own pants, first, then curls his fingers into a fist, then the mattress, and failing that, one hand shoots up to circle Akira’s forearm.

All the while, he’s loud, flattering, and Akira basks in it.

He hopes it’s good - better than before, Ryuji’s hand on his own cock - but either way it’s so satisfying, makes him grin nice and smug to feel Ryuji arcing, gripping his wrist hard enough to leave crescents where his nails press, showering praise from low in his throat.

“God- Akira-“ Ryuji’s hand claws at his bare hip, his head wrenching to the side where he can press his face into the mattress. “I’m- fuu -uuck, comin’, Aki-“

Trying to kiss him cranes his head weird and stains his lips with half-words, but he wants Ryuji thinking about nothing else. Akira bounces on his lap a little as he feels warm wet over his fingers, pulls back to watch it pool on his stomach and catch his shirt hem.

His hand is dirty. Akira stares at it for probably too long while Ryuji catches his breath. “Hm.” He probably couldn’t reach the table set up near the couch without getting up.

“Wha- nn, what is it?” Ryuji asks, barely lifting his head.

Akira doesn’t reply, just sighs and swings himself off Ryuji, off the bed, to grab a stack of clean napkins. “Here,” he offers, holding half of them out to Ryuji, who takes them and cleans himself up. Akira does the same, and gets Ryuji’s shirt as well.

He tosses the napkins back toward the table, missing terribly, and drops himself down beside Ryuji. “Tired.”

Ryuji kisses him, lazy and uncoordinated. It’s too hot to be pressed together like this, but there’s no room - barely room for one person, really, how did he used to live on this? He can put up with it though. Ryuji’s all comfy angles and soft random kisses, and he’s happy to nudge his face in close.

“Should,” he pauses to get kissed, “clothes.”

“Mm,” Ryuji hedges, dissolving into a huge yawn. “Not now.” He tugs Akira tight into his chest and presses his lips to his temple. “Love you. G’night.”

Akira’s already asleep.