Archive of Our Own

Shinya is startled awake, heart pounding, head throbbing. It takes him several moments to figure out what in the bloody hell the horrendous racket that woke him up actually is.

It’s music. Loud, unapologetic, invasive. Then there’s shouting in Spanish, and barking? — and more shouting, and finally, the volume is turned down. But not by very much.

Shinya takes a deep breath and squeezes his eyes shut, wondering if he can manage to go back to sleep. Unlikely. Suzuki’s hot and naked behind him, pressing close in all the right places, which goes a long way to waking him up properly. But of course, Suzuki is still dead to the world.

Shinya shuffles, doing his best to roll over without disturbing him. He succeeds: Suzuki is one of those lucky people who could sleep through an earthquake. The arsehole. He’s also lucky he’s so beautiful.

Shinya takes in his face, suddenly thankful for the impromptu alarm clock. Suzuki is quiet in his sleep, lips closed, dry but incredibly soft-looking, a certain tempting plumpness to them that seems exclusive to mornings. There’s a generous coating of two days’ worth of stubble on his chin and over his top lip; Shinya’s hands itch to put a razor to it, to make him all smooth again. The beauty spots are what truly make his face, though. There are a couple on his left cheekbone clustered together, then another one a bit lower, completing the arch. Two more on his cheek. No, three: there’s another tiny one closer to his chin. A constellation.

Shinya could get used to this. He intends to.

Rude awakenings aside, he’s feeling surprisingly well-rested. Suzuki’s bed might look like something out of a porn clip, but it’s a proper dancer’s bed with an extra hard mattress that’s perfect for sore muscles. Shinya smiles to himself, thinking that it’s what Suzuki essentially is: flashy, showy, ostensibly carefree on the outside, but with a firm, sturdy, practical core.

Still, Shinya is going to do something about all the mess. There is a limit to how much untidiness he can tolerate, and the chaos of Suzuki’s flat is way beyond that.

To be fair, he loves being surrounded by Suzuki’s things. Every trinket, every piece of discarded clothing, every spot of dust and every stinky ashtray is a part of him, and therefore belongs to Shinya. Figuring out how to keep things in order while maintaining the sense of Suzuki’s unique style is going to be so much fun.

Suzuki is going to call him a freak again.

They’re lying too close together for Shinya to properly admire his body, but it’s all right. He got to do that the previous night, and the night before, and the night before that; he always wants more, but he’s content to simply enjoy the warmth and nearness of him for the time being. He’s already getting used to it, he supposes.

What he’s still not used to is falling asleep naked, but with Suzuki, it feels natural. Shinya likes that there are no barriers between them. He likes that he can slide closer at any given moment and bask in Suzuki’s heat. It feels like his skin becomes overly sensitive all over his body, the pure pleasure of being touched spreading in waves from any spot that comes in contact with Suzuki.

Neither of them is prone to moving about much in their sleep, and he likes that, too: whatever position they’d gone to sleep in, they’re likely to maintain it throughout the night. Suzuki tends to sprawl, tucking Shinya against his chest and side like a stuffed animal. Also, he brags about being the big spoon a little too often. Shinya is fine with it, because he is the mature one in this relationship. There’s no doubt about that, none at all.

He should get up. Probably. He should check the time, and his messages, at least. He should take a picture, definitely. There is a reason why he keeps his phone under his pillow when they spend the night together.

Oh, it’s almost noon. That explains the music. Shinya has nothing on schedule today for the first time in a whole week, but Suzuki’s got classes to teach, and the first one starts at 13:00. Well, it’s his own fault if he oversleeps, isn’t it? Shinya is his boyfriend, not his manager.

He clicks the camera once, twice, and again, for good measure. As soon as the dirty deed is done, Suzuki’s eyelashes flutter. It’s not the sound that wakes him, Shinya doesn’t make silly mistakes like that; it’s the feeling of being watched, wanted, and worshipped. Suzuki has a sixth sense for those, the narcissist.

“Good morning,” Shinya says.

“Hmm,” Suzuki says, “yeah. You’re still here.”

He doesn’t mean it like that, but Shinya’s heart clenches painfully. He reaches out to stroke his cheek with the back of his hand, tender and, he hopes, reassuring.

“For the moment,” he says. “I was about to go make you some coffee. You have a class in an hour.”

“Right,” Suzuki says, nuzzling his knuckles, eyes still closed. “Well, go then, if you must.”

It’s a pouty dismissal that is adorable and infuriating in equal measure. Shinya most emphatically doesn’t want to go. Doesn’t want to leave him even for a second. But he forces himself to let go and get up, because Suzuki needs his coffee, and Shinya gets to be the one who makes it for him.

He freshens up quickly, then picks out a clean pair of pants and a T-shirt from his overnight bag, fighting the instinct to get fully dressed. It’s not that he’s shy; he just doesn’t see much point to having breakfast in his undergarments. Normally, he’d shower first thing after getting up; with Suzuki, it’s coffee first, everything else later. Besides, Shinya can tell that Suzuki enjoys seeing him like this, even if he doesn’t say as much.

There’s an old-fashioned tea kettle on the stove that hadn’t been here the first time Shinya visited. Suzuki claims he pinched it from the bar; it’s a decrepit piece of rubbish that even someone’s nana would put out to pasture without much protest. Next to it, the sleek white creamer Shinya brought over from his flat looks even more ridiculous. The coffee machine, however, is nice and expensive. Priorities.

He makes coffee, tea for himself, and produces store-bought chicken and pork sandwiches from the fridge. Shinya cannot cook to save his life, so he has to keep it simple until he can sort out his food subscription. Suzuki needs even more calories than he does, and there are some gaps in his encyclopaedic knowledge of this man, like possible allergies and food-related pet peeves. The whole reason he hadn’t gotten around to expanding his standing order yet is just that: he has to ask Suzuki questions before he does.

By the time he’s finished laying the table, Suzuki’s up and about, wandering around with a fag in his mouth in search of a lighter. Shinya notices one peeking out from under the sofa cushion and throws it over to him; he catches it one-handed and blows Shinya an obnoxious kiss. Then he leans against the window frame and stands there, trailing smoke, quiet and tall and tan and completely nude, like some bloody gorgeous painting. He is always graceful, even fresh out of bed. Shinya feasts his eyes, trying not to linger on his arse for too long.

Suzuki notices, and smirks slightly.

“Done, then? Coffee,” Shinya says, “then shower. And you need a shave.”

Suzuki lopes up to him and grabs the cup with both hands, making sure their fingers touch. It’s not electric, exactly, but it sends a tingle directly to Shinya’s cock. His utter obsession with Suzuki’s hands isn’t letting up.

“You wanna do it?” Suzuki asks casually before taking a large slurping sip.

Shinya almost chokes on his tea.

“What? You washed my hair yesterday, after practice.” Another loud sip. “Thought maybe you’d be willing to do me one better. Feels like I’m in a spa or something when you’re fussing over me like that. It’s nice.”

Suzuki is better at talking about what he wants than Shinya ever could be.

“Sure,” he says, because what else can he say to that?

Suzuki hums appreciatively and sprawls on the floor across from Shinya, extending an impossibly long leg under the low table so he can press his bare foot against his calf.

Shinya’s heart quickens like it always does when Suzuki, either accidentally or on purpose, calls him out on wanting certain things. The fact is, it had been nice to wash his hair. Taking a shower together in the studio had seemed like a practical decision: they weren’t intent on dallying, worn out as they were after a day full of meetings and a night of dancing; Shinya wasn’t thinking about anything at all as he reached for the shampoo. Suzuki was so relaxed in his arms, wet and warm and wonderfully willing to be taken care of. Shinya had succeeded in keeping the Reaper’s shadow under control, but barely; it had been screaming and thrashing within him the whole time, reacting to even the smallest signs of submission like a shark smelling a drop of blood in the water.

Now Suzuki’s asking for more and calling it “fussing”, like it’s something soft and romantic instead of controlling and stifling. He is essentially asking for Shinya to put a sharp object to his bare throat. It wouldn’t be a straight razor, of course, even Shinya isn’t so pretentious as to own one, but he could draw blood. And that’s not even the worst part.

Suzuki is well aware of what he’s thinking, from the way he’s watching him. There’s a challenge in his eyes, there always is when it’s about things like this: You’re going to chicken out on me, aren’t you? Figures.

Shinya reaches down to grab his ankle and pulls, nice and hard, making him squawk and sprawl even further, almost spilling the rest of his precious coffee on his naked lap. Almost.

“What was that for?!” Suzuki whines, trying to kick at him in retaliation, but Shinya’s grip on his ankle remains quite strong.

“Nothing in particular,” Shinya says. “I’m just pulling your leg.”

He says that last part in English, and Suzuki’s face scrunches up in confusion. His English is passable for most social occasions, but his vocabulary is spotty at best. It’s hilarious how he can speak about some things with real sophistication, then fail to recognise basic idioms. Shinya knows he never actually studied properly, just picked up the language as a teen working the tourist scene back in Havana. Still, he’s not about to go easy on him. Serves him right for gibbering in Spanish during sex.

“I don’t even care, you’re crazy,” Suzuki grumbles, giving up on trying to free his leg. He’s half lying, half sitting up with his shoulder blades against the seat of a perfectly functional armchair, still fully naked and somehow not looking the slightest bit ridiculous. It is criminal, the way his body undulates, molding and remolding itself into the most uncomfortable of positions. Shinya could twist him any which way and he would bend and glide and swerve in his hands like a trickle of coloured sand.

“We don’t have the time for what you’ve suggested,” Shinya says, idly rubbing his anklebone with his thumb. “Eat. Wash your face,” he takes a deep breath before adding, “but don’t shave. You can go a few more hours without starting to look too much like a scruffy bootblack.”

This earns him a grin, a wink and a slurp, in that order. He’s doing it on purpose, Shinya is sure. Mostly sure.

“This is a nice sandwich,” Suzuki proclaims with his mouth full. Shinya sighs.

***

Shinya thinks about choreography as he makes the bed, stacks dirty dishes in the sink, empties numerous ashtrays, and upturns the single laundry basket to separate Suzuki’s dirty clothing by colour.

Cleaning is relaxing. It’s not practice, but it has that same rhythm to it, the same structure, and provides a similar sort of satisfaction once it’s done. Shinya has made a list and is now going through it methodically, pausing to do some stretching exercises after marking each task as complete, since he’d skipped his usual morning routine. He can practically hear Suzuki calling him names.

It’s been almost two weeks since their fateful performance at the Asian Cup; the days that followed had been terribly busy, but he and Suzuki barely left each other’s side, which was a plus. Ironically, Shinya has more free time than him right now: he’d relegated all of his students to other instructors soon after he cancelled his flight back to Japan all those months ago, and there are no unfinished projects to rush back to Blackpool for. It’s like Martha had known he’d be staying when she sent him here. She had been honestly surprised to discover he’s been training for the 10-Dance and falling in love with his Latin instructor besides, but. Perhaps Yagami-san said something to her, Shinya wouldn’t put it past her. Sometimes it feels like he doesn’t even know her any more.

It’s his first time alone in Suzuki’s flat; he’s been waiting for the opportunity to thoroughly invade his private space. He knows for a fact that Suzuki won’t mind because he said, and Shinya quotes, ‘If my mess bothers you that much, feel free to clean it up yourself.’ He had to have known that Shinya would be taking him up on that offer.

He keeps from snooping, for the most part, though he suspects Suzuki wouldn’t mind that, either. His home has a sort of communal feeling to it, like a college dormitory from a 90’s TV show. Shinya’s never seen anything quite like it in real life.

There’s a red bra on the bottom of the laundry basket which is at least two sizes too big for Tajima-san. Suzuki is either completely unaware of its existence, or proud to have kept this little souvenir from a specific conquest. Shinya shuts down a burst of irrational jealousy and puts the bra in the pile with a truly atrocious crimson shirt on top.

End of the line, Suzuki had said. No way back.

Shinya picks the bra up again and stuffs it into a garbage bag. Suzuki is his now. They both know what that means.

***

Shinya is trying his damnedest not to laugh as he watches Suzuki stalk through his flat, inspecting every clean surface and uncluttered corner like he’s been robbed blind.

“Where’s my trash gone?!” he yells from under the bed.

“I threw it out,” Shinya says, “because it was trash.” The sight of Suzuki’s dishevelled head as he emerges does nothing to help keep his mirth at bay.

“You did. All of this. Yourself?” Suzuki stares at him. Shinya raises his eyebrows.

“I thought I told you that I had nothing on schedule today. I needed something to occupy my time while you were at work. Oh, and there’s dinner in the fridge.”

Suzuki blinks.

“Don’t tell me you cooked, too.”

“Alas, no,” Shinya tsks. “It’s not something I excel at, I’m afraid. I ordered in.”

Suzuki blinks again.

“Well?” Shinya prompts. “Are we going to eat? It’s just curry, no apricots this time.”

It seems to finally bring Suzuki out of his cleanliness-induced shock.

“Thank you,” he says, voice catching a little, Adam’s apple bobbing in a way that makes Shinya long to wrap his hand around his throat and press. He doesn’t feel like laughing any more.

“After dinner,” he says, purposefully vague, but Suzuki’s eyes darken in immediate comprehension.

“You’re spoiling me,” he singsongs with an easy grin.

Shinya will be forever grateful to him for seeing it this way. He cannot bring himself to make such a confession right now, though, so he gives him his best self-satisfied smirk instead.

Suzuki kisses it off him, his stubble prickly on his lips and chin.

***

Suzuki is sitting on a bar stool in front of the bathroom mirror, his back and shoulders perfectly straight. He’s wearing a pair of lounge shorts, nothing from the waist up, not even his pendant, and hair tied back to better expose his powerful neck; Shinya is outfitted in his usual ensemble: black trousers, waistcoat and tie over a white shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It’s a powerful contrast that sets the proper mood.

Suzuki is mostly succeeding in looking unaffected, but Shinya can tell he's nervous. It’s not because of his own doubts, but because he’s afraid that Shinya will back out. Goes to show how much he really wants this.

Shinya reassures him by cupping his chin, meeting his eyes in the mirror and giving a barely perceptible nod: I’m not going anywhere. Suzuki relaxes immediately, his whole body becoming liquid under Shinya’s hands even though he keeps his posture.

In truth, Shinya’s a little surprised at his own lack of anxiety. He wants this so much, there’s simply no room for self-deprecation. A part of him even wishes it happened more naturally, unplanned, almost incidental, like that shower they’d taken together the day before. Another part of him, however, relishes the anticipation that’s been gradually building in the course of the evening. It’s apparent that both of them have been thinking about this a lot during the day, and now that they’re finally here, the moment feels charged, more intense than it would be otherwise.

“I need you to turn sideways,” Shinya says, realising belatedly that he’ll be moving around Suzuki, which means turning his back to the mirror at some point. That will not do; he needs to always be able to see the two of them together.

Suzuki does as he’s told, not bothering to ask why. His eyes are already a bit glassed over; Shinya’s look like twin pits of darkness when he checks his own reflection. Yes, it’s definitely better that they had to wait.

“Like you’re in a spa, right?” he says, low and gravelly. The Reaper’s voice, coaxing his Angel out.

“Mm-hmm,” Suzuki hums. “Your hands feel good on me.”

Shinya has to smile at the simple statement.

“I’m going to brush your hair later,” he promises. Suzuki’s answering smile is soft and intimate, completely devoid of its usual bluster. He closes his eyes slowly, sighing quietly as if he were slipping into a warm bath.

Shinya strokes his cheek, the pads of his fingers catching on bristly hairs. Suzuki really is well on his way to becoming scruffy. It suits him, but it’s a hard look to maintain, so clean-shaven it is. He’d look downright comedic with a full beard or, God forbid, a moustache.

“You’re beautiful,” Shinya says. “You are so bloody beautiful, sometimes I forget to breathe when I’m looking at you.”

Suzuki leans into his hand in lieu of a reply. It’s so much easier to speak when they’re together like this, and Shinya catches himself saying more and more each time. One of these days he is going to put into words how it had felt to be saved by him. But not today. Not yet.

Shinya uncaps the jar of pre-shave cream and dips his hand into a bowl of warm water before scooping it up with his other hand. It works best if he lathers it a little between his palms.

“It’s yours,” Suzuki murmurs without opening his eyes. “I can smell it. Smells like you.”

“It is mine,” Shinya confirms as he starts coating his skin with cream, using both hands so he can spread it evenly. “I assumed that you don’t normally use pre-shave. About time you started. It’s much better for your skin.”

“It’s much better for my skin,” Suzuki echoes, “when you’re the one doing it.”

Shinya hums, almost buzzing with satisfaction.

“I could do this every morning, if you’d only bring yourself to get up a little earlier,” he says, the words completely bypassing his brain.

“All right,” Suzuki says. “Why don’t you make me get up a little earlier, then?”

A hot shiver runs down Shinya’s spine. He can’t believe what he’s hearing. Suzuki must be drifting already… But no, he’s a bit too articulate for that.

“Why indeed,” he murmurs. “I don’t know. Perhaps tomorrow, I will.”

Suzuki smiles again, eyes still closed.

There’s silence for a minute as Shinya finishes applying the pre-shave to the area around his mouth. Tomorrow it will be different, he can already tell. It will be easy and fun, Suzuki grumbling and cursing at him after he smears a dollop of cream on the tip of his nose. Tomorrow it will be about simple morning hygiene. Tonight it is about something else entirely.

“Up,” Shinya says as he urges Suzuki to tilt his head back with a finger under his chin. “Good. Stay.”

Suzuki stays. Shinya steps back and to the side so he can admire the line of his profile from his forehead and down to his exposed throat. The thick white cream only serves to highlight the golden hue of his skin.

“Beautiful,” he repeats, and goes for the kill.

He finds himself leaning down in front of Suzuki, fingers of both hands finally, finally closing around his neck. Suzuki’s breath hitches, his earlier serenity dissipating under the onslaught. But Shinya doesn’t press, doesn’t squeeze; he has a job to do. This is just a taste, a promise.

More cream, lathered in circular motions. The vein in Suzuki’s neck is a thick, curving, pulsing line that Shinya rubs with his fingertips, making sure to keep his touch light and unassuming. A faint sound escapes Suzuki’s mouth, not quite a moan.

“Feels good, doesn’t it,” Shinya mutters. “So much better when I’m the one doing it, hm?” So much better when Suzuki doesn’t have to use his own hands to try and make him stay.

He’s not expecting a reply, and Suzuki doesn’t give one. But his breathing gets heavier, and he swallows tightly. Their thoughts are aligned.

“I’m not going anywhere,” the Grim Reaper promises in a low, rumbling voice, banishing the last vestiges of guilt from Shinya’s heart.

It’s shaving foam, next, and it’s also Shinya’s. Suzuki’s idea of good skincare products is “whatever’s on sale”, so he’d thrown most of them out during his cleaning spree. If Suzuki is this bad at taking care of himself, it’s Shinya’s duty to step in, isn’t it? Regardless, he wants Suzuki wearing his scent at all times.

Frothy foam blended with buttery pre-shave makes his fingers slip and slide, impossible to gain real purchase, but enough for Suzuki to feel the strength in them. It’s a strange combination of sensations, something so mundane as shaving cream being used to bring forth something so marvellous as Suzuki’s bare-throated submission. And all of it comes from Shinya’s hands. Suzuki’s keeping his own hands folded neatly in his lap, as he’d been instructed to at the very beginning; it means their connection isn’t as pronounced, but it’s still there, and it pulses with the need for more.

“Now for the razor,” Shinya says. “Be very still for me, darling.”

Suzuki whimpers. Shinya doesn’t seem to have any control over his own tongue tonight. Oh, but he is darling, isn’t he. So strong and wilful, but apply a little pressure here and there — and look how sweetly obedient he becomes. No-one else has the strength to do it, nor the mind to understand the intricacies of taming a creature like him. Shinya alone is capable of putting Shinya Suzuki in his proper place.

He moves the razor in precise, methodical strokes, making a point of praising Suzuki’s posture every time he has to rinse it. It’s incredibly intimate, but also somehow grounding: he’s skirting the edge of that ethereal plane where the Reaper’s shadow dwells, not being hurled there by the scruff of his neck. His hands are steady, he won’t slip and give Suzuki a nick by accident. He could do it intentionally, but that would defeat the purpose of making his skin all smooth again.

Besides, if he were intent on drawing blood from his neck, he wouldn’t use a razor. He’d use his own teeth.

“Please,” Suzuki suddenly whispers.

Shinya knows what he’s begging for. “Quiet. I’m not done with your face yet,” he says.

Suzuki whines, but makes no further attempts to get him to speed it up. Shinya wasn’t planning on keeping him suffering for very long, anyway, but he has to make something very clear, first.

“I don’t want you to beg,” he states, realising it just as he says it. “Saying ‘please’ implies you have the power to influence what I’m about to do to you, at least to some extent, and that is simply not true. You have no power here. No amount of pleading can get you what you want. Only I can,” and with that, he wraps his free hand around Suzuki’s neck.

Suzuki’s eyes snap wide open, smooth crystal over inky black.

Shinya holds him by the throat, his grip firm, unyielding, razor pressed squarely under his chin. Everything is perfectly still for a few moments; once again, Shinya feels like he’s transported outside his body, watching the scene laid out before him — a picture framed, a single breath captured, frozen in glass. Then he discovers it’s not some twist of the Reaper’s imagination, not this time. He can actually see it, because he is looking at it in the mirror.

It’s beautiful. They are beautiful. Each of them and both of them, together.

“Do you want me to take your breath away?” Shinya asks in English, smiling, his tone almost teasing.

Suzuki swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing under Shinya’s palm just like he’d imagined. He understood that one, Shinya can tell.

“I think I already have,” he muses, switching back to Japanese and adjusting his hold a little so he can keep working the razor, but making sure not to soften his grip. “You know, you looked almost exactly like this when I made you follow properly for the very first time. Lost to everything but my control, moving the way I steered you, not a step out of line. Perfect submission.”

The word, spoken aloud, makes them both shiver. They never use it outside of these… sessions, for lack of a better term. It’s always there, though, apparent in Shinya’s penchant for holding on to Suzuki’s wrists or ankles, in Suzuki subtly lowering his eyes when he is scolded and preening when praised. Shinya’s been thinking about acquiring actual handcuffs, but the idea is equal parts enticing and off-putting: as delectable as Suzuki would look spread out and bound for his pleasure, using props would feel as if his words alone were not enough to make Suzuki stay in place.

“Would you like me to tie you up? Put you in cuffs, or in chains?” he asks, because now, he can. Perhaps Suzuki’s opinion on the matter will help him decide.

Suzuki frowns in concentration for a few seconds before whispering hoarsely, each word a struggle against the pressure of Shinya’s hand, “Yeah, if you want.”

“Good answer, but it’s not what I asked,” Shinya admonishes. He moves the razor away to rinse it again, and to allow Suzuki more freedom to speak. “I want to know if you’d like it.”

“Don’t know,” Suzuki swallows, eyelashes fluttering. “Thought about it. ‘course I have. The waltz is a courtship dance that’s performed in handcuffs.” The corner of his mouth twitches in a half-smile; oh yes, it is a very pleasant memory.

“But?” Shinya prompts. It’s hard for Suzuki to gather his thoughts when he’s floating, so it’s deeply gratifying to watch him try and succeed because Shinya told him to.

“But,” he agrees, “I like it when it’s just your hands. It’s like… What you said about pleading. Even if I’m tied up, it’s up to you to hold me down. I only need you.”

Shinya hums. That’s that, then.

“I see. We are of the same mind. Good.”

Suzuki’s expression is a picture of utter fulfillment, so proud is he to have given the correct answer, even if he knows, deep down, that had he given a different one, it would have been correct, too.

Shinya lets him bask in the feeling while he finishes up. He blots leftover foam with a damp towel, checks for spots he might have missed, and notes slightly irritated patches of skin. There are few of those, but he’ll definitely be getting Suzuki some products of his own: his skin is less prone to dryness than Shinya’s, and he wants it to be perfect. He’ll stick to his preferred brands so that the scents remain the same.

“I’m going to let go of your neck now,” he says, soothingly, “but only for a minute. Cold water, then aftershave.”

Suzuki doesn’t complain, but he does purse his lips a little in disappointment. He clearly wants to be good, though, so he remains perfectly still under Shinya’s ministrations.

Shinya doesn’t rush, but doesn’t drag this part out, either. Pre-shave and foam and even the process of shaving itself had been foreplay; he is no longer in the mood for that. His hand itches to be back on Suzuki’s throat.

“There,” he murmurs as he finishes applying the lightest gel he’s got: Suzuki needs the cooling touch. “Done. The scruffy bootblack is no more. How do you feel?”

“Good,” Suzuki murmurs back. “Didn’t know it could feel so good. No-one’s ever done this to me before.”

“I figured as much,” Shinya smiles and admits, in keeping with his latest policy of rewarding bouts of honesty with a measure of his own, “I love it. I love that I’m your first in so many different ways.”

“Have you ever done this with…” Suzuki begins to ask, but Shinya tsks at him: this is most certainly not the time to discuss past relationships and experiences. Those are irrelevant, in any case. In all the ways that matter, Suzuki is his first, too.

“Not like this, no,” he says with confidence. “You are the first one to take me as I am. You should know that.”

Suzuki purrs his agreement, so Shinya pets his hair and strokes his temple gently, trying to soothe his own racing heartbeat with the simple touch. Making such confessions is incredibly taxing, especially when he is almost fully present, but it does get a little easier every time. The knowledge of what he’s about to do helps, too: the Reaper will get his chance to soar soon enough.

To be perfectly honest, he hadn’t been sure they’d get this far tonight, but part of him had known it was inevitable. He’d read a lot on the topic in anticipation of this very moment, and done his best to prepare. Still, there is no safe way to do it, not really. He will just have to be very, very careful with the way he applies his strength.

He won’t back down. He can’t. They’ve been dancing around it for days. They’d been ready for it months ago.

“Take a deep breath for me,” Shinya says.

Suzuki’s eyes fly open again as he inhales sharply through the mouth. It’s his inherent bravery, Shinya supposes — taking the final leap with his eyes wide open. He wonders how it actually feels, letting go so completely, but asking now will inevitably bring Suzuki down, and he doesn’t want that. He wants him to fly.

He seizes Suzuki’s neck with his right hand this time. It feels proper to go all the way using his dominant hand: no more careful softness to his grip, no holding back his strength. Just pressure, insistent and relentless, until Suzuki spasms and chokes.

A pause; a gasp; a squeeze. Again. Again. Once more. A cycle of control.

It feels magnificent.

The two ethereal creatures in the mirror look like they’d been fighting, and the Angel lost. Now he is helpless, floating in the air, held up only by virtue of his enemy’s claw clutching his golden throat. The Reaper could let go, and then he’d fall. But why would he let go if he can gorge himself on divine breath, instead?

Shinya leans forward, brings their mouths together, and squeezes even harder than before. Suzuki’s choking gasp singes his lips, and Shinya draws it in, then gives it back — a long exhale.

Suzuki moans, then, low, forlorn, defeated. Shinya cuts off the sound.

“It’s mine,” he whispers hotly, “all of it. You’re mine.” Suzuki sobs. “Hush. Breathe with me, Shinya.”

He does.

***

“I loved it,” Suzuki says, his voice a jagged rumble. “In case you haven’t noticed.”

Shinya hums gratefully, hugging him closer. He’s reclining on the bed with Suzuki nestled between his legs, back to chest. He is yet to remove his waistcoat and tie, and it’s still empowering even with the thrill of domination rapidly abandoning his system. Helps make the transition back to reality a little bit more smooth.

“I loved it, too,” he confides. He must.

It’s late enough that even the noise from the bar outside has died down, so all is quiet, just them breathing together in the near-darkness of Suzuki’s bedroom. Shinya inhales his scent and loses track of time.

“Are you going to stay?” Suzuki asks. Shinya’s heart stutters.

“Of course I am. I already told you that.”

“No, I mean… here. At my place. With me.”

Oh.

“Not bothered by having to share your space with a — how’d you put it? — ‘neat freak’, are you?” He tries for a smile.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Suzuki says, dead serious. “I already told you that.”

Shinya can’t recall him saying so, not in so many words. But he supposes that he had… implied it months before, after they shared their very first kiss on the train. He remembers it like it was yesterday. Like their separation had been but a bad dream, quickly forgotten in the warm light of morning.

“Are you asking me to stay?” he asks, barely managing to keep his voice from trembling.

“No. You told me — no pleading. Just wondering.”

Shinya shudders all over.

“I left bruises on your neck.” He hadn’t even attempted to avoid doing that, despite the risk.

“Mm-hmm. Nice job. I think they suit me.”

Fucking hell.

“I hate that tea kettle. It leaks.”

“I’ll get you another.”

“I threw out a bra.”

“Huh. Thought I got rid of all of them. Well, I dunno who it belonged to, anyway, so it’s not like I could give it back. Or did you want me to try it on? No, I know, you’ll buy me a new one, something waaay more expensive. Something fit for a princess, not some scruffy bootblack.”

“Incorrigible.”

“Sure am.”

Shinya loves him so much.

“We didn’t even dance today,” he realises, stunned.

“I did. You cleaned. Freak.”

Shinya swallows and tries to breathe, nose buried in the back of Suzuki’s neck.

“I will wash you. Shave you. Dress you. I will order your food and watch your caloric intake. I will clean and throw away all your trash and do laundry. And I will sniff your underwear while I’m at it.”

“Ugh. Really?”

“Yes.”

“That’s kinda hot. Like I’m a movie star and you’re my number one stalker.”

“You don’t know half of it.”

“Will you tell me?”

There's a sudden vulnerability to his tone that snaps a lid on all of Shinya’s panic.

“I will. Maybe. Someday.”

“Good enough.” Is he?

Suzuki stretches, then relaxes back into the embrace, whole body going boneless.

“I’m going to wake you up early for morning practice,” Shinya informs him, “so no complaints. I will not warn you again. Still think I’ll be spoiling you?”

He can feel Suzuki’s smirk in the way he squeezes his hand.

“Sure do.”

“I’m beginning to think you are the real freak here,” Shinya says, sincerely.

“Never said I wasn’t. You’re just slow on the uptake, Your Majesty.”

“God help us all.”

“Whatever. Want me to blow you? I’ll be quick about it. Help you sleep better.”

He will not be quick about it. He’s going to show off. But he’s right: concentrating on the purely physical is exactly what Shinya needs.

“All right.”

Suzuki’s nimble fingers make quick work of his trousers and pants. His chin is smooth against his thigh, his breath hot, his lips hungry.

“One more thing,” Shinya says. “You will not talk with your mouth full.”

It takes Suzuki some time to get back to blowing him after that.