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It is early in the morning when Chihiro hears Shiba’s door open, immediately followed by an unabashed sneeze and a grumbled excuse me. Chihiro, in the kitchen, whispers a bless you despite being out of ear shot.
Shiba rarely gets sick, in fact, he’s never gotten sick since they’ve lived together. Maybe he was just good at hiding it from Chihiro, wanting to look like a responsible and reliable adult, but it’s allergy season and the man oddly is so badly affected for the first time.
Heavy and lazy feet drag themselves to approach where Chihiro is setting up breakfast on the table, and he turns to greet the man, “Good morning—”
Shiba-san appears in front of him with messy hair, his arms up as he tries to fix it into a messier bun, biceps exposed, his tummy slightly peeking out at the lift of his tiny, tight shirt… and Chihiro drops his chopsticks to the floor.
He scrambles after it, very glad that Shiba’s well distracted by his headache and another big sneeze to not notice Chihiro’s discomposure.
Purposefully turning his back towards the man to get new sets of chopsticks, Chihiro stutters out, “Shiba-san, your… your shirt—”
“Mmnh…” The older man groans in his sickly morning voice, making Chihiro feel like a deer in the headlights, and it feels like he’s hit by a car running over the speed limit when Shiba speaks, his voice husky and low as he passes by, “‘Is so tight on me…”
The sound of it attaches itself onto Chihiro’s nape, sticky and unbearably hot. He leans on the table slightly to ground himself as he gulps nervously, alarms blaring inside his head. What is happening exactly?
He watches Shiba grab a glass from his peripheral vision, and by the direction of his intention, it’s obvious that he’s going for the pitcher of water near Chihiro, but Chihiro finds himself rooted in place, stunned and confused. More so when Shiba comes face to face with him to reach behind Chihiro, pouring himself some water for relief.
At this distance, Chihiro can freely see the pitiful stretch of the shirt over Shiba’s broad shoulders, the fabric hugging his breasts, the bottom still lifted to expose a bit of his stomach and the line of his briefs. Chihiro mindfully stops himself from staring down further at Shiba’s grey sweatpants.
After drinking his full glass of water, Shiba pours another before he circles back to the other side of the table to sit down, finally ready to eat. Chihiro slowly turns from where he’s awkwardly still standing, and Shiba cocks an eyebrow at him when he only stares at his company yet doesn’t sit.
“Chihiro-kun…?”
“Thank you for the food,” Chihiro says quickly after commiting the image to memory, and he doesn’t even look back at Shiba as he briskly makes his escape.
“You haven’t even eaten—?!” Shiba tries to call him back but Chihiro is quick to run back into his bedroom, the tips of his ears noticeably warm and bright red from… embarrassment and a mix of complicated emotions he’s not ready to label yet.
He closes the door behind him and makes sure he locks it, leaning against it as if to safeguard his space, then he finally braves to stare at the state of his bottom half.
Oh, he’s aroused, alright. He’s not impotent after all. No matter how many times he’s looked at the porno mags before, he’s never had this kind of reaction, and yet…
Chihiro clicks his tongue.
Apparently, he’s just not attracted to anything or anyone else except Shiba-san… and the realization is quite haunting. Sure, the older man is gorgeous and is built very well, too well, almost, but it’s not like he hasn’t seen him naked either. Shiba and his father used to hang around together topless especially during the summer. Chihiro has even shared a bath with him a few times, but something about a sickly Shiba-san with his defenses slightly down, unpolished, without his usual class and poise broke smth in ch’s head.
I’d like to see him looking like that more frequently… a Shiba-san who is unkempt and a little vulnerable, not the Shiba-san who always seems to still be presentable even when he’s worn down by the fight, drenched in blood and with dirt on his face. Chihiro would like him to be more carefree around him just like that. He’s already very lucky to have seen him in that state so wishing for more may be just pushing it, but isn’t it only natural to be greedy for it?
Chihiro makes a long sigh.
Why is he even focusing on the wrong head right now?
Chihiro’s breath catches in his throat as the other slips inside, feeling the whole of Shiba-san seated deep inside of him. It’s so hot and big and overwhelming but it’s also so electrifying and so pleasurable and so, so good.
Shiba exhales as he slams into him with effort, groaning right into Chihiro’s ear, “So tight on me, baby…”
And Chihiro unceremoniously wakes up. From his first ever wet dream.
Chihiro releases the breath he’s holding.
Shiba-san was around for a lot of Chihiro’s firsts, and now Shiba-san still is somehow involved with a thing such as this, huh? How should Chihiro even begin to process this?
But first thing’s first—he can feel that his underwear is wet, though for a few seconds, he’s only able to stare at the ceiling trying to regulate his breath and heartbeat.
Congrats, at the very least, he’s confirmed to himself that he’s really not impotent.
Shiba is already at the dining table with a mug of coffee when he gets out of his room, greeting him, “Good morning, Chihiro-kun!”
His voice sounds better now, and he looks more orderly than he was yesterday, wearing a comfy, boxy white shirt, half of his hair tied back properly. Just the usual good looking Shiba-san everyone is used to.
Chihiro consciously stops himself from sighing disappointedly as he responds, sitting down with him at the table, “Good morning, Shiba-san.”
“Rare for you to sleep in, so I took the opportunity to cook this time as an apology for my sloppiness the past few days. Allergies can be so nasty!”
Chihiro bites into his pancake instead of grumbling about wanting Shiba-san to be even sloppier. Chihiro wants to see him with disheveled hair without a calculated expression and the lackadaisical attitude to freely say just whatever is in his mind, but then he awkwardly stills when he remembers what Shiba has called him in his dream.
With an expectant smile, Shiba asks, “How’s it, Chihiro-kun?”
Chihiro takes an indulgent bite to stuff his mouth, suffocating down his emotions as he answers, “It’s good.”
Before any of… that… Chihiro wishes that maybe someday, Shiba-san would drop the ‘-kun’ when saying his name sometimes.