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Kissing Kakeru is – not really anything like Yuki had expected.
Not that he’d ever really thought about kissing, much. At least, not this kind of kissing, with tongues and hands brushing under the edges of shirts and everything that comes with kissing as a ongoing verb rather than just one singular little noun placed at a person’s lips and then retreated from in gentlemanly haste.
There’s a lot of spit, really – or should it be called saliva, if it doesn’t necessarily leave the mouth? And there’s another person’s nose just breathing out air right in front of you, and eyelashes twitching, and lots of other things twitching, shifting a little here and there as you get yourself comfortable. Because people can kiss for a long time, it seems. Or, at least, Yuki can.
He had never been able to picture himself like this, so… bowled over by some instinctive physical urge, both unsettling and comforting in its mundanity. It’s all so very embarrassing, wanting to kiss Kakeru the way he does, because Kakeru is a boy but also because it is embarrassing to be so single-minded and transparent with another person for anything. Yuki has never been the sort who can just lean close into another person’s space simply because he wishes it, or indulge in a sensation merely because it feels good. Yuki Sohma’s role in this world is to wait and to be seen.
He most definitely does not want to be seen right now.
So, no: his younger self would not have even been able to imagine even the outlines of this: the shapes of these bodies or the thoughts which lead to these actions. Though, as previously implied, Yuki had also not ever really allowed himself to think that he might want to kiss a boy, so.
It’s indescribable. Kakeru is many things, but he is not pretty or beautiful or gorgeous or sexy in that way of those magazines Shigure likes. If Yuki looks at him objectively, face to face, he is pretty much an ordinary guy. His hair is messy and aside from the earring nothing especially stands out about the clothes he wears and, if Yuki gets in almost as close as he is now, he can feel a faint roughness of adolescent stubble around his jaw and some pinkish almost-acne beneath his ear.
And now, while they are kissing, his watch is digging in to Yuki’s shoulder and he keeps bumping his leg up and down a little distractingly and inside his mouth Yuki is sure he can taste the aftermath of that chocolate bar (with nuts; he can tell) he scoffed down when they first arrived at his place. And maybe that’s Yuki’s own fault by sticking his tongue down where food’s supposed to go.
But he still wants to do it anyway. Enough that it is really quite frustrating when he can’t.
He wants to sit here (lie here, really, draped all over Kakeru where Kakeru is draped over the arm of the sofa, like a sandwich with no filling) and kiss Kakeru here for hours on end. He probably will, too. They came here on the pretext of student council duties but the paperwork in question lies stubbornly uncompleted on Kakeru’s mother’s coffee table and Yuki holds no intention of getting back to it any time soon.
And Kakeru wants to do that, too.
So here they are: two human beings (more or less) making disgusting little slurping noises and rubbing their sweat-stained worn-all-day school uniforms together. For hours.
There’s an itch at Yuki’s side but he doesn’t want to scratch it because it’s pressed all up against the back of the couch and he’d have to work to shove his arm down there and, at any rate, his hand feels better curled up in Kakeru’s messy brown hair lightly ruffling it than he thinks it would feel to scratch the itch.
And this is all normal.
More or less, taking gender into account.
He knows that this isn’t even the half of it. At some point, Kakeru is going to want to take his shirt off completely, and then some other clothing, and if Yuki thinks that everything they’ve been doing so far is faintly disgusting already, he is definitely not prepared for what will happen then. But if Kakeru takes too long to do it, Yuki will stand up to the plate and proudly shoulder that burdensome role. The inevitability weighs over them, just like the inevitability of this had done before Kakeru had finally muttered “Jesus fuck,” and kissed Yuki between the cupboards in the student council storeroom.
That will happen, and there is a whole new kind of itch that thought inspires somewhere slightly off-center from Yuki’s side. He enjoys what they are doing now. But when that other thing happens, he things that it will be good.
It’s a new feeling, for him. Looking forward to something unreservedly. Wanting something, but behind happy in the meantime anyway.
Kakeru sighs into his mouth, and Yuki maybe snorts or grunts; it doesn’t exactly matter. He can feel a slight mole at Kakeru’s arm beneath his sleeve. Kakeru’s right hand – the one with the watch – is tapping some sort of beat against the base of Yuki’s neck. He probably wouldn’t recognise the song if he heard it.
And when all those little, pointless, tiny, flawed and imperfect things all come together – the puffs of air and the slipper bumps and the barely-there transgressions against the dividing lines of clothing – they all combine into something so warm and airy that Yuki feels like he could burst.
He really wants to do this forever. It’s a marvel. He should be fearful of it, and maybe he is a little when it ends and he regains his senses. But this normal-human to normal-human software simply overpowers him, transforms him, and then he is here and Kakeru is physical and present and so is Yuki and he never, ever wants to leave.
It’s ridiculous. Nobody can know. Everybody should know. Has happiness really been this easy, all along?
Another huff; this time, somehow, he knows immediately that Kakeru is laughing at him.
It’s hard to speak when their mouths already know what they want to do.
“You’re thinking,” Kakeru whispers. Yuki blink behind closed eyes and hums.
Kakeru continues: “Stop it.”
Yuki might not really be able to do that, he thinks. But he’s been wrong before.