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Makoto knows he’s lucky.
He’s lucky for more reasons than he can count, but the biggest reason is this: that on an afternoon like this one, he’s lying on the soft expanse of Haru’s bed with Haru lying half a breath away from him, pushing his t-shirt up his chest and moving warm hands over his skin.
It actually defies reason that this is possible; that when Makoto leans in to kiss Haru’s mouth, Haru not only lets him, but also parts his lips and makes such a soft, lovely noise that Makoto has to dig his fingernails into his palm to keep himself in check. The odds against this being the result of Makoto’s hopeless crush on his best friend are so astronomical that panic lights up in his chest if he actually thinks about them, as if he’s afraid the universe might realize its mistake.
Sometimes, when it comes to luck, gratitude is the only option.
And part of that gratitude, he thinks, is knowing not to press his luck. The problem is that Haru doesn’t make that easy. As difficult as he is in most other regards, in bed he’s something else entirely, something soft and yielding and pliant. Something easy to take advantage of, if Makoto wanted to—and he does want to, so badly that he has dreams about it sometimes, terrible dreams that leave his stomach sour for days. It’s awful, being so ungrateful as to want anything more than what he has.
“Makoto.”
“Huh?”
Haru frowns, and Makoto realizes that his hands have gone still on Haru’s waist; that he’s doing nothing but staring and chewing on his lip while lying half-undressed on Haru’s bed. He lets out a laugh, high-pitched and staccato. “Ah—I’m sorry, Haru, I just got distracted…”
You got distracted from this ? Haru’s eyes ask, which is a fair point. Haru is wearing nothing but his boxers, and it makes no difference how many times Makoto has seen him in numerous and varied states of undress; it’s a sight that never fails to capture his attention.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, blushing. He leans in again, but this time Haru stops him with a hand on his chest.
“You should tell me,” he says, solemnly. “What’s wrong.”
“What?” Makoto blinks. “H-haru, nothing’s wrong.”
Haru looks away at that. “There is something. Only when we have sex.”
Makoto feels himself blush horribly, the way he always does when Haru starts talking about sex. “Haru.”
“If you don’t want to do it anymore, or something, you should tell me.” Haru’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s something blank and closed-off about his voice; it stops Makoto short. He feels the blush drain from his cheeks.
“No, Haru, that’s—that’s definitely not it.”
“Then what is it?”
Makoto is completely sure he can’t answer.
But Haru is looking right at him, eyes wide. “It’s not like I’ll be mad.”
And he has to admit that that’s true. Haru wouldn’t get mad; Haru wouldn’t even understand enough to get mad. But he can’t say that, and he can’t lie to save his life, and when Haru is staring at him this intently, he realizes he can’t say nothing, either.
Maybe you should just tell him, he thinks.He won’t hate you for it. Probably.
He swallows hard and lets the idea tempt him. It might help, if he could release a small part of the pressure in his chest, the part that feels guilty not just for how awful he is, but for hiding it. And he trusts Haru—enough to have confessed his feelings even when he thought Haru couldn’t possibly reciprocate them. This can’t be worse than that. He curls his arm around his middle and looks down at the bed.
“It’s just… I think about stuff sometimes,” he says, before he can change his mind. His voice is small and terrible. “Like, things I… could do to you. That I shouldn’t do.”
Haru’s forehead creases. “You can do whatever you want to me.”
Makoto doesn’t think it’s right, the way his entire body ignites and flares at those words. He buries his face in the covers as his stomach twists with shame. “Haru, don’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“You don’t even know what I’m thinking about.”
Haru makes a dismissive noise. “It’s not like you would hurt me.”
Makoto doesn’t know why he looks up at that. He doesn’t want to hurt Haru, not ever, not even in his most shameful fantasies. But he looks up as if Haru’s called his name, and when their eyes meet, he sees it: the tiny flicker of uncertainty in Haru’s expression, the apprehension in his eyes, dismissed as quickly as it arrives, but there nonetheless, real.
There’s definitely something wrong with him that the sight of it makes his heart leap. “No,” he says, too quickly, his eyes going wide. “It’s not—I wouldn’t.”
Haru frowns again, but it’s a more careful expression this time, calculated. “Then you can do whatever you want.” Makoto opens his mouth to protest, but Haru cuts him off: “Or at least ask me.”
There’s a long moment of silence. Makoto’s heart is thudding painfully in his chest, and he feels like he’s on the precipice of something, some turn he doesn’t know if he can come back from, if he takes it. He fixes his eyes on Haru’s impassive gaze and takes a steadying breath. “Your hands,” he says. “I… I think about holding your hands down. So you can’t move them.”
Haru raises an eyebrow. Is that all?
No, Makoto thinks, and he’s pretty sure Haru can read it on his face, too. But it’s a start, it’s a small piece of truth, and once he’s said it out loud, he’s surprised by how tame it sounds.
Haru lifts a shoulder. “You can do that.”
“R-really?”
Haru nods. He seems to be satisfied by this suggestion, because suddenly he sits up and slides his boxers off, then lies down on his back, his hands above his head. “Okay,” he says.
Makoto breathes in, quick and nervous. “Oh,” he says. “Um. Okay.”
It’s not very different. It’s good, but kissing Haru is always good, and there’s a part of him that misses the feeling of Haru’s hands on his back, the way Haru’s fingertips dig in unconsciously as his arousal builds.
Instead there’s something else, a tiny flicker of something dazzling in Makoto’s gut when he realizes that his hand can span both of Haru’s wrists at once if they’re lined up just so, when he pushes down and Haru doesn’t resist at all.
“Makoto,” Haru breathes, when Makoto moves to kiss at his collarbone. There’s a shaky note in his voice that makes Makoto look up in alarm. But Haru just stares at him, eyes dark and wide. Keep going.
“Alright,” Makoto whispers. He presses down a little more on Haru’s wrists, holds him in place as he trails his other hand down Haru’s stomach.
They’ve gone further than this; they’ve actually had sex, a few times, but if Makoto’s being honest, he likes it better just like this. He likes being in control of his own faculties while he does his best to make Haru fall apart. It feels safer.
Haru usually returns the favor, of course, but that’s always secondary to this moment: when his hand closes around the smooth weight of Haru’s cock and Haru’s eyelashes flutter closed as his lips part around a sigh. “Makoto,” Haru whispers again, and Makoto feels heat flood down to his toes. Haru is shockingly beautiful like this, always; he seems less like a human being and more like a natural phenomenon, something sensual and untamed. Makoto both envies and loves how easy he makes it look.
Then Haru frowns and twists a little on the bed, and Makoto realizes what’s wrong. Haru’s hands should be sliding into his hair at this point, tugging him in for a kiss.
He leans in automatically at the unspoken request, but then stops, a centimeter short. What if I didn’t? asks a dark voice in his head. Would he pull away?
Haru lets out a soft whine, and Makoto closes the distance quickly, burying his traitorous thoughts. Haru hums in approval and opens his mouth, and Makoto finally lets his mind go blank, lets himself get caught up the sweet sounds of Haru’s sighs and the responses of his body.
Makoto is well-practiced in reading Haru, but in situations like this it’s almost too easy; all he has to do is chase Haru's reactions, one to the next: the heat in his cheeks, the tension in his thighs, the soft, involuntary noises escaping the back of his throat. It’s short work from there until Haru is close, his hips pushing up into Makoto’s fist. Makoto pulls back from kissing him then; he likes to savor the sight of Haru, perfect, imperturbable Haru, coming wildly undone in his hands.
But instead, all he can see is the shape of his own hand against Haru’s slender wrists. Haru is gasping, teetering on the edge of his release, and Makoto can think about nothing but keeping Haru like this, just like this, flushed and trembling and his.
Haru’s tongue slips out to lick at his lips, and his back arches, and before Makoto knows what he’s doing he’s releasing Haru’s cock and pressing him into the mattress by his hip.
“No.” The voice comes not from his throat, but somewhere deep in his chest, raw and unvarnished.
Haru’s eyes fly open, pupils blown.
“Wait,” Makoto says, and he doesn’t know what he’s doing, what he’s saying; the words are being ripped out of him by some external force. “Wait—”
He slips his hand back into place, strokes long and slow, and feels Haru’s legs spasm and curl in response. He watches in awe as Haru’s head falls back, as his eyes shut, as his body shakes with need.
“Don’t,” he says, hoarsely. He’s not making any sense, but he can’t stop talking, can’t stop pushing the circle of his hand down over Haru’s twitching erection. “Haru, don’t—don’t come—”
Haru moans out loud, broken and guttural; it’s a sound Makoto has never heard.
“Don’t,” he whispers through parched lips, and rubs his thumb over the head of Haru’s cock, “don’t—”
And then Haru is shuddering, whimpering, convulsing as he comes onto his chest and stomach. His face is contorted, and he’s moaning something into a pillow as he twists onto his side, something that sounds a lot like sorry.
“Oh, god,” Makoto gasps. He pulls his hand from Haru’s wrists and claps it over his own mouth. “Oh my god, Haru, no, I—I’m sorry, I didn’t… I didn’t mean…”
Haru curls in on himself and clutches at the bedspread, and Makoto realizes that he’s still shaking; he’s not even done.
“Haru.“ He lies down and pulls Haru’s back to his chest, buries his face in Haru’s neck. “It’s okay, it’s… it’s okay, Haru.”
Haru takes a shuddering breath, and then another.
“I’m sorry,” Makoto whispers again. His face is burning, and his stomach is cold with shame; he’s not aroused anymore, not even with Haru lying spent and naked in his arms. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
You shouldn’t have started this, you should have kept it to yourself, now he knows, he knows how awful you are—
Haru sighs, long and deep, and Makoto just clings to him, despising himself for taking this comfort when it’s his own fault that he needs it.
I’m sorry, he thinks, as hard as he can.
After a long silence, Haru shifts in his arms. “Next time,” he murmurs.
Makoto lifts his head. Haru’s eyes are open, and he’s still breathing hard. The knot in Makoto’s stomach creeps upward to claim territory in his chest. “Huh?”
“I’ll… try. Harder.”
Makoto stares for a second before those words untangle themselves. When they do, his stomach drops. “Haru, no, that’s not—I don’t want that. It was a mistake, okay?”
“Hmm,” Haru says. He shifts back on the bed until they’re pressed flush together, then tucks his head under Makoto’s chin. “Why?”
Makoto goes still. He doesn’t know if Haru knows what he’s asking, and he’s not sure if he wants to respond even if he does. “It’s wrong,” he finally whispers.
Haru lays quietly for a moment. Then he turns over and wraps his arm around Makoto’s side, presses his palm into Makoto’s upper back. He feels solid and real, and it’s stupid what a relief that is, that whatever Haru thinks of him, at least he’s still here, at least for now.
“Makoto.” Haru’s eyes are dark with intensity, shining, and for some reason Makoto feels a shiver go down his spine before Haru even speaks. “You can do anything you want to me,” he repeats, slowly and clearly.
Makoto’s eyes go wide. "H-haru—"
"And you should do that." Haru looks away. "Again." His cheeks, Makoto realizes suddenly, are still flushed, long after they should have faded.
He lifts a hand to hide his face as his heart starts to pound, fast and guilty. “Haru.” It's not possible, that Haru could want… And even if he did, even then…
“It’s okay.” That’s all Haru says, but when Makoto peeks through his fingers, he sees the rest of it in Haru’s eyes. I trust you.
It might actually be easier, he thinks, if Haru were disgusted with him. His trust is something Makoto doesn't know if he deserves, and it terrifies him, sharply and suddenly, to think of all the ways he could destroy it.
But Haru is pulling his hand away from his face, scooting in close, and Makoto is realizing that it's not up to him.
He swallows. “Is… Is that really what you want?”
Haru nods, and Makoto feels a flicker of something new, terror mixing with hope.
“I’ll ask you,” he whispers. “Next time.”
Haru shrugs. “Okay.” Then he presses his cheek to Makoto’s shoulder. “You don’t have to be so worried.”
It’s a little like an admonishment, but it loosens something in Makoto’s chest. He buries his face in Haru’s neck and lets gratitude creep into his heart as Haru’s steadiness abates his fear.
When he eventually whispers thank you, he hopes the universe is listening.