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Even after being without touch for so long, Kei is surprised by just how much he’s missed it, and how much he wants to feel everything now that he can, from the rough, unpleasant texture of the couch to the sinfully soft, slightly artificial feeling of fleece. He can feel the grain of the wood on the coffee table, and the smooth texture of porcelain slightly marred by hard, prickly specks of paint that hadn’t glazed correctly. It’s almost overwhelming, and he’s just grateful that Yamaguchi fiddles with the remote and scrolls through Netflix instead of commenting on the reverent way he traces his fingertips over the pages of one of the books resting in a neat stack by the television.
When they settle on the couch, he find himself entranced with something more nuanced and detailed to touch than books or blankets, and that’s Yamaguchi himself. The way they end up positioned is with Yamaguchi half sitting, turned to the side to rest against the arm of the couch, with Kei positioned behind him, head resting in his hand while his other arm ends up draped over Yamaguchi’s waist. From here, he can feel the wisps of his hair against his nose, feel him breathing from where his chest is resting against his back, and he can follow the well-worn fabric of his shirt to his bare arms, trace each freckle down until he can feel his fingerprints and nails.
Yamaguchi is surprisingly tolerant of his curious touches, although the back of his neck is rather red until he settles in and ignores him in favor of watching whatever movie he queued up. Kei can’t focus on the movie, but that doesn’t really come as a surprise. There’s just so much, and if he really feels like seeing it again, he can do that as just a plain ghost. He’d much rather feel the delicate bones in Yamaguchi’s fingers, trace the veins on the back of his hand, or feel his pulse on the inside of his wrist.
Occasionally, he shifts like he wants to move or get up, and he selfishly holds on, stopping his exploration to keep his arm tight around his waist. It works for a while, but eventually, Yamaguchi twists around enough to get his fingers under his arms, and he’d rather let go than giggle like a little girl (which is always what happens when he’s tickled). The boy only goes as far as the bathroom though, so his stupid, instinctual desire to keep him in one place is relieved a little, and instead, Kei just curls further into the fleece blanket, letting the fibers brush against his cheeks and smush his glasses into his face.
Upon his return, Tadashi sits down rather unceremoniously on his legs instead of curling up with him again. “Do you want to go to that dance thing?” he asks, prompting Kei to raise his head to look at him. “Or, I think I have Hocus Pocus bookmarked somewhere.”
Thankfully, as a ghost, his face (and by extension, his glasses) can’t get greasy, so he can see Tadashi clearly enough to give him a disgruntled look without moving too much. “Why would I want to?”
“You’ve been really restless and twitchy tonight.” Is that what he thinks his movements are? What an idiot. “Didn’t Sugawara say it’s a compulsion?”
“For ghosts. He also said I’m not a ghost anymore.”
Yamaguchi moves, pushing Kei’s legs around enough so he can lean back against the couch, and Kei just wants to whine because this is not the kind of touching he’s interested in right now. “Not completely. You’re not curious? I mean, ghost party, Tsukki. That sounds a little cool.”
It sounds a lot like Yamaguchi is the one who wants to go, and he just wants to use Kei as an excuse to get out there. Nothing good would probably come of a mortal showing up to something like the Danse, and Kei has absolutely no interest in going. Negative interest, really. Despite how much he doesn’t want to remove himself from the nest he’s made of the fleece blanket, he shifts so he can flop down over Yamaguchi’s lap, his head resting against his thigh and his face stubbornly facing away from him.
“I want to watch Hocus Pocus.”
Which, y’know, he totally doesn’t, but he isn’t going to admit more than that. Yamaguchi is quiet for a moment, his hand falling absently to stroke through Kei’s hair, and it feels so good he almost purrs like that stupid cat spirit. “Okay,” he says, and his voice is strange and soft, but he’s way too comfortable being petted to look up and see what kind of face he’s making. “We’ll watch Hocus Pocus.”
For a while, Yamaguchi is content to play with his hair, stroking through the rough strands and occasionally scratching his nails lightly against his scalp. It’s wonderful, and kind of makes his brain shut down until he can feel the soothing motions stutter, growing clumsy and uncoordinated, and when he shifts enough to look up at him, he can see that Yamaguchi is dozing off. His head is lolling, and he keeps snapping awake only to have his traitorous eyelids start to droop mere seconds after.
“Here, you should lay down,” Kei says, brushing his hand away and sitting up, rolling his shoulders more out of habit than because he’s gotten stiff, gathering the blankets despite Yamaguchi’s protests.
“I don’t want to sleep,” he says, sounding for all the world like a petulant five year old who wants to stay up another five minutes past bedtime. “You’re only like this until sunrise, and I don’t want to waste that time asleep.”
“Just take a nap.” It’s easy to maneuver Yamaguchi when he’s like this, mind drowsy and limbs limp with sleep. “I’m not going to sleep, so I’ll get you up again in an hour or so.”
They end up almost back in their previous position, but instead of turning to face the television, Yamaguchi curls up against his chest, fingers grasping his shirt and his head tucking against his neck. Kei tries valiantly to ignore the warmth in his stomach, spreading the fleece blanket out over the two of them before settling down, both of his arms wrapped around Yamaguchi, his thumb absently touching the soft skin of his lower back where his t-shirt has ridden up.
It’s quiet, the only sound coming from the television and the movie they forgot to turn off, but Kei knows how restless of a sleeper Yamaguchi is, and that’s only a matter of time before he gets kicked or elbowed in the face. Can ghosts get broken noses when they’re corporeal like this?
He doesn’t find out, thankfully. Sleeping on the small couch, with someone else, it appears that some sort of instinct kicks in, keeping him mostly still, and his only motions are small twitches of his feet and hands, or a shift of his head that drags his nose and softly parted lips against Kei’s neck. He can feel Yamaguchi breathing, the warm inhale-exhale brushing his pulse and making him feel far warmer than he should just under a single blanket.
This close, he can count every freckle on Yamaguchi’s face, see the delicate fan of his eyelashes and the shadows cast under his eyes by the lamplight. His lips are slightly chapped by the coming chill of winter, but they’re still full and inviting, something Kei ends up focusing on for an embarrassing length of time. It’s bad enough that Yamaguchi knows that he’s been watching him all this time, but he’s still doing it even in this situation. Even with the added sense of touch, sight is all that he’s depended on for so long, he can’t help but default to it.
Yamaguchi shifts again, his leg drawing up so that his knee is crooked over Kei’s waist, and wow, wow, is this what always happens when he sleeps with someone else? Even though he knows the sensations aren’t real, he’s dead, his throat feels dry and his heart races. Without thought, his fingertips venture higher on his back, and he can feel the dip of his spine and his vertebrae, all the way up to the gentle curvature of the back of his ribs.
“Tsukki...”
He freezes, tongue glued to the roof of his mouth and his eyes a little too wide when he looks down to see a sleepy, olive gaze directed right at him.
“S-sorry, I’ll-”
“It’s okay. It feels nice.”
There’s something tremulous and delicate in the air between them, hovering there and waiting to see what he does with it. Deep down, he’s a coward, and he’d never have taken a chance like this when he was alive; it would be easy to push him away, keep his distance, not make himself vulnerable to rejection. But the fact of the matter is that he isn’t alive, and if Kenma ends up failing and Sugawara won’t help them, he won’t get a chance like this again for another year.
Higher, higher his fingertips move, pushing his shirt up until he can feel his shoulder blades, sharp and shifting with nervous energy as Yamaguchi looks up at him, something fragile like hope in his eyes as they breathe the same air, and Kei kindly tells caution to fuck off as he leans down and kisses him, like he’d thought about doing from the moment Yamaguchi first touched him.
And unlike those previous times, there’s no teasing touches, no-almost there disappointment, just Yamaguchi’s fingers in the hair that curls at the base of his skull and his warm palm cupping the side of his face, pressing the frames of his glasses into his face. And it feels amazing, more wonderful and real than the couch or the blankets or the books, but almost alive and close enough to make him want more, desperately.
Kei pushes his shirt up as far as it will go, fingertips dancing from his back to his chest, pressing against his sternum and his ribcage, down to the flat plane of his stomach and the sharp angles of his hips. His skin is so soft, rough with goosebumps in places, but human and wonderful and perfect in it’s imperfection. Yamaguchi’s reactions change depending on the course his fingers chart, remaining silent when he touches his back, choking on a laugh when they skim his sides, and exhaling a shaky sigh when he reaches his hips, just above the waistband of his pants.
Before long, Yamaguchi begins to copy him, pushing Kei’s hoodie up so he can touch his skin, and he finds himself wondering what it’s like to touch a ghost suddenly given form. Is he cold? Is his skin soft or rough? When he presses against his chest, does he have a heartbeat? He’s so lost in his own thoughts for a moment that he’s surprised when Yamaguchi makes a displeased noise and pulls the hoodie off over his head, causing his glasses to sit crooked on his face.
“Just ask next time,” Kei fusses, righting his glasses while Yamaguchi laughs and strips his own shirt off.
“Sorry, Tsukki,” he says earnestly, and this is a sight he’s familiar with. Pale skin, dotted with freckles (but less than his face), stretched tight over his bones, and it’s unsurprising that Kei is a little impatient given how long he’s had to look at this and wonder what it would be like to have him pressed against him, to have those lips smiling against his own when they kiss.
And that’s exactly what happens when Yamaguchi settles against him again, their bare chests pressed together and an elated laugh escaping the boy’s lips as he presses them against Kei’s, and there isn’t a force in this world that could keep him from returning the motion (although his smile is smaller, less practiced than Yamaguchi’s). They’re pressed so close together that he can feel Yamaguchi’s heartbeat, the warmth of his skin completely eclipsing the fleece blanket that has been almost completely kicked off.
Kei’s attention is so thoroughly on the exposed skin that he now has access to, teeth and tongue brushing against the vulnerable expanse of Yamaguchi’s neck, that it completely catches him off guard (again, he needs to pay better attention) when the other grinds their hips together, a shudder wracking both of their bodies at the contact.
“Well, I guess this answers my question about whether or not ghosts can get hard,” Yamaguchi says, breathlessly, and Kei kind of wants to die.
“Can you not?”
Yamaguchi grins, fingers gripping Kei’s hips as he repeats the motion, slower, more teasing, and Kei’s head droops back against the armrest.
“Not what? This?”
“Don’t tease me,” Kei growls, lips pursed unhappily, and with a surprising amount of finesse, Yamaguchi shifts their positions enough that he’s pressing Kei into the couch cushions, seizing his lips in a bruising kiss as he rolls his hips.
Christ, how is this fair? As far as he knows, Yamaguchi has just as little experience in this area as he does, but he’s nipping at his ear, panting hot breaths against the skin and making him feel like he’s on fire. Kei clutches at him, fingertips digging into the small of his back and twisting in his hair as his legs unconsciously part enough for Yamaguchi to settle between them, grinding their erections together in a steady rhythm of slow-fast-slow.
“Yamaguchi-”
“Tadashi,” he interrupts, mouth burning hot against his jaw, and he wonders if maybe this was a bad idea, Kei feels like he’s going to come apart at the seams, there’s just too much happening, too many points of contact. He’s overwhelmed, shaking underneath Yamaguchi who murmurs soft nothings, voice little more than a hum in the back of his mind, as he sucks bruises onto his neck and collarbone.
“Tadashi,” he repeats, little more than a gasped breath, and Yamaguchi moans, the sound shooting straight to his groin and holy fuck, he comes in his pants like the overeager teenager he, unfortunately, still is, hips jerking and hand twitching against Yamaguchi’s skin as he arches his back, putting his head at an awkward angle but hey, ghost perks, it doesn’t really hurt.
When everything stops feeling spinny and fuzzy and he pries his eyes open, Yamaguchi is looking down at him, eyes wide and lips parted, gaze full of wonder like he’s been given some great gift. It makes his face feel even redder, if that’s possible, and if it weren’t for the fact that he can feel that the other is still hard against his hip, he’d push him right off the couch. What was so great about watching him squirm through the throes of his orgasm like an uncoordinated idiot?
“Beautiful,” Yamaguchi says, like he could read his mind, and Kei decides that the best way to get him to shut up is to shove his hand down his pants. “Hey!” he yelps. “You don’t have to-”
“Don’t be stupid,” Kei says, shifting them back into something that more closely resembles their previous position where they were laying on the couch facing each other, his fingers wrapping around Yamaguchi’s dick. “I want to.”
Any protesting dies on his lips, eyes shuttering closed as he draws his bottom lip between his teeth. The inside of his boxers is damp, and he can feel moisture beading on the tip of his erection every time he strokes upward, but it makes him feel powerful, and above all wanted, to have such obvious evidence of Yamaguchi’s desire against his hand. It’s just more to touch, more to take in, and he wants to memorize how he feels, skin even softer than anywhere else on his body and warm, so warm.
His hips start to move, thrusting in and out of the circle of his fingers, breath starting to come in noisy pants, and Kei understands why he was being watched so rapturously before, and beautiful is the only word he can use to describe the flush of his cheeks, the way his bangs stick to his forehead with sweat, and he can feel his toes curling against the material of his jeans and the couch.
Yamaguchi comes with a sharp cry, short but loud, the movement of his hips growing erratic as Kei strokes him through it, pressing soft kisses to his jaw until he’s too sensitive to keep touching, pulling his hand away and wiping it on his pants (he can always will them clean, when he cares again). He’s limp against him, breath slowly starting to even as he clutches Kei close, his fingertips pressing against his skin in a way that’s almost a little painful, but any sensation right now is a good sensation, so he doesn’t want to complain.
“I’m glad we didn’t go to the Danse,” Yamaguchi says eventually, voice sounding a bit dazed, but there’s a huge smile on his face.
“See? I told you I wanted to stay home.”
Like any of this was planned. Yeah, right.
Yamaguchi hums, kissing one of the red marks on Kei’s neck (which he really, really hopes will last longer than tonight). “Since you can touch things, does that mean you could join me in the shower?”
Water. Water. Water and a wet Yamaguchi.
The look on his face is clearly answer enough, making Yamaguchi laugh and kiss him before detangling their limbs and rising with a stretch. “Although...maybe you shouldn’t get wet? Is that a spirit thing?”
Kei is in the middle of standing up himself, but he shoots Yamaguchi a less than pleased look as he tosses the blankets to the end of the couch. “I’m not a gremlin, you know.”
“I know,” Yamaguchi answers, and the best thing about this temporary able-to-touch thing is that Kei can jab him in the side, earning him a displeased squawk, when he says things like that.
(That’s a lie. The kissing is totally the best part, but like hell is he going to admit it.)