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The thing about Yoichi, Alexis thinks, is that he makes everything look like an argument he’s winning.
Both hands braced on Alexis’s chest, weight shifting forward, Yoichi’s trying to find the angle with the same stubborn focus he brings to tactical analysis, jaw set, brow furrowed, refusing to concede that any of this is difficult while his thighs shake on either side of Alexis’s hips. Flushed from the center of his cheeks outward, hair wrecked, lips parted just enough to let the breathing through careful and controlled, because the alternative would be audible and Yoichi has his pride.
“Stop staring,” Yoichi says.
“I’m not staring.”
“You’re doing the thing with your face.”
“I’ve got a face. It does things.”
“It’s doing a specific thing.” Yoichi shifts his weight, adjusts, and the movement takes him deeper onto Alexis’s cock in a way that catches him, his breath snagging for half a second before he smooths it over, his hips pausing at the lowest point where the fullness is the most and then deliberately, slowly, starting to move again. “The thing where you’re cataloguing.”
“I catalogue everything.”
“You’re cataloguing me.”
He is. He’s been cataloguing all of it under irritating for the past ten minutes, and while he catalogues, Yoichi lifts.
The slow pull upward draws the length of Alexis’s cock through the tight wet heat of him, and Alexis tightens his hands on Yoichi’s hips, feels the jut of bone under his palms as Yoichi sinks again, taking him back in by degrees, the stretch catching at the widest point and then giving all at once, the slick heat closing around him inch by inch until Yoichi’s sat flush and full, thighs trembling with the effort of holding there. At the deepest point Yoichi’s breath hitches, his body clenching involuntarily around the full length of it, and before Alexis can do anything with that the control is back, reeled in tight, and Yoichi’s already lifting again.
“You’re shaking,” Alexis says.
“I’m not.”
“Your thighs are.”
“That’s — it’s a muscle thing.” Yoichi lifts again to prove it, and the drag of Alexis’s cock through him on the way up is slow enough that Alexis can feel every inch of the resistance, the way Yoichi’s body tightens around the head before he sinks back down, and the breath Yoichi lets out at the bottom is a fraction less controlled than the last one, the fullness landing in him all over again.
“It’s a you’ve-been-doing-this-for-ten-minutes thing.”
“I’m fine.” Yoichi rolls his hips in a short testing circle and finds something, some shift in angle or new point of pressure inside him, and his thighs clamp down on instinct, his rhythm stuttering as the sensation catches him mid-circle, his weight dropping forward onto his hands before he pushes himself back upright. His face gives nothing away. His breathing does. “I’m making a point.”
“What point?”
“That I can.”
“You can,” Alexis agrees, mild, and watches the swallow move through Yoichi’s throat while he slides his hands from Yoichi’s hips to his ribs, spreading his fingers wide. Yoichi’s eyes come back to him immediately.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“Your hands are moving.”
“They do that.” Unhurried, Alexis moves his palms upward while Yoichi sinks and lifts and sinks, the rhythm Yoichi’s trying to maintain hitching every time Alexis’s hands find a new stretch of skin, his thumbs tracing the lines of his ribs, the soft give of flesh above them, until they brush the underside of Yoichi’s chest on a downstroke and Yoichi’s jaw tightens around whatever sound was forming there, his hips faltering for a beat before he forces them back into rhythm.
“Don’t,” Yoichi says, still moving, the pace he’s set himself wobbling at the edges.
“Don’t what?”
“Make it — you know what you’re doing.”
“I’m lying here.”
“You’re lying here strategically.”
Alexis puts his mouth to his nipple.
What escapes Yoichi is small and stripped of intent, out before he can catch it, and everything happens at once: the arch of his back, his hips stuttering forward, the rhythm dissolving as he clenches around Alexis’s cock, sudden and thorough, the wet heat of him gripping tight. Alexis feels it travel the full length of his spine, keeps his mouth exactly where it is, traces the flat of his tongue over the stiffened peak, slow, and Yoichi’s fingers curl against his chest, pressing in, nails catching skin, anchoring, while his hips try to find a pace again and can’t quite get there, each circle starting strong and dissolving halfway through when Alexis’s tongue does something that pulls his focus sideways.
“That’s — okay, that’s —” Yoichi starts, and Alexis grazes his teeth over it, gentle, and the sentence ends there, and Yoichi’s hips jerk forward on reflex, grinding down hard, the angle suddenly deep enough that the sound it pulls from him is closer to a gasp than anything he’d sanction.
He recovers. Barely. His hips find something new, abandoning the up-and-down for short grinding circles, chasing the angle, chasing depth, working Alexis’s cock against something inside him that makes his breath catch every time he passes over it, but the rhythm keeps snagging on what Alexis’s mouth is doing, each circle a little less even than the last.
“You planned this,” Yoichi says. His voice has thinned.
“Mm.”
“You were waiting for —” Alexis sucks, gently, and Yoichi’s hips slam down and stay there, grinding in place, the full length of Alexis’s cock buried in the wet clench of him, his thighs clamping on either side of Alexis’s ribs. “— ah — you were waiting for me to get — to —”
“To what?”
“Distracted.” Yoichi’s trying to lift again, to get back to the rhythm he’d set, but his thighs are shaking badly enough now that the upstroke wavers, his knees pressing in for leverage, and when he sinks back down the stretch of being filled again pulls a breath from him that’s a fraction more honest than the last. “You distracted me. On purpose.”
“You distracted yourself.”
“Because you — with your —” Yoichi gestures vaguely at Alexis’s mouth, which is still on his chest, and the gesture costs him his balance for a second, one hand leaving Alexis’s shoulder to wave before slamming back down. His hips stutter on the landing, the angle shifting, and the new depth catches him off guard, his body clenching tight around Alexis. “That. You’re doing that.”
“I am.”
“While I’m trying to —” His breath punches out on a downstroke, the angle catching that same spot, and he grinds down against it, chasing the feeling, his pace dissolving into something that’s more just rocking in place, small desperate rolls, the wet friction of each one audible in the quiet of the room while he tries to talk through it. “I’m being serious, Alexis.”
“You sound very serious.” Alexis moves to the other nipple and Yoichi’s hands flatten against his chest on the transition, palms bracing, his hips stuttering to a near-stop before he forces them to move again, slower, shakier, the renewed stretch of each downstroke visible in the catch of his breath.
“I am — don’t — that’s not fair, you can’t just —”
“Can’t what?”
“Switch — you can’t just switch to the other one while I’m —” Down, grinding, and whatever composure was holding the sentence together goes with it. Yoichi’s forehead drops against Alexis’s hair, and the breathing that lands there is nothing like what he started with, shorter, more honest, each exhale wrecked against Alexis’s scalp. His hips are still moving but the pace has gone uneven, long slow grinds punctuated by sharp short drops when the angle catches right, his body chasing something his pride won’t let him name.
“While you’re what?” Alexis says, into his collarbone.
“Shut up.”
“You brought it up.”
“I’m revoking it.” His thighs flex with the effort of lifting, the muscles trembling visibly now, each rise slower than the last, barely clearing an inch before he sinks back down onto the full length and grinds and his breath catches and he rises again. “I’m revoking the entire conversation.”
“Noted.”
Alexis doesn’t examine how Yoichi looks right now, and while he doesn’t examine it Yoichi keeps moving, the flush spreading down his throat with each roll of his hips, every sound bitten down and kept small as his circles tighten, his pace fraying at the seams. Not asking for anything. Not going to.
Alexis slides one hand up Yoichi’s spine, slow, feeling each vertebra, and Yoichi curves into it helplessly without breaking rhythm, the arch following his hand.
“Don’t be — gentle about it,” Yoichi says, into his hair. The words come out between breaths, timed to the downstrokes. “That’s worse.”
“Worse than what?”
“Than — I don’t know. Than whatever you’re —” A sound, barely caught, his hips grinding down and holding there, the full weight of him seated on Alexis’s cock, his body tightening around it while the sensation works through him. “Doing.”
“I’m touching your back.”
“You’re touching my back like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re —” Yoichi’s hips stutter on a downstroke, and the rest of the sentence stays wherever it was going. His grip on Alexis’s shoulders tightens, hard enough that Alexis can feel the bruise forming under each finger, and when Yoichi tries to lift again his thighs shake so badly the motion barely clears an inch before he drops back down, grinding instead, his body finding the shortcut, the wet slide of each small circle all friction and no distance.
With his hand spread flat between Yoichi’s shoulder blades Alexis presses, just slightly, and the angle changes, the depth changes, and what comes out of Yoichi is high and brief and swallowed almost immediately while his hips jerk and recover and keep going, shorter strokes now, barely lifting, just grinding in tight desperate circles, each one pulling a slick sound from where they’re joined.
“Fuck,” Yoichi says, very quietly.
“Mm.”
“That — you did that on purpose.”
“Yes.”
Against the skin just above his nipple Alexis sets his mouth, just warmth and closeness, and the shiver that moves through Yoichi is full-body, visible in the way his rhythm falters, his hips pausing at the bottom of a stroke with the full stretch of it inside him before they start again, smaller, shakier.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” Yoichi says, into his hair, hips still moving, the accusation worn soft at every edge.
“You’ve said that.”
“It bears — nn — repeating.” A stutter, a new angle held, grinding in a slow circle that drags Alexis’s cock across that same spot inside him and pulls a sound out before he can catch it, and the quiet that follows is just breathing, just his hips rocking in those small tight circles, the wet sound of it steady and obscene in the silence. Then, smaller: “I was making a point.”
“I remember,” Alexis says, and not a word of it has registered, nothing except the way Yoichi sounds when he’s losing ground and pretending otherwise, and even this thought happens while Yoichi sinks onto him again, clenched tight and wet and shaking.
“You don’t remember.”
“I don’t remember.”
“You’ve been — this whole time, you’ve just been —”
“Paying attention,” Alexis says. “Yes.”
Something crosses Yoichi’s face at that, quick and unguarded, gone before Alexis can catalogue it. His hips don’t stop, but for a moment the grinding slows, goes almost careful, as though whatever that expression was needs a different tempo.
Deliberate, Alexis maps his thumb across the swell of Yoichi’s chest while Yoichi rolls his hips, and the shiver travels through him all the way down to where he’s clenched around Alexis’s cock, hot and slick and gripping. Mouth still on the reddened skin, not quite biting, lips dragged across the sensitive peak on a downstroke, and Yoichi’s composure goes, all at once, and still his hips don’t stop.
“Okay,” Yoichi says, to no one, voice gone rough, still rocking. “Okay. Okay.”
“Mm,” Alexis says, into his skin.
Yoichi gives up on words.
Alexis’ phone goes off at 7:43 in the morning.
Alexis knows this because he opens one eye, reads the screen with the particular hatred of someone who was, until four seconds ago, asleep, and closes it again. The ringing doesn’t stop. It goes through to voicemail and immediately starts again, which means it’s Michael, because Michael treats unanswered calls the way he treats most forms of resistance — as a temporary condition that additional pressure will resolve.
Alexis answers it.
“This had better be urgent,” he says, keeping his voice low without consciously deciding to.
“Good morning,” Michael says, in the tone of someone who’s been awake for hours and finds this personally virtuous. “We’re going out tonight. Tell Yoichi.”
Alexis goes very still.
“Tell him yourself.”
“I’m telling you.”
“Why,” Alexis says, with the careful enunciation of someone choosing each word precisely, “would Yoichi be reachable through me?”
A pause. The particular kind Michael deploys when he’s letting someone else’s sentence hang in the air long enough to hear how it sounds. “I don’t know, Alexis. Why would he be?”
“He wouldn’t. That’s my point. I don’t know where Yoichi is.”
“Mm.”
“I don’t keep track of Yoichi.”
“Of course not.”
“He’s not — we’re not —” Alexis stops. Restarts. “If you want to tell Yoichi something, you have his number.”
“I do,” Michael agrees pleasantly. “I also have yours.” Another pause, shorter, carrying the specific satisfaction of someone who’s enjoying this without needing to say so. “Tell him eight o’clock. Don’t be late. Either of you.”
The call ends.
Alexis holds the phone above his face for a moment, looking at the dark screen, then sets it down on the mattress with a controlled gentleness that is the closest he comes to throwing it.
Behind him — against him, technically, because at some point in the night the geography of the bed shifted into something he’s not going to think about — Yoichi stirs. A small movement, the hitch of someone half-surfacing, breath changing rhythm and settling back. The hand that had been resting somewhere against Alexis’s ribs loosens and goes slack.
Alexis watches the ceiling.
He’s going to lie here and wait for a reasonable hour and then get up and make coffee and that will be the end of it. He’s comfortable. He slides his hand beneath the covers.
Curiosity, he tells himself, which is the least convincing thing he’s ever told himself, and he’s told himself some genuinely unconvincing things. He finds the warm inside of Yoichi’s thigh and follows it up slowly, traces the soft skin where the crease meets the hip, finds him sleep-warm and still a little slick from earlier, the skin tender there. Alexis presses one finger in carefully, unhurried, feeling the give of it, the way the heat closes around him, how easily Yoichi’s body lets him in when it’s still this relaxed.
Yoichi makes a sound into the pillow. His hips shift, the instinctive roll of someone whose body’s registered something before his brain has, and Alexis keeps his finger where it is and waits. Yoichi’s breathing shallows. Then he turns his head, cheek pressing into the pillow, one eye opening with the heavy resistance of someone who was deeply asleep thirty seconds ago.
He looks at Alexis.
Alexis looks back, his expression arranged into something that conveys no particular interest in what his hand is currently doing.
Yoichi blinks, slow and glassy, taking in Alexis’s face with the careful focus of someone whose processing speed hasn’t fully come online. He’s flushed faintly, the warmth of sleep still in his skin, his hair a catastrophe, pillow crease pressed into his cheek, lips still soft. In this specific early-morning light he looks —
Alexis doesn’t complete that thought.
“Do you wanna go in?” Yoichi asks.
His voice is rough with sleep, the words unhurried, as though he’s asked something completely ordinary. As though this is a reasonable question at eight forty-four in the morning while Alexis’s finger is still inside him. Alexis stares at him.
“Yes,” he says, and the word comes out slightly wrong, slightly too quick, landed before he’d fully decided to say it.
Yoichi’s eye narrows. The look of someone clocking a reaction and filing it away without comment, which is its own kind of insufferable. He reaches down between them and wraps his fingers loosely around Alexis’s cock, and Alexis is hard, which Yoichi discovers without surprise and without remark. His hand lingers there for a moment, fingers measuring what they’re working with, and something in Yoichi’s expression shifts, a small recalculation that he doesn’t voice, his grip adjusting before he pulls Alexis in by the hip with his other hand, lining him up slow, pressing the head of him to his entrance where he’s still warm and slick and giving.
“Just stay in there,” Yoichi says, voice still rough, already exhaling into the first pressure of it as his hips tilt to take the head. “And let me sleep.”
“Okay,” Alexis says, quieter than he means to.
Yoichi breathes in through his nose, making room, and presses back.
The head catches at his entrance, the stretch wider than his body’s ready for this early, this relaxed, and Yoichi’s breath stalls for a moment, his fingers tightening on Alexis’s hip. Not pulling. Anchoring. He exhales, slow, and his body gives around the first inch, the slickness from earlier making the slide possible but not easy, and Alexis can feel the exact moment it passes the widest point, the way Yoichi’s body opens and then grips, the heat of him closing tight.
“Mm,” Yoichi says, into the pillow, half a sound. His eyes are closed again already.
“Okay?” Alexis asks.
“Mhm.” Barely a word. Yoichi’s hand drifts from Alexis’s hip, trails up his side, fingertips dragging light over his ribs in a pattern that has no purpose, just the idle tracing of someone who’s half-asleep and touching what’s in front of them. His hips shift, a small tilt, taking another inch, and his breath comes out uneven against the pillow, the stretch registering slow and deep.
He’s tight. Tighter than Alexis expects, even after last night, his body sleep-warm and relaxed but still adjusting, each increment its own small negotiation. Yoichi takes it the way he takes everything — without admitting it’s difficult, his face soft and half-dreaming, his hips doing the work in tiny rolls, pressing back, easing off, pressing back further, coaxing himself open by degrees.
“You’re warm,” Yoichi murmurs, the words slurred at the edges, and his hand comes up to Alexis’s jaw, fingertips tracing the line of it, unhurried and aimless. His thumb brushes across Alexis’s lower lip and rests there, not pressing, just feeling.
Alexis doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe, possibly.
Yoichi’s hips rock back, another inch, and the sound he makes is quiet and involuntary, his brow creasing for a moment before it smooths, his body adjusting, the stretch giving way to the fullness behind it. His hand slides from Alexis’s jaw to the back of his neck, fingers curling into the hair there, loose and warm. He exhales slow through parted lips, the breath landing on Alexis’s collarbone, and tilts his hips back further, and the way his breathing changes on the next inch tells Alexis everything Yoichi’s face won’t — the careful stall, the slow release, the deliberate softening of his body around something that requires patience.
“Take your time,” Alexis says, and his voice comes out wrong, too careful, too close to something he doesn’t say out loud.
Yoichi doesn’t respond to that, just presses his lips to Alexis’s cheek, not quite a kiss, the warm unfocused press of a mouth that hasn’t decided what it’s doing yet, lingering, his lips parted just slightly against the skin. His hips keep their slow rocking the whole time, coaxing himself open, each roll taking a little more, and Alexis can feel every increment of the adjustment, the way Yoichi’s body grips and then softens and then grips again around the width.
Alexis slides his free hand up Yoichi’s side, over the soft skin of his ribs, and cups his chest, his thumb finding the nipple and brushing across it, slow.
Yoichi’s hand comes off the back of Alexis’s neck and catches his wrist. Fast, for someone who was half-asleep two seconds ago.
“No,” Yoichi says.
“No?”
“You start doing that, I’m not gonna fall back asleep.” His grip on Alexis’s wrist is firm, his fingers circling it completely, and he pulls Alexis’s hand away from his chest and places it on his hip with the deliberate finality of someone returning something to a shelf. His hips haven’t stopped their slow rocking the whole time, still working Alexis deeper, still taking him by increments. “Keep your hands where I put them.”
“I was just —”
“I know what you were just.” Yoichi rolls his hips back at the same time, taking another inch, his breath catching against Alexis’s skin on the stretch, and his fingers lace through Alexis’s on his hip and hold them there, pinned. “Behave.”
“I’m lying still.”
“You were lying still. Then you got ambitious.” Yoichi shifts, adjusting, and the movement takes him deeper, his body opening with a slow exhale that lands warm on Alexis’s jaw. His thumb traces idle circles on the back of Alexis’s hand where he’s holding it against his hip. “You know what happens when you do the chest thing.”
“I have some idea.”
“Then you know why I’m not letting you.” Another rock of his hips, and the sound that escapes him is soft and involuntary, his body clenching around the width before relaxing again, accommodating. His forehead tips forward until it rests against Alexis’s temple, his breath evening out in warm steady waves against Alexis’s cheekbone. “‘M trying to sleep. You’re making it complicated.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re being — ” Yoichi’s hips press back, and Alexis feels himself sink deeper, the angle shifting as Yoichi tilts to take more, and whatever Yoichi was going to say dissolves into the slow exhale that follows, his body working around the stretch of it, adjusting to the depth. His fingers tighten in Alexis’s for a moment and then loosen. “You’re making it complicated,” he says again, quieter, as though that covers it.
Alexis’s other hand moves, instinctive, toward the soft curve of Yoichi’s chest.
Yoichi catches that one too. Without opening his eyes, his fingers closing around Alexis’s wrist and redirecting it to his waist with a practiced efficiency that suggests this is not the first time.
“Yoichi.”
“No.”
“I wasn’t —”
“You were.” Yoichi tucks Alexis’s hand against the small of his back, holds it there with his own, and presses his mouth to the corner of Alexis’s eye, lingering, his lips warm and dry. “You’ve got one hand on my hip and one hand on my back and that’s it. That’s your allocation.”
“My allocation.”
“Mm.” Yoichi’s thumb traces the bone of Alexis’s wrist where he’s holding it. His hips press back in a slow sustained push, and Alexis feels himself slide the rest of the way in, the last of it taken in one long press that seats him fully, Yoichi’s body closing around the full length with a tightness that Alexis registers in his jaw, in his hands, in the effort of staying still. Yoichi’s breath catches, holds, and releases, his whole body softening around the fullness as he settles. The effort of that last stretch shows only in the careful spacing of his breathing, the way each exhale is measured and deliberate until the tension in his shoulders releases and his weight goes heavy against Alexis’s front. “You start with the chest and then I can’t think and then you do whatever you want and I’m trying to sleep, Alexis.”
“I’m not stopping you from sleeping.”
“You’re inside me. That’s a baseline level of not letting me sleep.” A pause. His hips shift, the smallest rock, barely a movement, just his body settling more firmly around the fullness, and the sound he makes is quiet and content and entirely unconscious. “‘S fine though. ‘S nice.”
Alexis doesn’t have a response for that. He keeps his hands where Yoichi put them.
“Who called?” Yoichi asks, his lips brushing the bridge of Alexis’s nose as he speaks, each word arriving slower than the last, his fingertips tracing the line of Alexis’s collarbone with a touch that’s getting looser, less deliberate, the way handwriting changes when someone’s falling asleep mid-sentence.
“Michael.”
“Mm. What’d he want?”
“He wants us to —”
“Mm,” Yoichi says again, softer, the sound dissolving, and his hand on Alexis’s wrist goes slack. His breathing evens into something long and steady and warm against Alexis’s skin, his body heavy and still and tight around him, the fullness of Alexis inside him something his sleep has simply absorbed, accommodated, folded into whatever dream is pulling him back under.
Alexis waits.
“Yoichi.”
Nothing. The deep even breathing of someone who’s fallen asleep around the full length of Alexis’s cock and has apparently found this a perfectly acceptable state of affairs.
Alexis watches him. The soft part of his lips, the crease in his cheek from the pillow, the way his fingers have gone loose around Alexis’s wrist without letting go. The warmth of his breath landing in slow steady intervals against Alexis’s jaw.
He doesn’t move. He stays exactly where Yoichi put him, both hands in their allocated positions, inside the tight slick heat of someone who won’t let him touch his chest but will fall asleep on his cock, and doesn’t examine any part of what’s happening, or why his chest feels the way it does, or why moving hasn’t once occurred to him as a real option.
Michael said eight o’clock.
There’s plenty of time.
He stays.