Archive of Our Own ^beta

Kuro thinks he can be forgiven for thinking Keito a bit of a prude. Everything about him, from his buttoned-up shirts to his strict manner of speech, screamed conservative. Hell, the man had had to psych himself up for practically fifteen minutes before they shared their first kiss. Kuro still asked for permission to hold his hand in public.

So Kuro is surprised when they come back from their date and Keito hardly gives him time to set his keys down before ensnaring him in a passionate kiss. He’s shocked when Keito is the one to walk both of them, still lip-locked and stumbling over each other’s legs, towards Kuro’s bed. And he’s floored when Keito pushes him into the pillows at the headboard and moves to straddle his lap for a better angle.

(Not that he minds. Kuro loves this version of Keito too, the one that always plays offense, the one that wants and takes.)

The kisses they’re exchanging are not like any Kuro’s experienced before, messy and hot and stolen in between heavy breaths. Kuro’s not sure what he did differently on the date to earn this – it seemed pretty normal to him – but he’d love to know so he can pledge to do it all the time from here on out. Keito is quickly rendering him brainless, Kuro deciding to give up on thought and instead move purely on instinct, pulling closer, gripping harder.

Keito pulls away, eyes lidded and dark and gorgeous, and asks breathlessly: “Do you want to keep going?”

He shifts on Kuro’s lap and – oh.

“Hell yes,” Kuro breathes. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waitin’ for you to say that.”

Keito laughs at his excitement, and the dulcet sound startles the butterflies in Kuro’s stomach awake. He leaves chaste kisses on his lips and neck, then leans back on Kuro’s lap to hastily unbutton his shirt and shuck it off. Kuro doesn’t even have a moment to ogle his partner’s body before Keito’s tongue is back in his mouth.

“Ah, wait,” Kuro gasps, pulling back as he feels Keito tug at the hem of his shirt. Despite the increasingly heated mood, he wasn’t really expecting to undress this soon, and the prospect of it has insecurity trickling into the back of his mind. It’s not that Keito hasn’t seen his body before, it’s just that it’s never been in this intimate of a context.

His mind scrambles for a way to salvage the situation in a way that still comes off as sexy. He settles for mouthing at Keito’s neck, eliciting a heavy breath from his lover. “Lemme take care of you first.”

The distraction flies over Keito’s head, though, and he only pulls more impatiently at Kuro’s shirt. “Mmh, it’s not fair if I’m the only one who’s exposed, no? Here –”

“Hasumi,” Kuro pleads, panic bleeding into his voice now, and grips Keito’s wrists to keep them from going any further.

At Kuro’s second insistence, Keito retracts his hands immediately, as if he’s been burned by a stovetop. The atmosphere gets colder in an instant. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’, you’re – you’re fine. Sorry,” Kuro mumbles, feeling guilty for the dismay in Keito’s expression. “I’m, uh… Just wasn’t ready for it yet.”

Keito frowns. “No. I should be the one apologizing. I shouldn’t have rushed you into it.”

“It’s really okay,” Kuro groans, dragging a hand along his face, “It’s so stupid.”

“What is?” Keito presses. When Kuro is silent, he hazards a guess: “…Do you feel insecure about me seeing your body?”

Kuro looks down at the covers. “Uh. Somethin’ like that.”

He swallows thickly. It’s difficult to articulate what exactly had scared him; all he knows is that it had. “It’s not ‘cause I think you’ll judge me, or anythin’, it’s more like… Well, I don’t wanna see that. You know?”

Keito doesn’t know. Keito’s skin is silky smooth and well-maintained. Keito doesn’t know what it feels like to look in a mirror and be instantly reminded of your failures. Keito didn’t grow up opening new wounds and re-opening old ones every week because he didn’t know how to control himself.

But the way Keito looks at him makes him feel like even if he can never know, he might understand.

“...Firstly, we never have to do anything you’re uncomfortable with. I want to make that completely clear. But your scars aren’t anything to be ashamed of, Kiryu. You’re not a monster. You were a kid who was hurting.”

“A kid who hurt other people,” Kuro appends bitterly.

“Perhaps,” Keito concedes. “And I’ve hurt plenty of people too. Including people I hold extremely dear, like Sakuma, and Kanzaki, and you. But it’s been said and done. There’s no amount of punishment you can give yourself now that will change what happened in the past. Forgiving yourself, and atoning with your actions, is the only way to move forward.”

Kuro sighs heavily. Keito’s right, as always. Self-hatred had always been the path of least resistance for Kuro, but Keito always steered him towards the steep road going up.

“It’s hard,” he says.

“I know. And it won’t happen overnight. It’s a series of little progressions, compounded over time. But I hope you know you’re the only one who thinks of your body as grotesque. I’ll remind you of that as many times as needed.”

The intensity of Keito’s sentiment overwhelms Kuro, and he huffs lightheartedly to alleviate some tension. “Can’t believe you’re lecturing me right as we’re about to fuck.”

Scarlet floods across Keito’s face at that, and he adjusts his glasses to distract from it. “Don’t put it so crudely. It’s more important to me to address that dangerous line of thinking than to satisfy my own desires.”

“I know,” Kuro smiles. Cute. “I appreciate it.”

Mustering up a bit of courage, he adds, “You can keep going... I think I’m ready now.”

“...Would you like me to ease you into it?” Keito murmurs, brushing Kuro’s hair back from his face, and Kuro keens into his fingers. His tone is so gentle, his touch so inviting, and Kuro trusts him, has trusted him with so much else in his life, he can trust him with this.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that,” Kuro admits.

“Let me know if I should slow down,” Keito whispers before tilting his head down slightly to press their lips together again.

The kisses earlier had been fiery, desperate – now it’s tempered into something sweeter, something Kuro’s more used to. Keito cups his face like a piece of fine china, thumb tracing the curve of his cheek, and Kuro feels so singularly adored that it’s near overwhelming. In comparison to him Kuro feels clumsy, hands at his side, wanting to hold Keito but not knowing how to.

Keito’s hands languidly migrate down to Kuro’s neck, then his collarbone, until they’ve finally dipped to uncharted territory in his chest and abdomen, and Kuro breaks the kiss to let out a shuddering, nervous sigh against his lips. He can’t help but look down at where Keito’s palm meets his shirt, wondering if the scar tissue there is raised enough to feel through it. It’s definitely – new.

“Don’t watch, it’ll just make you more self-conscious,” Keito chides, understanding but still firm. “Just put all of your focus on me.”

Kuro can do that. Kuro’s not great at focusing on anything for long periods – it’s not a surprise he wasn’t any good at school – but ever since he fell in love, it’s been so easy to surrender his whole mind to Keito. Keito who paints the world with the colors of his dreams. Keito whose mouth fits like puzzle pieces to his own, Keito whose bangs tickle Kuro’s forehead, Keito whose hands settle themselves on Kuro’s thighs with no other intention other than to accommodate him to their touch.

“Still okay?” Keito asks into Kuro’s mouth, drawing circles into his hips.

“Yeah.”

With Kuro’s permission verbalized, Keito’s hands continue to meander, clasping over Kuro’s own hands for a moment before tracing the span of his arm muscles, up to his shoulder and around his back. The continuous kissing and the gossamer touches have Kuro feeling like he’s walking on air.

Then Keito pulls back just enough to let Kuro interject if needed, and slips his fingers slowly under the hem of Kuro’s shirt. Keito is notoriously cold-blooded, but perhaps their activities had warmed him up, because everywhere skin meets skin blazes. Kuro exhales, willing every muscle in his body to relax.

Keito presses a lingering kiss to his cheek, purring encouragement in his ear. “You’re doing well.”

The pace Keito sets is surely meant to be considerate but comes off instead as teasing. Kuro’s trying to take his advice, eyes squeezed shut instead of watching, but he can feel Keito’s gaze piercing through him, monitoring his reactions. As Keito slides his hand up, the hem follows, and Kuro’s stomach suddenly feels chilly and exposed, Kuro mentally warring with the urge to cover it with his arms.

Eventually, Kuro’s shirt is reduced to a roll of bunched-up fabric sitting high on his chest, and Kuro decides he’s ready. He gently pushes Keito away to pull it up and over his head, discarding it on the floor. Like this, Kuro’s entire upper body is subject to the cold air and Keito’s wandering eyes, and the familiar weight of self-consciousness makes itself known.

Kuro has scars. A number of scars that can’t be chalked up to a couple of accidents from a reckless kid, that can only be explained by a past of deliberate violence. And while bright lights, foundation, and a healthy distance from the audience can go a long way in hiding them during his idol career, none of the smoke and mirrors are available to him here. It’s just Kuro, in all of his ugly humanity, and Keito, appraising him.

Keito’s gaze holds no judgment, no pity, no disgust, and Kuro can’t remember why he’d expected those things from him. It’s pure curiosity, eyes following the reddish routes on the map of his skin.

Kuro has to speak before his throat closes up for good. “I’m glad. That you never met the person I was in junior high.”

Keito’s eyes find their destination in Kuro’s own. “...Who said I didn’t want to get to know him?”

Kuro’s confused for a second until Keito traces the length of a lightning-shaped scar on his stomach. “How did you get this one?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Kuro closes his eyes, reaching far back into the depths of his memory. He thinks back to shadowed alleyways, the animalistic growls and grunts of a street fight, the thunder of weapons hitting bodies and walls. And then there’s the pain, sharp and unyielding and all too familiar.

“…A rival group of delinquents jumped me on the way back from school,” he says, scarcely audible. “One of them had a pocket knife.”

He hasn’t thought about that incident this explicitly in years. Every time he’d remembered it, he’d repressed it into oblivion. But the words being spoken aloud lends truth and weight to it, and consequently the shame boiling in his stomach grows more potent.

He’s snapped out of it by a pair of plush lips pressing gently, reverently against the disfigured skin.

“Danna,” Kuro breathes, looking helplessly down at his partner. Keito doesn’t need to do this. He doesn’t deserve to be treated so sweetly for the violence he brought upon himself.

“Do you need me to stop?”

“N-No, I just.” Kuro tries to think of something, anything to say, and only comes up with a single word. “Why?”

“To thank you. For telling me,” Keito says, as if it’s the simplest, most natural fact of the world. “I know it isn’t easy for you. I want to know everything I can about you, even the parts you don’t think are good enough to know.”

Kuro stares at him, dumbstruck, as Keito runs his fingertips over another mark near his collarbone, sending a shiver down his spine. “What about this one?”

“…We were running from the administrators and I got caught on the fence when I jumped it.”

Keito kisses him there too, and Kuro’s breath hitches. It feels so strange for the parts of Kuro’s body that have only ever known pain to know love for the first time.

“And here?”

“Street fight. We were outnumbered, but we were trying to save pride. One guy knocked me into a wall and it had a nail sticking out of it.”

It’s like a meditation. Keito asks with his fingers, Kuro answers with a story, Keito thanks him with a kiss on each scar. Each painful memory promises the subsequent balm of affection. The room is near-silent save for Kuro’s whispering, the whole world holding its breath for them.

And then Keito is pulling back, his gentle concentration turning to alarm. “Kiryu. Are you alright?”

Kuro blinks. “Huh?”

Keito holds the base of one of Kuro’s hands. “You’re shaking.”

So he is. Kuro tracks the trembling of the tips of his fingers, and soon realizes the rest of his extremities are shaking as well. It’s not that he’s afraid, per se – he doesn’t think Keito could do anything to scare him nowadays, except for leaving him. It’s just more emotion than his body knows what to do with.

“Sorry. I, uh.” Kuro sniffs. “I haven’t told these stories to anyone in a long time.” A pause. “Or ever.”

Keito’s whole face softens. “We can stop here. You don’t have to tell me everything.”

Kuro pulls him in close. His hands have learned how to be gentle by Keito’s example. “I want to, eventually.”

Keito nestles his head into Kuro’s neck. “You’ve suffered a lot, Kiryu,” he murmurs.

A watery laugh. “Fuckin’ hell. Are you tryna make me cry right now?”

“No.” Kuro can feel Keito’s smile on his skin. “You’re allowed to if you want to, though.”

“I kinda don’t want to.”

“Then don’t.”

The ensuing comfortable silence soothes the sting behind Kuro’s eyes and the shaking of his limbs. Keito cuddles impossibly closer and lazily draws patterns into Kuro’s skin. When Kuro looks down, he discovers he is no longer made of scar tissue and regrets but of places Keito’s touched, places Keito’s kissed, places Keito’s loved.

He’s lucky, so lucky to have him.

After a spell, Keito sits up. “I have a scar too, you know. I got it when I was a child. I nicked my arrow wrong during archery practice and the fletching cut me when I shot.” He raises his hand for Kuro to see.

Kuro squints. “Where?”

“There. Don’t you see it? The white patch between my thumb and forefinger?”

“That’s it?” he laughs.

“Oi,” Keito snaps. “I’m trying to relate to you right now!”

“It’s so tiny!”

“W-well, I made an effort to heal it properly! And it was a long time ago!”

Keito’s indignation only breaks Kuro harder, his shoulders shaking and cheeks burning.

“Incorrigible,” Keito mutters. “Forget I said anything.”

“Don’t be like that.” The last of Kuro’s laughter subsides, and he takes Keito’s hand in his own, bringing it up to his mouth to kiss the mark as Keito had done for him earlier. “There.”

Keito frowns, a dusting of pink across his cheeks, and Kuro just can’t help himself, surging up to pepper his face with more kisses. Keito’s whine of protest is blunted to silence when Kuro finds his lips again, and it’s almost comical how easily he gives in, shoulders relaxing again in surrender.

Kuro hugs him tight when their lips separate, one hand splayed across his back and the other cradling the base of his neck. It’s times like these that he curses the inadequacy of his vocabulary for expressing himself. The quiet “Thank you. I love you” he murmurs into Keito’s neck doesn’t feel like nearly enough. He can only pray that Keito can feel the depth of his sincerity from the warmth of his body and the beating of his heart.

“Of course,” Keito responds. He doesn’t say “I love you” back, and he doesn’t need to. It’s always been implied.

For a while they just hold each other, breathing each other in. Kuro thinks about the angry kid he was in junior high, how he would’ve never imagined having something like this. And then he realizes he’s happy that that kid grew up to be him.

Then, Keito fidgets. “Ahem. Do you still want to...”

Kuro raises a teasing eyebrow. “To...?”

“Quit teasing,” Keito gripes, blushing. “You know what I meant.”

Kuro laughs and tackles him into the bed, filling the space between their lips with a “yes”.