Drabble in Fruits

Ayame feels Hatori’s hands on his shoulder. They linger there for what seems like a brief blink until they slide their way just an inch above his underside. Before it drains on him, he realizes that his robe now drapes on the floor whereas not less than a wink ago it was there confidently hanging by his frame. He closes his eyes, inclining his neck into an idle angle just as Hatori’s warmth escapes him. No literal vision is needed to affirm the fact that Hatori is now in the process of subtle undressing. Then the distance between them diminishes once again until it thins to skin to skin contact.

*insert very hot, sadomasochistic Lemon here*

Never in the darkest time of the year with all the winds howling and the threat of storm raging against his bedroom’s window did Hatori think of nicking into Ayame’s half consciousness and taking it there. He is almost a best friend to him. More than that, he is a blood relation. Ayame is. Hatori’s feelings for him used to be one great lump of emotion that knew no serious identity; as they draw closer to each other now, it seems that that tumor splits into infinity. Among other things, Desire protrudes and Love declares itself.

Hatori holds Ayame in his glance. What he is so sure he now feels for him is reflected on the surface of those yellow, clear eyes; only what’s in there ascertains to be older, more ancient. Ayame has loved Hatori long before the latter’s been introduced to such fancy. But that hardly matters now. More likely than not, Hatori has unknowingly felt likewise. It only needed acceptance then. In Ayame, it wasn’t so hard a job. He admitted his attraction right away, keeping it to himself, checking and careful not to run around rampant in his explorations. At last, they found each other’s innerness.