Summary: Kitayama has spent years telling himself it's better this way, but Senga disagrees.
AN: I owed Senga birthday fic, and then I was "motivating" rikikomori by refusing to paste her more than a paragraph at a time while she was working on school work. I'm helpful, okay.
Worth the Wait
Kitayama has to close his eyes and take a deep breath when he accidentally grabs Senga’s towel instead of his own to wipe his face. Senga’s familiar smell makes his pulse speed, makes Kitayama’s fingers clench the fabric involuntarily.
You’d think he would have gotten better at waiting after all this time, but the truth is that the way Kitayama wants Senga never eases really. A stray touch, a brush of arms in a crowded train, or even just an accidental catch of their eyes across the room, all of it makes Kitayama’s skin feel tight with want, prickling at nothing.
Stop that, he scolds himself. You already decided not to make it complicated.
“Mitsu?” Senga asks, snapping Kitayama out of it. Senga’s hair is stuck to his head in damp curls from practice, and Kitayama’s fingers twitch with want of combing through the messy strands.
“Here,” is all Kitayama says, handing over Senga’s towel like he’d picked it up on purpose. He reaches for his own and buries his face in it for a second, trying to lose Senga’s smell in the scent of his own cheap laundry detergent.
It didn’t used to be so hard. Years ago, Senga was so much younger that all Kitayama had to do was to remind himself of Senga’s birthyear, of how old Senga would have been when Kitayama graduated high school, to push the beginnings of those feelings back down. All he had to do was remind himself he wasn’t Fujigaya, he wasn’t Takizawa, he wouldn’t be that kind of senpai.
But it’s been years since that stopped working. Senga’s an adult now, the gap between them worth nothing really, shared experience and struggle so much more important. These days Kitayama reminds himself of the group instead, of how dangerous it would be to lose focus, how a messy breakup might ruin things for all of them. He builds up worst case scenarios for himself, imagines himself hurting Senga or seeing the reproach in Yokoo or Miyata’s eyes, or cracking the foundation of the only group that’s ever been home to Fujigaya.
Kitayama watches the roll of Senga’s body, sweat beading on his skin, and it’s easy to imagine that skin under his hands, that salt of that sweat on his tongue, and he wants it, he wants, but not enough to give up Kisumai. Not enough to chance it even a little.
It’s for the best, he chants mentally like a soothing mantra. It hurts as much as it feels good if he lets himself wallow in it too long, but it’s for the best, he’s sure.
So it’s with a lot of misgivings that Kitayama lets a dripping-wet Senga into his apartment just before midnight. Senga had called suddenly and said he was downstairs, to buzz him up. He hadn’t given Kitayama any chance to ask any pertinent questions, like what on earth he was doing there and why he didn’t have the sense to bring an umbrella.
“We have work tomorrow, you know,” Kitayama says as he takes Senga’s water-heavy jacket and hangs it over a chair. He tsks at Senga’s abuse of the leather, but Senga’s old enough to treat his possessions poorly if he wants to.
“I had to time it just right,” Senga says, pulling his phone out of his pocket to check the time. “Mm, close, but...”
“But?” Kitayama prompts when Senga trails off. Senga’s phone chirps a little alarm, and Senga looks up triumphantly.
“Now it’s my birthday,” he says. He stares at Kitayama expectantly.
“Congratulations?” Kitayama offers.
“So I get a present, right?” Senga asks, eyes interested and way too knowing, and Kitayama can see exactly where this is going to go all wrong.
“Kento,” he says, taking a step back. Senga steps forward, keeping the space between them constant.
“I just want a kiss,” he says, putting a little touch of pout into it. He reaches for Kitayama’s T-shirt and holds Kitayama still while he takes another step closer. “Just one kiss. It’s the only present I want, I promise.”
It won’t be just one, Kitayama opens his mouth to protest, but Senga already has their mouths pressed together, and all the tension that usually pulls Kitayama’s skin tight doubles in intensity, drawing a soft, desperate noise out of Kitayama’s throat. Senga licks at Kitayama’s lower lip, and it’s all over, all of Kitayama’s carefully built-up resistances crumbling away.
“Mitsu,” Senga gasps when Kitayama grabs him, fingers digging tightly into Senga’s waist through his damp T-shirt, and he sounds just as full of longing as Kitayama feels. It makes Kitayama pause and pull back, to look Senga over carefully. “Don’t stop,” Senga says, sounding uncertain and not quite meeting Kitayama’s eyes. His fingers are rubbing a little against Kitayama’s shoulders, not quite clutching at him but not far from it. “Please don’t.”
Kitayama looks at Senga, really looks without spending all his energy trying not to look so closely, and sees that maybe he hasn’t been the only one waiting. It makes his breath catch for a moment.
“How long?” he asks.
“I don’t even know,” Senga says softly, eyes fixed somewhere around Kitayama’s collarbone. “It feels like so long. I just...I want, and I can’t...just let me stay, okay? Just tonight and we can forget it in the morning, I can--”
“What on earth makes you think I would treat you like that?” Kitayama interrupts. “Look at me. Look.”
Reluctantly, Senga drags his eyes up to meet Kitayama’s. He doesn’t seem to see it at first, so Kitayama tries to put all of it into his gaze, how much he wants Senga, how scared he is of it, how he’ll never have enough words to explain it if Senga really can’t see it on his own.
“Oh,” Senga breathes, wonder starting to creep into his expression. The he frowns. “You’re shaking.”
Kitayama is, he realizes, and he pulls Senga close to mask it, trying to will himself to calm down a little. “It’s because you’re dripping on me,” he lies, even as he buries his face against Senga’s neck and inhales as deeply as he can, just like he’s been wanting to do all this time.
“That isn’t why,” Senga says, sounding sure. His arms slide around Kitayama’s back, squeezing him tighter. “Take me to bed?”
The trip to Kitayama’s bedroom is a blur of roaming hands and dropped clothes, and Kitayama doesn’t really come to his senses until he’s leaning over Senga, Senga’s eyes trusting and his skin pale against Kitayama’s dark sheets. Senga’s already hard for him, even though Kitayama’s barely touched him yet, and Kitayama can’t help but reach down to feel Senga’s cock in his hand, smooth and hot and heavy.
Senga arches for him with a soft moan of his name, and Kitayama can hardly get air into his lungs with how good that looks, how good Senga feels under his hands, how responsive.
“You can have me,” Senga encourages, bending one knee until his foot is flat on Kitayama’s bed. “You want me, right? I want you so much...”
“Shut up or I’m going to lose it before I ever get near you,” Kitayama growls, not really kidding at all. It makes Senga laugh and reach for Kitayama like he wants to see for himself. Kitayama bats Senga’s hand away and leans down to kiss him breathless, hoping to distract him long enough to dig the lube and condoms out of his bedside table.
“Please,” Senga begs as Kitayama slides the first finger in. He’s tight enough that Kitayama is tempted to ask if he’s done this before, but then again he doesn’t really want the answer. Senga pushes back against Kitayama’s hand after only a minute, panting for him, and Kitayama presses kisses to the inside of Senga’s knee just because Senga’s leg is still bent so it’s convenient.
Senga rushes Kitayama through two and three, all impatience and squirming, and Kitayama doesn’t have the willpower to fight him because he wasn’t kidding about maybe not being able to last. When Senga sits up suddenly to roll the condom onto Kitayama, Kitayama lets him have his way, lets Senga push him down onto his back and climb on top.
“Have you ever thought about me doing this?” Senga asks, a glint of challenge in his eyes as he hovers just over Kitayama’s cock. Kitayama shakes his head; he hadn’t ever indulged in fantasies that detailed, figuring he was just torturing himself. Senga gives Kitayama a sharp, heated grin that makes Kitayama’s stomach roll over. “This is the way I think about it most often,” he says, like he’s sharing a closely-held secret, and Kitayama groans brokenly as Senga sinks down onto his cock.
“Kento,” Kitayama says, just says his name over and over and can’t seem to get anything else out. Senga plants his hands on Kitayama’s chest and his knees into the mattress and goes for it, eyes closed in concentration as he rolls his hips in that dirty 8-count he was forbidden to do on stage ever again after that one concert. Kitayama wants to watch it forever, forcing his eyes back open every time Senga comes down on him with a slap of skin and they try to fall shut.
“Touch me,” Senga pleads, changing his angle a little, and when Kitayama manages to get a hand in between them to start pulling him off, Senga wails a note that would make Johnny-san a billionaire if Kitayama happened to fuck it out of him in a recording booth. That alone almost pushes Kitayama over the edge, but he grits his teeth and focuses on getting Senga off, determined not to lose it first.
“Come for me,” he orders, voice rough and maybe a little desperate. “Hurry up, if you want to come with me inside, I can’t wait much longer.”
“Yeah,” Senga agrees, eyes squeezed shut and concentrating on it, fucking himself up into Kitayama’s hand and back down onto his cock. “Mitsu, oh, Mitsu, I’m--”
He comes with a shudder that Kitayama feels all over his skin, spilling hot over Kitayama’s hand and stomach before his arms give out and dump him on Kitayama’s chest.
“Oops,” Senga mumbles against Kitayama’s chest. He tries to push himself back up and goes nowhere.
“Shh, I got this,” Kitayama promises. He rolls them over in one smooth movement, hands tight on Senga’s hips to make sure he stays inside. Senga blinks up at him in surprise, obviously a little impressed, and Kitayama thinks maybe being senpai by such a ridiculous gap is worth something after all. He rocks in and out of Senga once, slow, deliberate. “Okay?”
“Mm, yeah,” Senga sighs, clearly still wallowing in afterglow. “Anything you want.”
Kitayama bends his head to kiss Senga, slow and deep, just like how he moves in and out of Senga. He’s so close already that it isn’t hard at all to come just like this, to spend himself inside Senga and then let his weight drop onto Senga when he’s shivered himself out.
“Anything I want?” he asks a while later, when he feels like saying anything. He’s slipped out of Senga by then but hasn’t moved otherwise. If his weight is crushing Senga, Senga doesn’t seem to care and hasn’t made any effort to move himself other than beginning to stroke Kitayama’s hair, twisting sweat-damp bits of it into curls around his fingers. “Are you sure an open offer like that is wise?”
“You know best,” Senga says, then yawns cutely. “Or at least you ought to, since you’re so much older than me, right?”
“Brat,” Kitayama says without any heat. “I know shit that’ll make your perm go straight.”
Senga starts to laugh, hard enough to make Kitayama bounce on his stomach a little, and Kitayama pushes himself up onto his elbows enough to kiss Senga firmly.
“Congratulations on your birthday,” he says when it breaks, and Senga grins at him with glazed eyes. “Out of curiosity, why this birthday? It’s not an important age or anything.”
Senga shrugs. “It felt right. I felt...” Senga’s eyes go up towards the ceiling, like he’s searching for the words there. “I felt like the gap between us had finally gotten small enough that I could reach across it and touch you.”
“Kento,” Kitayama murmurs, moved and with no idea what to say in reply to that.
Senga takes care of it with another sweet, lingering kiss, and Kitayama give in and lets Senga prove to him for a little while longer that cute kouhai sometimes have much better ideas than their senpai.