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Yoichi cracks the third egg against the rim of the pan and watches the white spread thin across the oil, hissing and curling at its edges where the heat catches it fastest. The yolk holds, trembling once before it settles, and he reaches for the pepper without turning around because he already knows Michael is behind him. He can feel the warmth of him before the sound, the bare skin of Michael’s chest pressing into his shoulder blades as two arms loop around his waist and settle there.
Michael’s chin drops onto Yoichi’s shoulder, stubble catching against the collar of his t-shirt. He peers down at the pan with exaggerated interest, the look of a man who has no opinion about breakfast and every intention of being a problem. His ribs expand against Yoichi’s back as he breathes, his full weight slung forward, loose-postured and heavy with the confidence of someone who slept well and has decided the morning belongs to him.
“Smells good,” Michael murmurs, and his mouth brushes the shell of Yoichi’s ear as he says it.
Yoichi slides the spatula under the egg and flips it with a clean, practiced motion. “You smell like you just rolled out of bed.”
“I did just roll out of bed.” Michael tightens his arms by a fraction, settling deeper against Yoichi’s back, his thumbs tracing idle half-circles against the cotton over Yoichi’s stomach. “You know why I rolled out of bed?”
“Because it’s morning.”
“Because my bed was cold.” Michael says this against the curve of Yoichi’s neck, the words landing on the skin there, and Yoichi can hear the accusation buried under the lazy delivery. “Because someone passed out on me at eleven and then rolled to the far side of the mattress.”
Yoichi snorts and reaches past him for the salt. “Maybe if you didn’t radiate heat like a space heater with abandonment issues, I wouldn’t need the other side of the mattress.”
“I had plans last night.” Michael’s voice drops into that low, dragging register, half-complaint and half-confession, and his arms tighten again around Yoichi’s waist, pulling him back until his hips are flush against Michael’s and there is no pretending the embrace is casual. “Genuine, thought-out plans. And you just closed your eyes mid-sentence and started breathing through your mouth.”
“I was tired.” Yoichi adjusts the heat on the burner, the knob clicking under his fingers. The oil settles. He cracks the fourth egg one-handed and it lands perfectly, the white spreading in a clean circle while the yolk stays whole and trembling. “Some of us actually train on rest days.”
“Some of us were trying to get laid.”
“Tragic.” Yoichi keeps his voice flat, his eyes on the pan, watching the edges of the white go lacy and golden as the oil crisps them. Michael’s chin digs into the muscle where his shoulder meets his neck, and Yoichi can feel the curve of his mouth pressed into the skin there, the grin he doesn’t need to see. “Go sit down. You have morning breath and no shirt on and I’m holding a hot pan.”
Michael ignores this entirely. His arms stay locked around Yoichi’s waist, fingers interlaced just below his navel, jaw resting heavy on Yoichi’s shoulder while they both watch the egg cook. His body is solid and close, his chest a wall of heat against Yoichi’s back, and the weight of him makes it hard to pretend the spatula and the sizzling oil are the most important things in the room.
“You fell asleep while I was talking,” Michael says, and there’s something almost wounded in it now, a bruise wrapped in a joke. “I was mid-sentence. I was trying to ask you about the new washing machine and you just went out.”
“Maybe because you’ve had that machine for three months and you still can’t figure out which drawer the detergent goes in.”
“There are four drawers. That’s three too many.”
“There are two drawers, Michael.” Yoichi slides the last egg onto the plate and turns the burner off with a sharp click. He pulls away from Michael’s grip, or tries to, but Michael’s arms tighten and Yoichi ends up just rotating in place, back pressing against the counter’s edge with Michael still wrapped around him, their chests almost touching. “Let go, the toast is getting cold.”
“The toast is in the toaster.”
“Then let go so I can get it out.”
Michael looks at him. Up close, his eyes are still soft from sleep, the pale blue catching the kitchen light in a way that makes him look younger than he is, less composed than the version of himself he wears on camera. His blonde hair sticks out in a dozen directions, flattened on one side, lifting at the crown, and Yoichi registers, briefly and against his will, that he looks good unpolished and close, and he kills the thought before it can settle anywhere useful.
“You owe me,” Michael says, very seriously, as though they’re negotiating a contract.
“I owe you nothing.” Yoichi plants a hand on his chest and pushes, firm enough to create space but gentle enough that they both know he could have pushed harder. Michael steps back, grinning, and Yoichi turns to pull the toast from the toaster, dropping two slices onto each plate and reaching for the butter. “You’re a grown man. Handle your own disappointment.”
“I’m handling it. I’m handling it by being annoying.”
“Mission accomplished.” Yoichi butters one plate’s toast, leaves the other dry, and slides Michael’s toward the edge of the counter with a porcelain clink. He picks up his own plate and turns toward the table. “Sit down and eat like a person.”
Michael takes the plate but stays standing, leaning against the counter with his hips cocked, watching Yoichi walk to the table with an attention that has nothing to do with food. Yoichi feels it on the back of his neck, specific and pointed, and he pulls out his chair with more force than necessary.
They eat. The clink of utensils fills the kitchen, the scrape of fork against ceramic, the quiet crunch of toast, and neither of them speaks for a while. Michael finishes first — methodical and fast — and sets his fork down and watches Yoichi chew with that same steady focus, waiting for an opening.
Yoichi ignores it. He eats his egg, bites into his dry toast, and stares at the far wall like the paint color has become suddenly fascinating.
“You know,” Michael says, leaning back, “you cook my eggs exactly how I like them every single time, and then you act like you’re doing me some huge inconvenience.”
“I am doing you a huge inconvenience. That’s four eggs I’ll never get back.”
“Two of those eggs were for you.”
“Mine were better.”
Michael huffs a laugh that’s almost tender, and Yoichi looks away because something in his chest tightens for a second and he needs it to stop. He stands, collects both plates, rinses them in the sink with the water running too hard, and sets them in the rack without drying them. The skillet sits on the stove, oiled and cooling, and he leaves it where it is.
“You’re really not cleaning that,” Michael observes from the table.
“Your kitchen, your skillet.” Yoichi dries his hands on the dish towel, tossing it onto the counter with practiced disinterest. He turns and leans against the sink, arms crossed, one bare foot stacked over the other, and meets Michael’s eyes across the kitchen with an expression that dares him to keep pushing.
Michael pushes.
He crosses the kitchen in three slow strides, unhurried, his shoulders loose, his eyes on Yoichi’s face with a focus that doesn’t waver, and Yoichi watches him come, jaw set, arms still folded, but he makes no move to leave, and Michael takes that as the invitation it is. His hands find Yoichi’s hips, thumbs hooking into the waistband of his boxers where the elastic has gone soft, and he leans in until their foreheads are almost touching.
“You fell asleep on me,” Michael says again, quieter now, and his fingers slide forward from Yoichi’s hips, tracing the crease where his thighs meet his pelvis. “That’s cruel.”
“Go find someone with more stamina, then.”
Michael’s thumb drags along the waistband, dipping just below the fabric, and Yoichi’s abdomen tightens involuntarily, a quick contraction he swallows before it reaches his face. Michael’s mouth curves — he felt it, and they both know it — and his fingers slip beneath the elastic, sliding across the lowest part of Yoichi’s stomach where the skin is taut and flushed. “I don’t want more stamina,” he murmurs. “I want you awake past eleven.”
“Micha,” Yoichi’s voice comes out flatter than he intends, a warning pressed thin, and his hand drops to grab Michael’s wrist. “I just made you breakfast.”
“And I appreciate it.” Michael’s fingers slide lower, past the soft hair, past the point where Yoichi’s grip on his wrist tightens enough to feel the tendons shift beneath the skin, and the boxers have no lining, nothing between his hand and the slick heat between Yoichi’s legs. His middle finger settles there first, gentle and precise, and Yoichi’s whole body locks, shoulders drawing up, breath snagging on the inhale. “I’m showing my appreciation.”
“This is the opposite of appreciation, you absolute—” Yoichi starts, but Michael presses in a slow, deliberate circle, and the rest of the sentence breaks apart in his mouth, the words scattering into a sound he clamps his jaw around before it can fully form. His hips jerk forward — a reflex he catches too late — and his free hand flies behind him to grip the edge of the sink, knuckles pressing white against the steel.
“Shh.” Michael’s mouth finds the hinge of Yoichi’s jaw, the sound barely a word, more breath than voice. His free arm wraps around Yoichi’s waist, pulling him forward against his chest, and his finger drags upward and presses again, firmer this time, a tight circle against Yoichi’s clit that jolts straight through the floor of his pelvis. “You’ll be a good boy for me, won’t you?”
Yoichi’s face floods with color, a furious blush that starts at his ears and crawls down his neck, and his mouth opens around something that could be a protest or a curse or an answer, but Michael speeds up before any of it takes shape, the pad of his finger slicking wet against the hood in quick, focused strokes that soften Yoichi’s knees and tip his weight forward into Michael’s chest.
Yoichi’s hand is still wrapped around Michael’s wrist, but his fingers have curled there for purchase now instead of restraint, nails pressing crescents into the skin. He breathes shallow and uneven, hitching on every upstroke, and he tries to speak, to say something sharp enough to cut through what is happening to him, but what comes out is a fractured exhale that Michael catches with his mouth, kissing the tendon that stands rigid along the side of Yoichi’s neck.
“That’s it,” Michael murmurs, and Yoichi hates that his voice sounds the same, that low register, barely winded, while Yoichi’s pulse is hammering so hard he can feel it in his fingertips. Michael holds the pace, quick and wet, his arm around Yoichi’s waist tightening when Yoichi’s hips rock forward into his hand, chasing the pressure with a desperation that embarrasses him even as it happens, each roll building on the last until his thigh muscles are trembling and his head drops to Michael’s shoulder.
The plates sit in the drying rack behind them, still warm. The skillet cools on the stove. The kitchen smells like oil and pepper and the clean, sharp scent of Michael’s skin, and Yoichi stares at the ceiling and breathes through his mouth and lets Michael take him apart in increments.
Michael circles steady, unhurried, and the wet builds with every pass until the sound of it fills the quiet kitchen, soft and slick, and Yoichi’s ears burn. His thighs start trembling, the tremor beginning deep in the quadriceps and spreading outward until his toes curl against the cold tile, and he grips Michael’s wrist with both hands now, pulling him closer, his hips rocking forward with a stuttered cadence he is choosing less and less of. Michael adjusts without being asked, circling tight and fast, and Yoichi’s forehead presses hard into his collarbone.
“Michael,” Yoichi says, and his own voice startles him — wrecked and thin. He tightens on Michael’s wrist, pulling him in, holding him there, his hips stuttering forward as the muscles in his lower belly clench in a rolling wave. “I’m gonna— wait, I’m—”
Michael stops. His finger lifts, the pressure vanishing so suddenly that Yoichi’s whole body lurches forward into the empty space where the sensation was, chasing something already gone. He makes a sound and yanks at Michael’s wrist, but Michael has already withdrawn, his fingers trailing slick across Yoichi’s inner thigh as they slide free.
“What the fuck,” Yoichi breathes. He lifts his head and stares at Michael with his cheeks flushed dark, his chest heaving, his mouth still parted around the breath he was holding. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Michael holds his gaze, the corner of his mouth twitching, and hooks both thumbs into Yoichi’s waistband. He pulls the boxers down in one smooth motion and lets them pool around his ankles, and the cool air hits the wet between Yoichi’s legs and he shivers, aware of the slick already glossing his inner thighs. Michael pushes his own sweatpants down past his hips, and Yoichi’s eyes drop before he can stop himself, then snap back up with a look that is equal parts warning and want.
“Michael Kaiser,” Yoichi says, and his voice cracks halfway through the surname. “I will bench press you through this floor.”
Michael steps back in and guides his cock between Yoichi’s thighs. The first slide makes them both go still, the rigid heat of him dragging through the soaked folds until the head presses tight against Yoichi’s clit from underneath, and Yoichi catches the sound behind his teeth too late. Michael rolls his hips forward, slow, deliberate, the shaft slipping through all that wetness, and Yoichi’s nails bite into his shoulders as his jaw clenches around a moan.
“Relax,” Michael murmurs against his temple, and rocks again, each forward pass catching against Yoichi’s clit and dragging a fresh jolt through him, each backstroke pressing blunt and heavy against his entrance before pulling away. Yoichi can feel him right there every time, and his knees buckle a fraction on each pass.
“You know you have a game on Thursday,” Yoichi manages, breathless, his hips pushing down against the slide before he can stop them. “And you’re wasting your energy on this.”
“This is cardio.” Michael’s voice has thinned, the ease wearing through. “You fell asleep on me. Consider it a rain check.”
“You’re cashing a rain check by grinding on me next to your dish rack?”
“Seems to be working.” Michael grinds harder and the head of his cock presses directly against Yoichi’s clit, and whatever Yoichi was going to say next dissolves into a shudder that runs through his whole body, his head tipping back against the cabinet. Michael watches his mouth go slack for half a second before he catches it. “You’re so wet I can feel it on my thighs.”
Yoichi grabs a fistful of Michael’s hair and forces their eyes to meet, then drops his other hand to wrap around the base of his cock and squeezes, hard enough to make Michael’s breath catch and his rhythm falter.
“If you put that in,” Yoichi says, low and shaking, “this is the last time I show up here.”
Michael covers Yoichi’s hand with his own, guiding the grip looser, gentler, until they’re both holding him and the heat pulses against Yoichi’s palm. “You’ll what?” he says, and his voice is quiet, almost tender, and something about the gentleness is worse than smugness would have been.
“I mean it.” Yoichi’s voice finds its edge. “I’ll stop coming over. I’ll stop cooking, I’ll stop sleeping in your bed, I’ll stop all of—”
“You said that in March,” Michael says.
Yoichi goes quiet. His mouth closes around whatever was coming next, and his jaw works once, twice, because Michael is right, he did say that in March, and here he is barefoot in Michael’s kitchen with his boxers around his ankles and Michael’s cock in his hand.
Michael slides in. Partway, not all at once, his hips tilting forward while Yoichi is mid-word, and Yoichi’s mouth stays open around the sentence he was building, the words replaced by a sound that starts low in his chest and climbs into his throat where it catches and holds, and his hand flies to Michael’s hip, gripping the bone. His body clamps down around something it hasn’t taken in two months, the stretch sudden and total, and the kitchen goes quiet except for the sound of their breathing.
Michael stops halfway. He has to. Yoichi is tight around him in a way that makes his arms shake where they grip Yoichi’s waist, a harsh exhale punching out through his nose, his jaw clenching as he holds himself still and lets Yoichi’s body decide how much more it can take. He presses his mouth to the top of Yoichi’s head and breathes him in, and Yoichi can feel the effort in the tremor running through Michael’s thighs.
“You were saying?” Michael whispers into his hair, and his voice is wrecked, the steadiness gone. “Something about the last time?”
Yoichi tilts his face up just enough to speak against Michael’s throat, his lips brushing the pulse point hammering beneath the skin.
“Shut up, Micha,” he says, and his voice breaks halfway through, and he rolls his hips forward into Michael’s body, a concession neither of them is going to mention later.
Michael takes that as permission. He pulls back slow, the drag of him lighting up every nerve Yoichi forgot he had, and pushes in again, a fraction deeper this time, still nowhere close to all the way. Yoichi’s body clenches and releases in waves he has no say in, and the sound he makes is something he would deny ever making if anyone asked.
“Two months,” Michael says against his ear, his voice low and scraped, and he rocks forward again, careful, testing. “You made me wait two months and you’re this tight.”
“I didn’t make you wait.” Yoichi’s fingers dig into the ridge of Michael’s hip, his voice thin but still sharp, still his.
“Felt pretty cruel.” Michael pulls back and pushes in again, and this time Yoichi feels the head of his cock drag against something inside him that whites out the edges of his vision, his shoulders jerking up, a sound breaking through his teeth before he can catch it. Michael holds there, reading the clench of Yoichi’s body, and adjusts his angle by a degree. “Especially when you kept sending me pictures of you at the gym.”
“Those were— progress photos.” Yoichi’s breath hitches as Michael rocks forward, and he loses the sentence for a second before pulling it back. “For my trainer.”
“You sent them to me.”
“You were on the thread.”
“The thread with your trainer and your nutritionist.” Michael pulls back slow, pushes in, still only three-quarters of the way, and Yoichi’s thighs tighten around him involuntarily as he sinks deeper. “You were shirtless and flexing in a bathroom mirror. That’s a thirst trap, not a progress photo.”
“It was a lat spread.” Yoichi’s voice is getting thinner now, the sentences shorter, the pauses between them filling with the sound of his own breathing. Michael fucks into him with a patience that makes Yoichi want to scream, each stroke pulling back to the tip and pressing in slow and deep, never quite bottoming out, the last inch held back.
“You looked good,” Michael murmurs, and his mouth drags down the side of Yoichi’s neck, his teeth grazing the tendon. “You always look good. Drove me out of my mind.”
“Should’ve— handled it yourself, then.” The words come out fractured. Michael’s pace is unhurried, each thrust dragging through the tight grip of Yoichi’s body, the slick sound of it filling the kitchen alongside their uneven breathing. Yoichi can feel every inch Michael gives him, the ache at its deepest point where his body resists and yields and resists again, and his legs are trembling so hard now that Michael’s arm around his waist is the only reason he’s still standing.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Michael pushes in deeper on the next stroke, close enough that Yoichi feels the pressure of his hips almost flush, almost there, and his whole body bears down on reflex, trying to take the rest. Michael holds him still, one hand flat against his lower belly, pinning him. “Easy. You’re not ready for that yet.”
“I can take it,” Yoichi says, and his voice is barely a voice anymore, scraped raw, the consonants soft at the edges.
“I know you can.” Michael pulls back slow and fucks in again, same depth, same denial, and Yoichi’s forehead drops to his shoulder. “But I like watching you try.”
“You’re the worst person I’ve ever met.” Yoichi is losing full sentences now. His fingers are clawed into Michael’s back, nails dragging red lines down the muscle, and every thrust forces a sound out of him that gets shorter and less controlled, the moans thinning into high, bitten-off things that catch in his throat. His hips rock forward to meet every stroke, chasing depth, and Michael matches him each time, giving just enough to hold the ache at its edge.
“And yet you still do my laundry,” Michael says, and the fact that he can still form a full sentence right now makes Yoichi want to kill him.
“That’s because you can’t even— fuck.” The sentence derails when Michael changes the angle, tilting his hips up on the next thrust so the head of his cock drags firm and slow over the spot that makes Yoichi’s vision swim, and whatever he was going to say about Michael’s domestic incompetence dies in his mouth. He digs rigid fingers into his upper back, his thighs clamping hard around Michael’s hips.
“Can’t even what?” Michael murmurs, and Yoichi can hear the strain in his voice now, his breath coming uneven against Yoichi’s hair.
Yoichi can feel it building, the pressure gathering low in his pelvis, each thrust compounding the last until his whole lower body feels tight and charged. His breathing goes ragged, the exhales turning into something close to whimpers that he swallows as fast as they come, and he slides his hand from Michael’s back to the nape of his neck, pulling him in close, pulling him in hard, their foreheads pressing together.
“Micha,” His voice is a wreck. “Micha, I’m— close, I’m really—”
His fingers tighten on Michael’s neck, nails biting into the skin at his hairline, and his other hand grabs Michael’s forearm, a grip that means listen to me, means don’t stop. His whole body draws tight, every muscle from his calves to his jaw clenching in a wave, and he pulls Michael’s face against his neck and holds him there.
Michael reads it. He pulls back one more time, slow, and then pushes in deep, deeper than before, and pauses just short of the last inch with his hips flush against the inside of Yoichi’s thighs. He holds there, buried and still, the pressure full and constant, and Yoichi shatters against him.
The orgasm hits in a long, rolling clench that starts deep in his pelvis and pulls outward, his body tightening around Michael in rhythmic pulses that force a broken sound out of both of them.
Yoichi feels himself soak, the rush of wet heat flooding the space between them, coating Michael’s cock, dripping down the inside of his thighs, and the sound of it is the loudest thing in the kitchen. His legs give out entirely and Michael catches him, both arms locking around his waist, holding him upright while his body shakes through wave after wave of it, each contraction wringing another pulse of slick from him until his boxers pooled on the floor are spotted with it and Michael’s thighs are wet to the knee.
Yoichi clings to him with his face buried in Michael’s neck, breathing in shallow, shattered gasps, his fingers still locked in Michael’s hair. His body clenches in small aftershocks that make him twitch and press closer, and Michael holds still through all of it, his own breath ragged, his cock still hard and buried inside the tight, slick grip of Yoichi’s body.
The kitchen is quiet except for the sound of them breathing. The eggs sit cold on the counter. The light has shifted, morning pushing further into the room, catching the wet sheen on Yoichi’s inner thighs and the flush that runs from his ears down his chest.
“So,” Michael says after a long moment, his voice rough and winded, his mouth pressed against Yoichi’s temple. “Last time, huh?”
Yoichi makes a sound against his neck that might be a laugh or might be something closer to tired, and his fingers tighten in Michael’s hair, and he doesn’t move.