.

Gackt leaned back against the pillows, enjoying the cool feeling of the sheets sliding over his bare skin. How often did he get to do this, really? Just lie around in bed, being lazy?

It was… really sort of nice.

The readout on his clock said 12:45 PM, but he forced himself to ignore it, forced himself to stay there, reclined against the headboard, as if nothing in the world mattered and he had all day. Technically, he did have all day (and his management team had apologized profusely for it, So sorry, Gackt-san, hole in the schedule, but maybe you need a day off?). Despite his (probably well-deserved) reputation for obliviousness, Gackt could take a hint, occasionally. When he wanted to.

Like now, for example. A long-fingered hand snaked across his chest, playfully dragging at his skin, and he took it as a hint that his bed-mate was finally up for another round.

He smiled, head tilted back to look at the ceiling. “Good morning, Die.”

“Nngh,” was Die’s mostly-muffled reply. The Dir en grey guitarist still had his face buried in a pillow. Gackt looked down, tracing the lines of the other man’s back with his eyes, following the scratches that showed faintly pink across the paler expanse of his skin.

“Although it’s not actually morning,” Gackt continued, thoughtfully, tone serious, as if he were explaining something philosophical. “It’s past noon.”

Die made another sound into the pillow, which Gackt took to be laughter. “What?” he asked, half-laughing himself. “Is that bad?”

Die finally lifted his head from the pillow to give Gackt a bleary (but rather smug, Gackt thought) grin. “Gackt, do you know what time we went to sleep?”

“Five thirty-six,” Gackt said, matter-of-factly. “Or at least, that’s when you started to snore.”

“Fuck you, I don’t snore.”

“You do. Like a freight train.”

This prompted a tussling match which lasted for several minutes, only ending when Gackt, due to superior agility, managed to pin the lanky guitarist beneath him. And then they were kissing, long and deep, and then Gackt was sliding his hand down the other man’s abdomen--

“Shit, Gackt, again?” Die pushed him off a bit, laughing breathlessly.

Gackt smiled down at him, but backed off a little. “Too tired? And here you have the benefit of youth.”

“What I need is the benefit of food,” Die replied. “We didn’t even get halfway through dinner last night.”

Gackt cast his eyes to the side, an oddly coquettish gesture. His smile was like chocolate, sweet and sinful. “I didn’t want to wait,” he said, simply, and Die shivered in spite of himself, feeling the heat rise and gather once again at the satin-smooth tone of that voice.

“Fuck. How do you do that?”

“Do what?” Gackt shifted his eyes; his expression was pure sex.

Die moaned, and pulled Gackt down on top of him once more.

.

.

.

.

Afterward, Die yawned, stretched, and said, “Let’s get takeout.”

Gackt made a noncommittal sound as he took a drag on his cigarette.

“C’mon, I am starving. I want… Chinese.”

“Chinese?” Gackt looked distantly amused.

“Of course.” Die’s expression had gone dead-serious. “Everyone knows Chinese is the traditional post-coital food.”

Gackt blew a stream of smoke above their heads. “Well, I’d imagine in China it is.”

Die laughed and hit him with a pillow. “I’m serious. If I don’t get some Moo Goo Gai Pan, I’m going to die. And then you’ll either be out of sex, or have to turn to necrophilia.”

Gackt made a face. “Chinese it is,” he said.

.

.

.

.

Later, as they lounged indolently in bed, eating right out of the neat white cartons, it was Gackt who said, “This is nice.”

“Yeah,” Die said. “You should take days off more often.”

Gackt opened his mouth to say the obvious: I can’t, I’m too busy, you’re too busy--but Die just shook his head. “Shut up. Just eat your Chinese, Gackt.”

Gackt could take a hint, occasionally. He took one now.

Moo Goo Gai Pan, the after-sex food. He’d have to remember that.