.

There were some things that Kei never told Sho.

I love your face when you pout, I love the way you smell, I love the blue, blue, blue of your eyes…

Sho was cleaning one of his guns, oiling it till it gleamed, silvery and lethal, under the dim apartment lighting. As if sensing Kei’s scrutiny, he looked up, expression halfway between questioning and challenging—one part ‘What is it?’ and two parts ‘fuck you’.

Kei didn’t mind. He didn’t bother to look away.

I love the way you move, I love the sound of your voice…

“What the hell is it? Is there something on my face?” Sho went back to concentrating on his gun, as if he didn’t care that Kei was staring holes into his skin. Sho was quite amazingly good at pretending he didn’t give a fuck about things. Kei sometimes wondered if he’d gotten it from him.

“It’s nothing,” said Kei, half-smiling, voice full of lies.

Sho hmphed loudly; didn’t bother to call him on it. He kept his eyes lowered.

I love your hands, I love the line of your throat, I love the sounds you make when you’re lost in dreams…

Kei lit up a cigarette and took a long drag. Sho looked up.

“Hey, give me one, too.”

“You have your own, cheapskate,” Kei teased.

“I’m busy, just light me one. Or share.”

Kei shrugged, as if he didn’t care, and moved to sit next to the other man. He leaned on Sho’s shoulder as if he were an armrest and held his own cigarette to Sho’s lips.

I love your mouth, your sweet sweet mouth, I love the way you lower your eyes…

Sho puffed, blew smoke into the air above their heads. “Thanks,” he said, absently.

Kei leaned back, put the cigarette back in his mouth. Imagined he could taste Sho there.

I love you, I love you, I love you…

“No problem,” he said.

.

.