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Yorimitsu does not kiss him. He presses his lips against his, and Onikiri lets him into his mouth, but it is not a kiss.
Nor is it anything else when Yorimitsu disrobes him, deftly removing each layer with practiced ease. It is not love when he runs his hand down the length of Onikiri’s body, pausing at his chest, appreciating a steady heartbeat before meandering further down. So it is not a kiss when Onikiri reaches up with his arms to trap Yorimitsu against him as he pushes his legs open, passing breaths into each other’s mouths.
Yorimitsu’s lips are chapped. Onikiri thinks if he presses his mouth against them hard enough, they’ll crack and bleed, painting his tongue red.
He doesn’t, though perhaps he should have, as the blood would have sobered him up enough for him to notice sooner that Yorimitsu is undressing himself as well. A new development. Onikiri has spent too much time with his former master to not be wary of progress.
But then a finger enters him with barely a murmured warning, and Onikiri lets it go, along with his reservations, letting pleasure take precedence over caution.
It’s not until a while after that Onikiri regains his senses again.
First, touch: the feeling of bare skin splayed across his, hair tickling his ear, as Yorimitsu lays atop Onikiri’s body, nose pressing into his pulse.
Second, hearing: Yorimitsu’s breath, too close for comfort, warming his cheek as it comes out in soft, soundless puffs.
Third, smell: the obvious smell of sex and lust and everything Onikiri hates in himself and loves (this is not love) in Yorimitsu.
Fourth, taste: blood on his lips and in his mouth and on his tongue and it is not his own, but Yorimitsu’s, just like everything else.
And finally, sight: their sticky limbs entangled in each other like snakes, too much of something for Onikiri to more than glance at.
Yorimitsu lifts his head from where it lay in the crook of Onikiri’s neck, and looms over him, casting a long shadow in the pallid moonlight. He stares at Onikiri, his face, his left eye, his mole.
If this was the first time they had slept together, perhaps Onikiri would’ve hid from his gaze, shut his eyes to pretend Yorimitsu wasn’t there. But it’s not, so he just glares back, daring. He has long since learned not to run away from his battles.
Yorimitsu says nothing, and Onikiri says nothing back.
This is not a truce, nor is it love. It’s something in between, and Onikiri falls for it every time.