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Few people would guess that a man as busy as Fukuzawa Yukichi has, in addition to a bustling professional life and a wicked quickness with a sword, hobbies. Except maybe Ranpo, but the detective is completely disinterested. He suspects that’s in part because daily, he surrounds himself with objects that have purpose. The cup of tea on his desk is not just a fixture of comfort, nor is the katana at his side is not simply a murmur of a past spattered in red or a weapon to protect him now.
Ikebana, on the surface at least, serves no purpose, but Fukuzawa finds himself drawn to its principles: fresh approach, movement, balance, harmony. He finds peace in ruminating over the flowers and greenery, over their heights and placement in the kenzan. It is as much an art as iaido is to him. He’d like to think even Ranpo wouldn’t suspect this is how he uses his precious little spare time.
Fukuzawa uses what he finds in his arrangements, striving for three but occasionally five inclusions, but never four. That number is too dark for such a delicate discipline. Today, he favors three: a sprig of plum blossom buds he encountered on the ground in Sankeien Park, some camellias he stopped to admire, and finally, a small pine branch whose green refuses to fade. He takes his keepsake forest home and lays it out beside the tools: the kenzan, the scissors, some water, the ceramic bowl.
If anyone were watching him, they would be startled by how slowly he moves in comparison to when he wields his sword.
The chrysanthemum has to be heaven. It feels unwieldy in some ways, but its red color and tall stem makes it perfect for the highest line. Beneath the water, he trims the stem and finds its spot among the kenzan ’s spines. He nestles it in, then turns to the pine and the plum blossom. And for a long time, he debates on which should be placed where. In the end, he weighs them both, one in each hand, pondering over the choice as if his life depends on it.
The buds provide a nice contrast to the large bloom, so he ultimately decides to make it the second line. Not to mention, with the leaves accompanying the flower, the starker branch will break up the monotony of green. He repeats the process, trimming the stem beneath the water, tucking it into the kenzan.
The pine suddenly feels like it doesn’t fit, a sign of fresh approach, he’s sure. The unfamiliar unsettles. It always has.
Perhaps that’s why, when he hears his door open, he doesn’t even move his head. By now, he is accustomed to these occasional reminiscent visits. Besides, if Mori was going to kill him, he wouldn’t bother letting himself in through the front door.
Still kneeling at his low table, Fukuzawa studies the arrangement thus far, holds the pine branch up. The way it arches reminds him of—
“Fukuzawa-dono, why are you frowning at a sprig of pine?”
His focus breaks away from the arrangement. He wishes it hadn’t, considering how Mori is dressed in a way that gives him chills. Instead of his usual black coat, red scarf, and suit, he’s wearing a kimono of all things. Port Mafia black, of course, but the fabric is covered in an intricate garden of blooms and branches.
He doesn’t believe he can be any more doomed, but then he realizes Mori isn’t wearing his gloves.
Fukuzawa swallows the lump in his throat.
“Am I interrupting something?”
He jolts, not because it’s Mori, but because the man’s voice is so close to his ear. Something woodsy and smokey drifts through the air. Cologne, he guesses. Mori’s cologne. And maybe a bit of the cigarette he likely smoked on his way there. “You are intruding, yes,” Fukuzawa manages.
A light laugh fills the space. Somehow, it helps him pinpoint where the final piece of his ikebana puzzle belongs. He dips the stem beneath the water, trims it. The weight of Mori’s chin on his shoulder nearly makes him slip.
“Do you mind?”
“That you finish? Not at all. I just didn’t take you as the type to practice ikebana.”
“You say that,” Fukuzawa retorts, “yet you show up dressed like that.”
“Mmm…” Mori’s fingers crawl around his arm “Perhaps I was hoping you would make me part of the arrangement.”
Fukuzawa positions the branch among his other materials, adds some water, and settles back on his cushion to study his work. Perhaps it’s not as extravagant as Mori’s current attire, but there is a beauty in the simplicity of his arrangement, a comforting emptiness… “I have to ask, Mori-dono, how did you anticipate I would be doing this tonight? Don’t tell me one of your employees was spying on me.”
“Please. When have I ever spied on you?”
A thousand instances where he has felt watched crowd his tongue. He refuses to voice any of them.
“It looks nice,” Mori finally comments. The words feel to Fukuzawa like they’re meant to feel the silence.
“Does it, now?” He continues studying the arrangement, the end result of his thoughts cut short by the unlucky—and very unplanned—fourth component. Still, there’s something interesting about it. “What makes you say that, Mori-dono?”
He doesn’t have to look to know Mori is pondering. “Simple. The red chrysanthemums? The plum blossoms?”
Scoffing, Fukuzawa retorts, “It is mere coincidence.”
Mori chuckles in his ear again, sending static down his spine. “What a miraculous thing, the way the will of gods and heavens aligned in this.”
Fukuzawa sways a bit as Mori’s weight drapes across his shoulders and presses against his back. “Are you trying to replace my haori, Mori-dono?”
“Am I doing a good job?”
“No.”
He says it just for the indignant pout Mori sends him. “Surely, I’m warmer than that ragged old thing.”
Fukuzawa doesn’t mention all the times Mori has wrapped himself in that garment without complaint. Instead, he says, “You break into my house, distract me from my evening plans, and insult my clothing. Yet somehow, you still expect me to praise you.” Fukuzawa shuffles a bit so he is half facing the Port Mafia boss. “What was your intent in coming here, Mori-dono? Are you here simply to be a nuisance, or do you want something from me?”
Mori’s arms wind up around his neck. “I believe I was clear, Fukuzawa-dono.” Mori leans closer. “You clearly enjoy flower arrangement. I am dressed in this.”
“I am not following you,” he answers, knowing full well Mori’s lips have inched so close, the breath of his response hits them.
“Feigning ignorance doesn’t suit you, Fukuzawa-dono.”
“Neither does breaking and entering.”
“I broke nothing,” Mori hisses. “I had no need to. The door was unlocked, almost as if you were expecting me.”
For once, it’s Fukuzawa who connects their lips, putting a stop to Mori’s ridiculous monologue before it can even truly get going.
But Mori pulls back, his unnatural eyes opening like a flower. “I broke nothing,” He says again. “Not your door, and certainly not our vo—”
Fukzuawa’s hand winds into Mori’s hair as he leans in for a deeper kiss. He works the tie loose despite Mori’s clear attempts to distract him, half wishing he had some foliage from his arrangement left over for once. Part of him curses his habit of taking only what he needs. Then again, contrary to his routine, he knows he’s kissing Mori far more than necessary.
This time, when he backs away, Mori pulls him back in in his usual demanding way. Fukuzawa goes willingly, parting the mafioso’s lips with his tongue.
A long time ago, Fukuzawa learned this is something he can only do with Mori. That same night, he likewise learned it’s something Mori can only do with Fukuzawa. Plausibly, they could do it with other people, but for Fukuzawa, it involves too much trust, too much vulnerability. It’s enough to have Mori. Conversely, for Mori, it’s never enough. Insatiable, demanding… a borderline hedonist beneath the black suit and white gloves—though tonight, while his attire is different, his personality is not.
Pulling away, half breathless, Fukuzawa stops Mori from reconnecting their mouths so he can breathe. “A man… can change his clothes, Mori-dono.” He trails his hand down Mori’s chest. “But beneath them, he remains the same.”
“Is that your way of asking to remove them and deflower me?”
Fukuzawa rolls his eyes. “I believe I did that twelve years ago.” That grumbled comment takes him back to Mori’s underground clinic, poorly lit, where a younger, stubblier Mori sat hunched over his desk. His own younger self treads the floor, but in the same firm voice, he says, “If you keep the room this dim, it will have a terrible affect on your eyesight.”
“If you have the energy to complain, Fukuzawa-dono…” He extends his hand. There’s a document in it. “Then you have the energy to work.”
Fukuzawa accepts the paper he’s offered. Or, more accurately, he tries to. Instead, his fingers brush against Mori’s. He pulls away, flustered, like he has touched an open flame without getting burned. After a moment of staring at his fingers, he glances up to find Mori smirking at him, his garnet eyes aglow.
“Problem?”
“No,” he answers, dropping his own eyes to the only object on Mori’s cluttered desk that doesn’t make sense: a vase of flowers.
“Are you jealous of the person who got them for me?” Mori asks, snickering as Fukuzawa throws him what has to be an aghast look. “Don’t be. I bought them myself to brighten things up a bit.”
“What purpose does that serve?”
“It doesn’t need to serve a purpose, Fukuzawa-dono,” he responds, lowering his gaze to the form again. “Sometimes, a simple draw or a fascination is purpose enough.”
He suspects it’s just his imagination, but Fukuzawa doesn’t think Mori is talking about the flowers. As if detecting his suspicion, Mori lifts a pen from the desk and starts fiddling with it. Fukuzawa finds himself studying the motions. The movement is familiar. If the pen were a scalpel… no. It’s different. At first, there’s nothing suggestive about the motion, but then, he realizes Mori has caught him staring. With a smile, he starts moving slower, sets the pen against his lips as if in thought, drops his eyes to the paper. His bare fingers stand out against the dark barrel of the pen.
“They’re irises.”
Mori’s words break the spell. Blinking, Fukuzawa looks at him.
“In the Japanese language of flowers, they have several meanings, but the white ones are especially interesting.”
“They do not suit your bloody hands.”
“Nor do they suit yours, Fukuzawa-dono,” he answers.
After a long moment of waiting for Mori to clarify what they mean, he clears his throat.
“I must be distracting you from the work I’ve asked you to do.”
“I was waiting for an explanation.”
Mori sighs and sets the form down, folds one knee over the other, and intertwines his fingers. “You really don’t know?”
“If I knew, I would not waste your time asking. That serves no purpose.”
That familiar pout sweeps across Mori’s face. “I bought them simply because I liked them.”
“I don’t believe you would have mentioned the meaning if you were not trying to tell me something.”
Mori’s resistant frown persists. Pacing forward, Fukuzawa sets the form down on the desk without even looking at it and rounds it. Once he’s on the same side as Mori, he folds his arms until Mori spins his chair.
“The white ones… are a declaration of love.”
“Fascinating,” Fukuzawa murmurs.
Mori lifts his face. He looks startled, as if he didn’t expect praise. “Of course, their meaning is different in the European language of flowers.”
He leans against the desk, arms still folded. “I’d be interested in hearing how if you’re willing to share.”
“They… have several meanings.”
Did he just stutter? Fukuzawa wonders.
But Mori continues. “Paradoxically, they are popular at both weddings and funerals, as they symbolize purity, innocence, and sympathy.”
The knowledge serves no purpose. None at all. Or maybe it is, considering it’s about Mori. He studies the doctor for another moment. “Mori-dono, I am about to ask you a question that you will likely find unnecessary.”
Still frowning, Mori nods. Fukuzawa watches the man brace himself.
“Are you actually blushing?”
“Yes! I mean—no! I—”
Fukuzawa has pictured Mori with many faces: a genuine smile, a weary yawn… but never stammering. He leans forward and sets his hands on the arms of the chair, another purposeless action, but the way Mori looks up at him—like he’s cornered… like he’s caught —
“Fukuzawa-dono, you… you’re too close.”
He recedes back to leaning on the desk. He begins by clearing his throat. “My sincere apologies,” he states. “It seems I was mistaken in my impressions.”
“What impressions were those?”
“That you didn’t buy the flowers for yourself.” With a shrug, he circles the desk again, reaching for the paper Mori gave him earlier, but before he can reach it, he hears a clatter behind him as Mori shoots out of the chair. Expecting a scalpel in his back, he twists and puts a hand on his sword.
Instead, he’s met with a rushed kiss. Drawing back, Mori spits, “You’re a fool, Yukichi.”
Startled, Fukuzawa lifts the hand that was just on his sword to his lips.
“And now,” Mori continues, smirking, “we are even in the blushing department.”
Was that all he intended? Fukuzawa thinks. The idea makes him fume. Without thinking, he snatches Mori’s tie and jerks him forward again, intending to take full advantage of his open mouth, but his mind clears at the last moment.
“What? Having second thoughts?”
“My only second thought was that I should ask.”
“No need,” Mori retorts, jerking him forward. No battle has ever made Fukuzawa’s knees unsteady, but Mori kissing him with that much need… they practically buckle.
After some clumsy fumbling—Mori’s white coat lands on the floor with Fukuzawa’s haori and scarf—they manage to clear the desk. The papers scatter across the floor in disarray. Fukuzawa drapes the doctor over the wooden surface. Somehow, the flowers are spared their haste: the vase remains untouched at the corner. Fukuzawa thinks better of moving any further until he sets it down on the floor, well out of the way of whatever meaningless act they’re about to engage in. The instant he’s hovering over Mori again, he loosens the tie and tosses it, then begins with the buttons.
“What purpose does this serve?” Mori asks.
Fukuzawa’s hands stop. “Does it need to serve a purpose?”
“I would prefer it did, if I’m being honest.”
Fukuzawa smooths the v-shaped patch of skin between the buttons and buttonholes of Mori’s shirt. And he ponders what the meaning of this might be. “The purpose,” he states, rising to untie his hakama belt. “Is satisfaction.”
“Then you will be fucking me until dawn.”
“What gave you the impression I was planning to spend a moment less on this?”
They never do get all of their clothes off that night. Mori comes with his legs wrapped around Fukuzawa’s waist, socked heels digging into Fukuzawa’s back, violet shirt completely open and revealing pale skin dotted by kisses. Fukuzawa only breaks eye contact with Mori when he comes himself. At least the first time. When they try again, Fukuzawa’s back to the wall, Mori’s hips rising and falling until they both find their climaxes again, he manages not to.
Beneath him, Mori gasps. Not like he’s dying. Like he’s living. In that memory, and in the present, where a kimono-clad Mori winds his arms around Fukuzawa’s neck. “The floor? How nostalgic. Have we really been doing this for twelve years?”
Humming, Fukuzawa answers, “I have one regret about that first night.”
Mori’s smile disappears.
Sweeping Mori’s hair out of his face, he murmurs, “I misread the purpose entirely. And, because of that, I rushed it.” Continuing to caress Mori’s face, Fukuzawa watches Mori’s eyes sink shut. “I intend to take my time with you tonight, Mori-dono.”
“Take too much time, and I am liable to get impatient.”
He trails his fingers over Mori’s neck, down his chest. Mori’s eyes appear again, blooming, eager. “But Ougai…” He drapes that name over Mori like a blanket and continues trailing his fingers downward over the fabric. “You asked to be part of the arrangement. Do you really know nothing about ikebana?”
“I know you practice it,” Mori answers.
Fukuzawa trails his fingers back up over Mori’s clothed shoulder. “I believe in wearing this, you have unknowingly fulfilled the first principle: a fresh approach.” He parts the fabric, bends to kiss the newly exposed skin. It’s nice enough on its own, but the ragged moan and the way Mori arches into his touch make it all the better. “Are you interested in the others?”
“I’m more interested in you fucking me.”
Fukuzawa rises and delights in the way Mori has flushed. “There is also movement.”
Mori actually yelps when Fukuzawa pulls him upright and starts working on the obi holding his clothes shut open. The whole time, Mori sends him an indignant pout.
“Problem?”
“Yes, there’s a problem. You can’t startle me like that.”
“Mmm… but the noise you made was quite cute.”
Another whine, this one less startled, prompts Fukuzawa to kiss Mori, a silent request for forgiveness that, given Mori pulls him back in, he’s granted.
As they kiss with Mori’s knees bent and his feet on either side of Fukuzawa, legs spread in a way Fukuzawa can only describe as undignified and immodest, he removes his own obi. The fabric falls open, and he slides his fingers beneath the fabric to bare one of his shoulders open. “Movement,” He murmurs again. Pushing the garment off of Mori’s other shoulder, he continues, “Balance.” The fabric pools at Mori’s waist. Mori peers up at him. “Harmony,” he concludes, setting a finger under Mori’s chin and leaning forward until their lips meet. He feels Mori melting into the gesture, feels the doctor’s bare hands working his own kimono open. They’re skillful with scalpels, true, but they’re even more skilled at stripping him bare.
Before long, Fukuzawa feels his kimono descending his arms. He pulls back to see the want in Mori’s eyes has fully bloomed. Mori’s lips, slick with their spit, remain parted. He drops his arms, unthreads them, lifts his hands to Mori’s face.
“How is this arrangement going, Fukuzawa-dono?”
After a long hum, he murmurs, “I’m still pondering. We should decide on ‘heaven’ soon, though.”
“Heaven?”
“The tallest line in the arrangement.” Fukuzawa bats the one strand of Mori’s hair that consistently refuses to lay flat. “Perhaps this?”
Mori smiles. “You.”
“Me?”
“Of course, you will be heaven in this arrangement, Fukuzawa-dono.”
Clearly, Mori is saying something without saying it. Fukuzawa would be hard-pressed to explain what, but he understands innately. Even without words, he knows. Mori probably knows, too. A past version of himself saw this as frivolous, but that’s not how he sees it anymore.
Smoothing Mori’s flushed face again, he lowers his eyes to the man’s chest and sighs. “As loath as I am to leave you alone… permit me a moment to collect the things we need to make this easier on you.”
“Just say you want me to feel pleasure, Fukuzawa-dono.”
He obeys the gentle pressure of Mori’s hands as they cup his face. Soon enough, he’s looking into Mori’s eyes again.
“You must not have been paying much attention when you were undressing me. Had you been more mindful, you would have seen I came prepared.”
Fukuzawa arches a brow, but before he can ponder the matter at hand, Mori is kissing him again, soft but insistent.
“Check the obi, Yukichi.”
Before he does, he dips his hands down Mori’s back, over the bottom hem of his boxers, and squeezes. An outraged yelp fills his ear, and Fukuzawa smiles for the first time all night.
“Well, Fukuzawa-dono, you look quite pleased with yourself.”
“If you didn’t make such undignified noises, perhaps I would feel less satisfied.”
“You’re still grabbing my ass,” Mori retorts, pouting despite his obvious blush.
“It’s nice, but if you object—“
“I only object because I’d like us to get on with it.”
“Who knew you were an impatient man?”
“You did!”
Fukuzawa presses a kiss of apology to Mori’s mouth, then relinquishes his grip. “It is a nice part of you.”
“You said all of me was nice,” Mori retorts, shifting forward to remove one of his tabi socks. At that angle, Fukuzawa can clearly see Mori’s cock straining against his boxers. Searching through the fabric, trying his best to resist his desires to touch the man about to be beneath him, he finally locates the items Mori referenced: a packet of lube.
“Seems you neglected to bring the condom.”
“After twelve years…” Mori arches in a way Fukuzawa has never seen and catches his lips while still managing to remove his second sock. “I didn’t think we needed one.”
Fukuzawa never anticipated this kind of invitation, but it’s one he accepts in silence, spreading Mori out, kissing a line down Mori’s neck, his chest, his stomach, all while the Port Mafia boss arches and gasps and scrapes the tatami mat with his toes. “You are not the begging type, Mori-dono, but right now, it sounds to me like you’re more desperate than usual.”
Mori drops his hands away from his face and throws a flustered look at Fukuzawa.
“Is there perhaps a reason for that?”
The whimper Mori emits in response sounds almost pathetic. Intrigued, Fukuzawa drops another kiss on Mori’s stomach and traces his waistband. As he rises, he’s treated with the sight of Mori’s cock twitching behind his boxers. Feeling devious, Fukuzawa palms him, biting back a snickers as Mori grinds into his hand.
“If your underlings could see you now, what would they think?”
“If anyone but you could see me now,” Mori manages, dropping his hips and smiling. “You would not let them live.”
Before removing Mori’s final piece of clothing, Fukuzawa puts the first mark of the night on Mori’s neck. The skin beneath his lips shudders, and a loud moan fills the room. Pecking the mark, Fukuzawa shifts and slides Mori’s boxers down his legs, sending a satisfied smile at Mori’s cock hard against his stomach. “You are truly a marvel, Mori-dono.” Mori moves his ankles, carefully unthreading them.
And that’s when Fukuzawa sees it. It’s not a quick look, either. He stares, stunned to silence, realizing that Mori probably came here like this, that he endured it while Fukuzawa finished his arrangement, has been enduring it all this time.
“Ougai.”
“What?” Mori whines.
“What is this?”
Resting a hand on his forehead, Mori sends him a smile. “I wanted to be ready to take you as soon as I got here.”
“Are you expecting praise for filling yourself with something that isn’t my cock?” He watches the Port Mafia boss’s smile waiver. Sighing, he smooths Mori’s knee. “It was certainly surprising. But I confess, I’m a bit jealous.”
“Of a dildo? Really now?” Mori laughs like he has lost his mind. It’s one of the most beautiful sounds in the world. Composing himself, Mori continues, “Yukichi… I know we have often said we were each other’s only choice, but you… truly are the best one in my mind.”
“If I am competing against this…” He grips the base of the toy and twists it, and Mori arches with a yell. His cock twitches, dribbling precome onto his stomach. “Then it’s not much of a contest, is it?”
“No. It’s not. You’re so much better…”
Fukuzawa gives the toy a tug, and it starts to slip out. “Do you use this on yourself often, Mori-dono?”
“Only when… ah… meeting you is impossible.”
“That still sounds too often for my liking.” He pushes it back in, and Mori throws his head back. “Perhaps you enjoy this toy more than you enjoy me,” he continues, pulling it loose again. “Perhaps I should make you come with it instead.”
“Who knew… ah… the silver wolf could be so petty?”
“How exactly is pleasuring you like this pettiness, Mori-dono?”
“Because I want your cock inside of me,” he snaps.
Fukuzawa responds with a rougher thrust that draws another moan out of Mori. “I believe this is pleasing you enough.”
“It’s not. At all,” Mori grits out.
But Fukuzawa still feels his hips shuffle back to meet the toy’s thrusts. “I must admit, you did quite well keeping this inside of you for as long as you did. Likewise, the sight of your body letting it go…” He pulls the toy almost all the way out. “…then taking it back in…”
“Fuck,” Mori breathes, clawing at the tatami and arching.
“It is something extraordinary. I half think you could come just from me toying with you like this.”
“No.” The word is a sputter. “No… not just this… you…”
This time, Fukuzawa removes the toy in its entirety and watches Mori close around nothing. “Stay still, Ougai. I said I was going to take my time with you tonight. There’s too much motion in the arrangement.”
Mori passes him a look.
“Catch your breath. I’ll give you what you want. First, though, I wish to give your body a little break, especially since this…” He caresses Mori’s rim and bites back another smirk at the moan. “…has been occupied for as long as it has.”
“Don’t… tease…”
“But Ougai,” Fukuzawa murmurs. There's more than enough lube to let him slip two of his fingertips inside. “You’re reacting so beautifully.”
“Yukichi…”
Fukuzawa withdraws his fingers.
“Please…”
“I’m not a cruel man,” Fukuzawa murmurs. “I will tease you a bit more, but I will not work you up to the point of begging.”
“Then?”
“Then…” He shifts to his knees and slips his own boxers down his hips. His cock, hard with want, springs out. “I will see if you prepared yourself well enough to take me in one go.”
“Will you…”
Fukuzawa watches Mori bite his lip as he slips his two fingers back in.
“If I do… will you… praise me?”
Fukuzawa hums and pushes his fingers deeper inside of Mori.
“Yukichi…”
“Is praise all you want?”
“No,” Mori murmurs. “You know what I want.”
With a rough hum, Fukuzawa pulls his fingers out again and reaches for the lube. “I do. Just as you know that I am happy to give that to you.” By that point, Mori is so horny, he looks like he's on a totally different plane of being, and Fukuzawa isn’t much better. Struggling out of his boxers the rest of the way, he tears the packet open with his teeth and squeezes the lube into his hand. His hand is nice enough on its own, especially in his current state.
But Mori’s body… he knows it’s far nicer, hot enough almost to burn, and so inviting.
Fukuzawa lines up the head of his cock, and after Mori gives him a nod, he pushes. As his erection slips deeper inside, he feels Mori’s fingertips pressing against his unsteady arms.
“Harder,” Mori demands.
He snaps his hips forward, almost forgets to hold himself up. Beneath him, Mori whines and squeezes his arms. “Did it hurt?”
In response, Mori yanks him into a kiss. Between one and another, he speaks a single word. “More.”
Fukuzawa, without hesitation, obliges, marking up Mori’s neck with another hickey, drinks in the moan Mori emits in his ear, the delicious dig of Mori’s nails on the backs of his shoulders… after twelve years of this affair, neither Mori nor Fukuzawa consider the repercussions of marking each other up the way they are. Fukuzawa suspects Ranpo knows, but he’s been carrying on an affair with an ex-guild member and opts not to say anything. If anyone else knows, they’re smart enough not to say so. He guesses they would be regardless of whether people could see the marks. He also assumes that the same is true for Mori. With reckless abandon, they rock together on Fukuzawa’s tatami until they both reach climax.
But Mori, ever insatiable, believes in taking more than he needs. Rolling Fukuzawa over, he seats himself on his still soft cock and rolls his hips. Fukuzawa starts getting hard again.
Mori takes. And Fukuzawa gives.
Somehow, they make it through that second round, then a third where Mori gets on his knees and winds up wedged against a wall, taking Fukuzawa in from behind. It’s almost like the cologne Mori is wearing, the one he inhales as he comes inside of Mori a third time, contains some kind of aphrodisiac.
He loses track after that. Time passes. The orgasms run together, become some kind of fever dream.
Then, he wakes up. hips covered with the floral kimono Mori wore there. The Port Mafia boss dozes in his arms, snoring softly. “Ougai…” he grumbles. He watches Mori’s face scrunch up. His breath catches as Mori’s eyes appear.
“Sorry. I’ll clean up and go.”
“What time is it?” Fukuzawa asks.
Mori twists in search of some kind of clock. Eventually, Fukuzawa sits up, cursing his aches, and reaches for his phone. “Damn it. It’s past one in the morning.”
Fukuzawa realizes the trains are no longer running.
“I’ll just call someone—”
“Stay here,” Fukuzawa retorts. “You looked quite peaceful sleeping. I only woke you so we could clean up.”
Mori rubs one of his eyes and blinks.
“Do you need help?”
“I believe I’ll make it.”
Mori says that, but he stumbles the instant he tries to stand. Fukuzawa feels all of his aches as he rises and stands over Mori, who is rubbing his hips. “Do you need me to carry you, Mori-dono?”
“Of course not,” he retorts. Then, with a cheeky smile, he adds, “Who knew a man of your age had so much stamina?”
Despite Mori’s objection, Fukuzawa scoops the man up in his arms. To his relief, Mori voices no further complaints.
They shower together, unlike most nights they do this. In the bathroom mirror, Fukuzawa catches the scratches on his back. While he’s studying them, Mori appears and smooths them with a gentle touch. “My, my… we’ve put each other through it tonight, haven’t we? How do you think the arrangement came out?”
“If you are referring to the ikebana, I quite liked it. But if you are talking about the sex…” Fukuzawa hums. “I suppose we achieved a sort of emptiness through it.”
With a chuckle, Mori leans against his arm. “I can still call someone to leave.”
“I don’t believe there’s a need for that.”
“Do you intend to hold me all night?”
Fukuzawa glances at Mori. “If you will permit it.”
“A fresh approach,” Mori comments. “Still following your principles, I see. Will you fuck me again in the morning?”
“If you wish,” Fukuzawa says. “But slowly. After all, we haven’t had wake up sex yet.”
“After twelve years, I am surprised there are still ways we haven’t had sex.”
“Well, we have never shared a bed for the full night, either.”
“I see it as the highest of privileges, Fukuzawa-dono.”
They sleep naked, with a packet of lube near Fukuzawa’s pillow just in case they’re still in the mood for another round in the morning.
“You’re oddly soft.”
Fukuzawa’s eyes peel open as Mori’s fingers drift over his arm, not pressing this time. Just skimming.
“For someone with such a bloody past, I mean.”
“You are one to talk,” Fukuzawa murmurs. “Your sleeping face looks innocent, especially for a hardened criminal.”
With a playful laugh, Mori huddles closer. “Be gentler with me in the morning, Yukichi.”
“You like it rough.”
“Mmm… but the arrangement will be imbalanced if you do it that way tomorrow.”
Fukuzawa winds up brushing Mori’s hair back. “I will try.”
Mori’s eyes flit up to his. Even if the room is dark, Fukuzawa knows Mori has that Cheshire cat smile on his face. Satisfied, because he got exactly what he wanted.
“Ougai,” he murmurs.
“Yes?”
He could say it, finally put it into words, speak around it like Mori did earlier. Instead, he caresses Mori’s face and presses his lips to Mori’s forehead.
“Ah.” Mori burrows closer. “I understand, Fukuzawa-dono.”
In the morning, when he wakes up, he calls in sick while Mori stirs awake beside him. Kunikida, while he expresses concern, promises to hold things together and wishes him a speedy recovery. When he offers to send Yosano to check on him, he politely declines, insisting it’s a simple cold. Midway through, Mori of course starts to touch his cock. The instant he hangs up, Fukuzawa rolls him over and brings their lips together.
It’s a rare instance of borderline reckless abundance, but Fukuzawa wouldn’t have it any other way.