Note: The story is written in 2nd person narrative. It's not everyone's cup of tea, but I reckon there's a reason not much literature is written in the second person.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Your arm practically falls off when his fingers purposely graze it. His hands are hot, and when you glimpse at him, you see him smirking. He feels the blood rush through your body and the shivers travel up your spine. Your friends notice nothing, despite the both of you being in their direct line of vision (of the TV). Instead, Takao just yells, "Move," and the touch lasts for only a few seconds.
This is how it's like—the slightest of glances from the corners of eyes, the small smiles hidden in the shadows, the softest of touches in each passing—from sunrise to sunset. No one sees what they're not meant to see.
But even though there are cautious calculations with every moment together, you can't help but think that your friends, or at least Takao and Max, are idiots. Kyouju doesn't care to notice, preferring to give all his attention to his laptop rather than to you. The only person that seems to have an ounce of a clue is Hiromi. You notice her giving the two of you suspicious looks sometimes, but you make nothing of it; female fans seem to be keen on putting you together with him.
By day's end, your skin is tingling to feel the heat of his fingertips, tingling to feel the paths he burns into you. The touch from earlier has left you itching for more. You swear he can hear the pounding in your chest as his foot taps along with the beat.
Giving into temptation, you feign a yawn and say, "Today's been exhausting. I'm going to bed early tonight." You send a wink over to him.
As Max complains that you're going to miss the best part of the movie, everyone is informed that there will be an early training session tomorrow morning, and anyone late will have to face the "consequences." Takao pisses and whines about how it's summer and everyone should be able to stay up late and wake up late and whatever else until a glare is sent over to him, and he immediately stops. Pouting, he and the group head to their respective rooms.
You lie in your bed, waiting. Beneath the cover of nightfall, all walls go down; it's only you and him. You strain your ears to hear the soft click of the doorknob and the tipping of his toes across your floor. He slips between the bed and its sheets, and he is met by a goofy, child-like smile from you.
"God, I've waited so long," you whine. And it's true; while the summer days grow longer, the nights grow shorter.
As if a way to comfort you, he grabs your hand and pulls you close. Despite being only an inch apart, you can make out nothing other than his eyes. "They catch the gold of your own eyes," he said to you the first time you lied together, but you like to think they burn through the darkness and into you. They are so bright and red and blazing that you want to ask him, Do they scorch your eye sockets like your hands do my body?
His fingertips slide down your shoulders and back, following the maps he's scarred into your skin with his fire, as you breathe him in. You try to breathe in all the air that was once in his lungs; you try to breathe in the scent that lingers around him. He smells of passion and matches and cigarettes and coffee. And while you take in what he is, he finds the nights of China hidden in your hair. He says to you, 'There's a fucking constellation in here," and you can only smile. When the sun comes up, you know you'll find Orion and Pegasus grasping at him to stay.
The night continues on, and the moon finds a welcome through the window. It is the perfect spotlight for his face; the accentuated creaminess of his skin makes your mouth water, the flaring of his already-burning eyes almost blinds you. He is unreal. When you tell him this, he merely chuckles. His voice is smooth and deep and you wonder why your ears have yet to melt off.
"You are too good for me," he whispers.
"But you don't deserve any less."
He sweeps his velvet lips across your forehead and says nothing else. There is nothing else besides his head buried underneath your hair, nothing else besides hands clasped into one, nothing else besides the soft breaths of sleep.
When you wake, your black is entwined with his blue. The sun has risen up from its horizon, and its flecks smile in his ocean of hair. For a moment, you forget the sun is your enemy. But, as the stars in your hair fight the sun in his, you know this is a war you cannot win.
"Wake up," you say, shaking him. "It's morning."
He blinks rapidly—the daylight is much too bright—and groans. You giggle at his snarl and the "Fuck" that accidentally slips from his mouth. Before leaving, he grabs your chin and kisses you with lips so hard and rough that you think you might have stopped living. By the time your brain tells you otherwise, your stomach twists and he's gone.
And as you listen to him bang on Takao's door, yelling, "Get the fuck up, you fucking cow"—or something like that—Max comes to your doorway.
"Kai's in a good mood, huh?"
You do nothing but laugh.