Irie has barely opened the door to the apartment before Byakuran calls for him.
"Sho-chan!" The nickname is drawn long, like the other is tasting the syllables on his tongue, and so high with delight Irie has to shut his eyes and brace himself for the other's energy before he steps inside and shuts the door behind himself.
"I'm home," he calls back. The door eases into the frame, Irie turning the lock with the mild paranoia he can't quite shake before he drops to a knee to slide his shoes off. The warm air of the apartment is almost painful against his winter-chilled skin, tingling sensation back into numb fingers and the flushed tip of his nose.
"Really?" That's taunting, Irie can hear Byakuran nearly laughing under the word. "I had no idea."
Irie pushes to his feet and steps free of his shoes. It's easy to follow the sound of the other's voice around the corner to the living room; Byakuran is right where he usually is, stretched out over the entire length of the couch with a bag of marshmallows within the reach of one dangling wrist.
"Sho-chan," he offers in greeting, his throat purring pleasure to match the curve of his lips and the shadow in his eyes. "You look exhausted." He makes a show of swinging his legs up off the cushions, making space before he leverages himself up to sit more normally against the back of the couch.
"I am," Irie admits, padding forward like Byakuran's movements are drawing him in closer. The couch is warm from the weight of the other's body when he drops to sit down, the cushions so soft even Irie's usual tension has to relax into the comfort.
"Sho-chan doesn't take very good care of himself," Byakuran observes, as if he's the narrator to Irie's life. There's the crinkle of plastic, the slide of fingertips at Irie's chin to urge him to look up. "You should eat more."
"I don't-" Irie starts, but there's pressure at his lips, and instinct has him opening his mouth for the marshmallow Byakuran is feeding him. It's soft, almost textureless, and so sweet it has no flavor at all beyond sugar. "Mgh." Irie chews, swallows, sighs. "I don't like those, Byakuran, you know that."
"You still need to eat," Byakuran observes, offering another. Irie opens his mouth for it without further protest. This time Byakuran's fingers linger at his lips, trace out the chapped rawness of cold and dehydration.
"Come here." That's an order, Irie knows better than to resist that, and besides Byakuran is reaching for his shoulder, sliding sideways so when he tugs Irie down the other's head ends up in his lap, his shoulder fitting in against the warmth of Byakuran's leg. Byakuran's wearing pajama pants, as he almost always does in the house; the fabric is soft against Irie's cheek.
"And take these off." Byakuran doesn't wait for Irie to pull his glasses free; he claims the frames himself, dragging them off Irie's face and setting them aside where Irie can't see them.
"Are those safe?" Irie asks, starting to push himself up off the couch to check himself. "We really can't afford a new pair-"
"Lie down." There's danger there, razor-edged threat, and Irie collapses back to the couch like Byakuran has stolen all the strength from his limbs. Long fingers slide into his hair, drag over his scalp with pressure that sends shuddery pleasure in its wake even as it threatens pain if Irie moves again.
"Good." Byakuran sounds steady again, calm and doting, and another portion of Irie's tension goes limp and compliant. It's very hard to resist Byakuran's touch, even if - maybe especially if - it's a deliberate technique to relax him. "Open your mouth, Sho-chan."
"Marshmallows aren't dinner," Irie offers in last, desperate protest. Byakuran's fingers trace over his lower lip and he opens his mouth in response to accept another marshmallow. Byakuran hums in pleasure at this obedience, traces the faint sticky of his fingertips up across Irie's cheek, down the bridge of his nose and across his neck, skimming along the collar of his t-shirt and trailing heat in the wake of the contact.
"We'll eat something else later," he soothes, as if there's any real likelihood of either of them moving. He pushes Irie's hair back from his face, lets his other hand slide down Irie's spine instead, down to the edge of his t-shirt so he can push it up and scrape his fingernails against the dip of the other's back. Irie shudders at the friction and Byakuran dips his head, laughs against the other's hair before he presses his lips in the warm damp of a kiss against Irie's hairline. Byakuran's mouth is always the warmest part of him, like the radiant heat that seems to fill his blood rises closest to the surface at the delicate skin of his lips, and it always makes Irie shiver, the excess of heat rushing into him until it feels indistinguishable from cold. But the tremble undoes the last of the stress in his limbs, leaves him limp and submissive on Byakuran's lap, and this time when soft sweet brushes his lips he opens his mouth without hesitation.
Byakuran has always been better at taking care of him than he is himself.