It is how he stands, posture unbreakable and gaze upholding, while hesitation and trepidation seeps into his visage like cloth absorbing blood—it is gradual and it is subtle, inhaling through his nose rising in volume and his throat moving slightly as he swallows back more than he should. Hands ghost over his face, hands that belong to a man who claims to be blessed by God—sometimes the pads of his calloused fingers graze Kiyotaka's face, as they sway while in movement, grazing an angular bone structure with soft skin that stretches over it. Gundam divides his face, from his hairline to his chin, his lips into fours and then to his cheekbones—as he etches the structure of Kiyotaka's face into the air, his hands grace the skin they haunt, ossified fingers caressing the jawline they lower down upon in a foreboding touch. Gundam's hands always find their way around Kiyotaka's throat before he kisses him, skin between his thumb and index finger pressing up into his jugular and mandible in a possession before he meets his mouth. Kiyotaka's eyes strain as he continues to uphold a fervent gaze, crossing his vision to keep the other in sight. Tanaka's eyes close and he cares little of the brief hesitation in Ishimaru before his eyes follow pursuit—Tanaka can feel his pulse beneath his fingers.
Only one hand moves to his hair, the elongated fingers on his right hand winding through locks to hold whilst his other hand cradles his skull. His kiss remains uneven and he presses further, palm on the back of Kiyotaka's head as that hand upon his jaw lower down to his prefect's shoulder, down the crisp ivory uniform he wears with pride like it is his royal garments, and it is then he takes his wrist. He allows him mercy to move, guiding his hand up to Gundam's own shoulder—at this permission, a lax nature washes over him, such rigidity in his posture giving way so he may lean, and both men know it would be a lie to say he did not press into the embrace. The palm on the back of Kiyotaka's head finds the base of his skull, remaining entangled in those obsidian strands that rest upon his head in a clean cut; organised, military.
These hands cannot find any way under his shirt, from thick fabric that weighs both of them down—so Gundam feels for Kiyotaka's ribs through his clothes, to find the spaces where they lie as they do every other time. He looks for the heart and lungs to squeeze together, crushing them beneath a cage of tungsten and titanium, so he can hear that noise of agitation that reminds him that Kiyotaka is human, that Kiyotaka breathes, eats, bleeds the blood that gives him life. Gundam causes direct discomfort so he may feel the other shift in such, and to mumble out the latest word he throws on before his real name. It's always something, always something like my lord, my liege, Tlatoani, Emperor, King, Pharaoh—
"Commander."
Because it's so much sweeter than 'Tanaka', and it's so much more distant than 'Gundam'; it's that's exactly what he wants, intimacy devoid of all that makes love pure, because love is not embracing another with the kindness in your heart—it is exhausting, it is swallowing glass and letting it pierce your insides, it is bathing in molten lead and it is blinding yourself because God told you to. Gundam would rather war and carnage, or indoctrination and subordination.
(The latter is happening at the tip of his fingertips, right this second, hands that dictate how he wishes bodies to move as if they were tools to utilise, and it makes his lips curl in a wry smile against Kiyotaka's.)
He, the commander, moves the hands that strangle him around his back instead, to press them together to mock that intimacy they both turn from. And he, the sundowner, has his own limbs draped over his shoulders like a fool in love, with his own kisses collinear and mind counting the ways he desires to continue their entanglement, terse and sterile movements that refuse to adopt the gentle shade of love that should fill their position. They interest one another, offering intricacies like plague bruises, burning forests and rotten corpses—both are competent and both know what is best, and they both know this should be a threat yet they meld these thoughts of chthonic destruction together into holy perfection.
Tanaka rests his face in the crook of Ishimaru's neck, with lazy pecks of empty affection meeting his throat, pushing down fabric to reach the flesh that awaits him. Kiyotaka's skin is warm and it could set him alight, to scorch him and ravage more than any gasoline fire could do. Tanaka is a corpse that hangs like a body, guided by spirits like there are strings upon his joints—he wishes to burn, but Kiyotaka will not allow it; desiring his own body, his pristine and empty self, to benumb at the ice Tanaka embodies; he would kill for such desolate cold.