They fall upon each other like beasts sometimes, in the middle of making dinner, while they're eating or sitting, simply lounging about with nothing to do- Izuru wraps his arms around Rose like broken twigs while he pays the deliveryman and drags him away, and neither of them pay any heed to the door shutting because they are too involved with each other, sinking too deeply into their own fascinations until they're drowning in it.
Perhaps they're materialistic- they certainly are greedy, greedy for each other and for their touches, settling for no less than utter nudeness and utter filth within themselves, settling for no less than feverish touches and bites, kisses that overwhelm and sounds that twist into their ears and leave echoes in their minds long after they finish, long after they fall asleep.
The night is never truly quiet. They're never truly still. Rose's touches can do things to Izuru that Izuru cannot do to Rose, but the imperfection is in itself an aphrodisiac that Rose himself could not conjure with his own mind- he craves more, he craves to discover everything about Izuru, every ugly thing that he can touch and kiss and lick with his mouth, teeth and tongue pressing against and into all of Izuru until he writhes and cries, until Rose quiets and until Rose pulls him close like an injured bird.
They fuck like they breathe, and it is not making love because Rose knows Izuru does not believe in it, or if he did, he stopped believing in it. They do not call it making love, and they try not to, but sometimes it slips out of Rose when he's too indistinct and too curled up, curled up into Izuru, all the way into his stomach where the heat collects in a furnace, to see Izuru smile.