DAISUKE

Sunday, 12 p.m.

Ken jerks awake and nearly falls off the couch just when I start a new game with Armstrong, and his movement knocks the controller out of my hand.

For a moment, neither of us moves.

One leg off the edge, a hand clutching my thigh like his life depends on it, his hair flattened on one side, Ken breathes hard, trying to get his bearings. Then, slowly, he retracts and pushes up into a sitting position beside me.

I raise an eyebrow. "Hey, you didn't have to move. I rather like your hand there."

He shoots me a scowl, even as a blush rises to his cheeks. "Don't be ridiculous, Motomiya," he snaps.

I can't help the frown that forms on my face.

Okay, yes, I was teasing, but it's hardly "ridiculous" to want him to touch me, to want his hands on me. And judging by last night, he shouldn't find it ridiculous either. He was the one trying to take my pants off. And I definitely wouldn't have stopped him if he'd been sober.

I clear my throat. "You able to keep anything down now?" I ask. "Do you want to try eating something?"

He pauses, hand on his stomach, considering, but uncertain eyes turn to study me.

It takes a moment to register.

I snort. "That wasn't meant to be an innuendo, but you know, if you're offering…" Without waiting for his scowl or glare in response, I grab the controller from the floor and switch the PS2 off, then rise from couch. "Come on. I'll make you some food."

He hesitates before trailing after me.

In the kitchen, I peruse the options in the fridge before glancing at his perch atop one of the stools. "How's your hangover? Still nauseous?"

"Barely," he murmurs.

"Alright, then." I turn back to the fridge and then the pantry and start pulling out ingredients. "This should help you feel better."

It won't take long to throw together some ramen, and he needs the food to help settle his stomach.

"You know," I call over my shoulder as I set a pot of water on the stove to boil, "this is the first time in a long while you've gotten that drunk. And honestly, Ichijouji, you don't need alcohol to talk to me about your feelings. In fact, it's a lot easier to have a conversation sober." I pause in the middle of peeling a couple cloves of garlic, and a glance back while grabbing a knife tells me he's already flustered. "Although, obviously, you weren't that interested in talking."

His cheeks turn a bright red. "Can't you think of something else to blabber about?" he snaps.

I raise an eyebrow, then turn back to the cutting board. "That sore of a subject, huh?"

"What are we doing today?" he asks instead.

Laughter bubbles in my throat. "Asks the person who slept half the day away. It's after noon already." When the garlic is done, I move on to mincing the ginger.

"That's still plenty of time to do something."

The water is boiling now, and I pull a few brown eggs from the fridge and slide them into the water. While they cook, I get back to prepping the vegetables. The leeks need julienned and the scallions need chopped, and then I can start on the broth.

Ken simply watches as I work, quiet and still rather sickly-looking. He offers no suggestions for what to do with the rest of our weekend, but his eyes follow my every movement around the kitchen—boiling water in a large pot, moving the eggs into an ice water bath, sauteing the garlic and ginger, then slowly adding the other ingredients for the broth.

I pause in the middle of chopping the nori. "Well, what did you have in mind?" I ask, looking back at him.

He blinks a few times before directing his attention to my face. "What?"

"Plenty of time to do what? Do you have something in mind?" I return to the nori, then push it aside. I still have to strain the broth and cook the noodles, but that won't take long.

He remains silent while I pull out the cheese cloth, his brow tight in concentration. "I'm not sure I can think well enough yet," he says in that quiet voice, then falls silent, and I allow him the silence while I focus on finishing the ramen.

A few minutes later, I slide a bowl of al dente noodles in a spicy shoyu broth toward him, complete with nori, scallions, leeks, bamboo shoots, a soft-boiled egg, and a few slices of braised pork belly I cooked the other day.

"I can think of plenty of things we could do today," I say, handing him chopsticks, quirking my eyebrows. "If you're up for it."

Ken wets his lips, flushed from my suggestive tone, but turns his attention to his ramen. "I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Hmm, that's a shame." I lean closer, elbows on the counter, hands clasped under my chin. "But don't worry. I don't mind showing you."

He ducks his head and focuses on the food in his bowl.

Goddamn. How does he manage to be this cute while being so damn frustrating?

"First," I add, eyeing his normally shimmering locks, "we need to get you in the shower. You'll feel a lot better once you're clean." I assess him slowly—and his eyes dart up to meet mine before returning to the ramen. "Plus, it's a lot more fun to make you dirty when you start out clean."

His eyes narrow at his bowl, but he doesn't otherwise react.

I frown and turn back to the stove to clean up.

What the hell is his problem?

Aside from being hung over, I don't see what's wrong. He practically confessed last night—though, really, I want to hear the words, and I want to say them too—but now he wants to act like that didn't happen? He doesn't even want to talk about last night.

He wanted to sleep together, but now he doesn't want to talk about it.

What the fuck?

And what, am I supposed to just forget about last night?

That's not fucking possible. I've waited twelve years to kiss the damn genius, and now I have and it was perfect—aside from the alcohol part—but I'm supposed to forget?

He was taking my clothes off, but I'm supposed to forget?

He's crazy.

And I'm crazy in love with the bastard.

I push aside my own bowl of ramen to let the noodles cook a little more, then focus on washing the dishes I used. By the time I set the third pot aside to dry, Ken is at my side, offering me his bowl. I raise an eyebrow at the empty dish—he never eats that much when his stomach feels fine, but he manages to stuff himself while hung over? It must have helped, I guess.

"Thank you," he murmurs as I take it.

I slide the bowl and chopsticks into the water, then nod toward the hallway. "Let's get you in the shower then."

He shoots me a scowl. "I'm not helpless."

But I spin him around with a chuckle. "You say that now, but that hasn't been the case for most of the last twenty-four hours."

I nudge him down the hallway and into the bathroom, but he pauses outside the shower room.

"You're not coming in with me, are you?" he asks in a small voice, looking over his shoulder.

"That depends." My eyes lock with his, and I trail my hands down his sides, over his narrow hips, down to the hem of the gray sweater, and slowly tug it upward. "Do you want me to?"

His breath hitches, and there's a heat in his blue-violet eyes. "Daisuke…"

Without hesitation, he raises his arms so I can drag the sweater over his head, and I step closer, pressing his now bare back against my chest, my shirt the only thing between us.

He leans his head on my shoulder, eyes fluttering shut, and my hands make trails of heat down his chest toward his waistline. I slow down at his taut abs, strong and firm but lean, enjoying the feel of him under my fingers.

A gasp escapes his perfect mouth when I reach the hem of his pajama shorts, and I loosen the tie in the middle, then push them slowly, slowly, slowly, over his hips. He moans when I slide them over his sexy little ass.

Fuck.

If I weren't getting hard before, I definitely am now.

Once the shorts are out of the way, he juts his hips back, pressing firmly against my growing erection—I release a sharp breath.

The pajamas pool around his ankles, but he's still wearing a pair of black silk boxers, and I play with the hem at his waist. He needs to be naked for a shower and bath, and dear god, I would give anything just to see him naked, let alone touch him or help him get naked.

"Ken," I murmur into his neck, tugging at the elastic hem of his boxers. "I need—"

He rolls his hips, moaning, and I whimper at the pressure. His hands clench around the pajamas at my hips, and he rocks against me again.

"Ken…" His name is little more than a moan at his throat, and I want to sink my teeth into that tender skin. "Ken," I try again, gathering my thoughts, "if you want me to get in the shower with you, all you have to do is ask."

"Daisuke."

Breathless.

Bashful.

Beautiful.

"And if you want me to kiss you, I need to hear you say it." My fingers slip just under the hem of his boxers, and a soft whimper escapes his lips. "But we need to talk about last night, Ken. Not just…do this."

He stands a moment, breathing hard, hands clinging to my hips, my cock nestled just under his ass.

Then, he twists round to face me, dragging his arms up to hold me by the shoulders, his face inches from mine. His eyes, intense and dilated, meet mine, and I thread my fingers through his hair, my other hand at the small of his back.

"You're right," he whispers, so close I can nearly feel his lips against mine as he speaks. "We do need to talk." He releases a soft sigh, then pulls back. "But now is hardly the right time." He steps into the shower, out of reach, and turns away.

I scowl at his back—and stare as he slips off the boxers to give me a nice view of that amazing ass of his, whiter than any other part of his delicious body.

Then, he kicks the boxers up into my face and slams the shower door shut.

"Hey!" I tear the boxers out of the way only to scowl at the frosted glass, blocking everything but a vague hint of his form as he takes a seat on the stool and turns on the water. "Tease!"

I chuck the stupid boxers at the closed door and stalk from the room.

Time to eat my ramen, I guess. The noodles are probably overcooked now.

Gah, so much sexual tension!