sukuna apologist

Hikaru’s arms are wrapped around him, one draped across his waist, the other underneath him, the hand splayed across his chest, palm flat. Pressed right up against where his heart beats loudest.

It’s humid as all hell in the bedroom. The heat thickens the air, makes it hard to breathe through his nose, and clings to Yoshiki’s skin.

And Hikaru runs hot. Always has. Like something inside him is always burning on a low simmer, but never off.

Yoshiki shifts, trying to lean forward just enough to unstick his shirt from his back. The fabric peels reluctantly. His spine arches, subtle and slow.

In response, Hikaru tightens his hold. The boy's legs curl tighter around Yoshiki’s, his ankles slotting into his calves. His breath, steady and warm, ghosts across the nape of Yoshiki’s neck. One exhale, then another, slow and rhythmic. He’s too close, and Yoshiki feels like he’s suffocating.

Yoshiki grits his teeth and tries again. He writhes gently, edging toward freedom, but Hikaru clutches tighter once again on reflex. His fingers curl into the material of Yoshiki’s damp shirt, over his chest, like he’s afraid he might drift off without the heartbeat there to tether him.

The contact is too much. He twists in Hikaru’s grip, now turning to face him.

“Hey,” Yoshiki’s voice is low, hoarse. “Get off. S’too damn hot for this.”

Hikaru’s eyes stay closed, his brow crinkling. A low hum escapes him, like he only half-heard the words. Yoshiki brings a hand to his shoulder and shakes once. Not hard, but firm enough.

He hears another groan. A grumble from the back of Hikaru’s throat. Then, slowly, reluctantly, he begins to pull back. Limbs unwind. Legs retreat. The hand on Yoshiki’s chest slides away slowly, trailing across his torso and leaving a sort of hollowness behind. Even still, Yoshiki breathes a sigh of relief.

Hikaru flops onto his back and throws an arm over his eyes like he’s shielding them from sunlight that isn’t there. Yoshiki stays where he is, adjusting his wet shirt with a grimace.

“How can ya even sleep like that?” he mutters, eyes flicking toward the ceiling fan that barely turns. “Ain’t you sweatin’ like hell?”

Hikaru’s voice comes muffled from behind his arm.

“Doesn't bother me. Not when it’s you.”

Yoshiki stares at the ceiling, swallowing through the tightness in his throat. He doesn’t answer. Outside, a cicada chirps, loud and lonely in the night.