The truth is that Kantarou is as lazy in sex as he is in everything else; he likes to roll indulgently onto his back and just moan where appropriate, lashes fluttering coyly on his cheek. He likes to act, writhing across the sheets and moaning, showing off like a champion. And he likes to tease, playing coy with veiled innuendos in his words and actions — fingertips against Haruka’s wrist, the brush of a hip against his own, and the laughter just-present in Kantarou’s voice as he makes something downright suggestive from the three syllables of Haruka’s name. Six months has not made him reticent — if anything, he’s worse now that Haruka’s returned, like he needs that much more to make up for half a year’s absence.
But even he can be honest — one just has to be patient, peeling away the layers of his facades like clothing until the man underneath is all that’s left. Kantarou has more experience than his youthful face and annoying attitude might suggest, so it takes persistance, but it can be done. In a way it’s almost like a test, to see if one has the patience — and the dedication — to see a seduction the whole way through.
And Haruka has never liked losing, no matter what the competition.
“Haruka,” Kantarou gasps, his eyes wide and finally guileless. His cheeks are flushed and his breath comes both rapid and high, and his toes (still in tabi socks) are curled. His fingers are sunk deep in Haruka’s hair, yanking without direction. “Ah, Haruka, s-stop, I’m going — I’ll die–”
… however, nothing will ever cure Kantarou of his tendency to exaggerate.
Haruka lifts his head, letting Kantarou’s cock slip from his mouth, ignoring the immediate protest and the jerk on his hair. “You won’t die,” he says. “You know that.”
“Die,” Kantarou insisted, his cheeks flushed and his eyes bright. He’s almost lovely, though Haruka will never say so aloud. “I’ll die, Haruka, Haruka, this isn’t a very kind way to kill someone–”
“Idiot.” Haruka pins Kantarou’s hips with both his hands, lifting himself up slightly; there’s now just enough space between their bodies that Kantarou is thrusting into empty air. “Why are you always so …”
Kantarou’s fingers knot in his hair again, ungentle. “Haruka,” he says insistently. “Haruka, ahh, come on–”
Haruka snorts and leans down to hide his half-smile — but from the way the fingers in his hair gentle and the pleased sigh he hears, he thinks he might have been seen anyway.