Lights Out

Eroticism

It's not a hotel room this time. This time it's his own cluttered apartment, during a rare holiday. Neither of them have works for a couple of days, so they're back in Tokyo. Both of them.
At this point, they're close to becoming dependent on each other, attached at the hip so to speak. Despite the fact, or perhaps because of the fact that they've been self-sufficient and on their own for so long.
And although they've already spent so many nights together, intimately sharing thoughts and secrets; kisses and caresses, there is something in particular about tonight. For once, they are entirely in private.

The hotels and inns have all been lovely and comfortable. The company nothing short of perfect, but still... And although he should be feeling at peace in the familiarity of his own home, there is a sense of insecurity about him.

Leading his coworker-turned-lover through the front doors, he couldn't help but wonder if it's clean enough; if the dishes were put away; whether he remembered to take out the trash or throw away the bad milk before going on that last business trip...
These invasive thoughts take up his mind despite how they've known each other privately even before the recent turn of events. They even went over to each other's houses a couple of times.
But those times were nothing like this.
It's different from going over with a whole group of friends, sitting on the floor drinking beer and eating snacks while laughing and joking, talking over each other about casual stuff and maybe crashing there; sprawled all over the floors afterwards.

Now it is just the two of them, and a warm, expectant atmosphere.
Their first day off is already behind them. They've gone to bed, slept together with an electric fan buzzing quietly on the nightstand and the soft tinkling of the wind chime. The window has been cracked halfway open to let some air in, the breeze playfully enticing the chime as it seeps into the room.

It's morning. Beneath the cool, crinkled covers, the two lovers have been sleeping. Their legs still entwined, arms still draped over shoulders, the room still scented with sex, sweat and sleep.

The covers rustle.
And he wakes, to that dazzling gaze; deep, brown eyes looking sleepily at him beneath heavy eyelids and messy bed-head.
"Morning," he coos, brushing frizzed, blond hair out of the other man's face, bringing him in close for a kiss. The taste of last night is still on his lips, and his body quickly awakens, brought on by the recollection.

A parting of lips, exchanging smiles between strings of kisses and sweet whispers.
Most of the nervousness is gone. Only the sweet tension is left, hanging in the air and filling the entirety of the space around them.

It might have been minutes, of the two of them staying this way. Maybe hours, or even days. It's one of those wooly, abstract and savory moments that would preferably last forever.
The two of them; this apartment, this bed and these sounds. Nothing else. It's perfection.

The phone rings, but neither care to check whose it is, or who might be calling. They should probably eat, but are too consumed with each other. Too consumed with urgency to just be together, uninhibited; uninterrupted.
When work starts again in a few days, it will be back to business. Even in intimate shoots and sharing rooms, they will be forced to stay professional, even if everyone knows.
If they get assigned elsewhere, both of the young men will have to face any possible jealousy and come to terms once again with the work that they do, and that they are hired for piquant shoots and ads precisely because of their looks.

Their looks...
Perhaps that's part of it as well. The eroticism. And the bashfulness he can't seem to shake?

The fact that when he looks at the other, he knows how similar they are, in body and mind - the physique and the features.

And maybe that's why his heart beats even harder, and his chest tightens, when gazing into those burning eyes, beneath the bleached fringe; at the pianist hand moving down his own body, grasping him, caressing and stroking him gently. When he watches the curve of the other man's back; his spine and his shoulder blades, protruding beneath his flawless skin; the nape of his neck, caressed by golden tousles.
And then when his gaze falls on those quivering lips, swollen from satisfying him, and the sticky remnants at the corner of his mouth, knowing that he looks the same way when the roles are reversed, when he looks at him.
It all adds to it.
To the sense of underlying secrecy, taboos and a tinge of worry for an uncertain future. To this ongoing moment, that is only theirs.
To the eroticism.