For a second, it throws Bunta off that the lean in to touch his forehead comes to a stop, before he sees the reason for it: a course correction into a kiss.
In that first moment of revisiting the warm press of Yukimura's mouth, this time with crystal clear sobriety, memories of Leia come flooding to the surface. It's impossible not to be reminded; Yukimura is the first person in nearly fifteen years he's kissed like this that hasn't been her, and his grip on Yukimura's arm tightens in response.
He's ready for it without the blunting effect of alcohol this time. This moment of closure and transition, where he remembers their intimacy, how much he cherished her, and how happy he is for the time they had. He remembers, and then releases his love for her to the era it belongs. It's neither sorrow nor longing for the past that wets his eyes as he lets go, and that memory cedes to the one he's making now.
Yukimura. Frankly, Bunta had forgotten just how it felt to ache for him like this. It's not that he'd forgotten the torch once existed-- he simply lives his life in the present. Even since moving in with him and spending months seeing him even more regularly than he did in school, he's been living as a widower, not as a single person looking to get involved again. It's a psychological weight he's carried so long he'd stopped noticing it, until suddenly it was lifted.
He kisses Yukimura hungrily, pulling himself in tight against the man's chest. Peripherally, he notices how flat and firm his body feels, a strange but not unwelcome change from fleshy softness and curves. Without breaking the kiss, he pivots and gently tugs Yukimura towards the bed, eager to discover what else beyond the obvious is different.
no subject
In that first moment of revisiting the warm press of Yukimura's mouth, this time with crystal clear sobriety, memories of Leia come flooding to the surface. It's impossible not to be reminded; Yukimura is the first person in nearly fifteen years he's kissed like this that hasn't been her, and his grip on Yukimura's arm tightens in response.
He's ready for it without the blunting effect of alcohol this time. This moment of closure and transition, where he remembers their intimacy, how much he cherished her, and how happy he is for the time they had. He remembers, and then releases his love for her to the era it belongs. It's neither sorrow nor longing for the past that wets his eyes as he lets go, and that memory cedes to the one he's making now.
Yukimura. Frankly, Bunta had forgotten just how it felt to ache for him like this. It's not that he'd forgotten the torch once existed-- he simply lives his life in the present. Even since moving in with him and spending months seeing him even more regularly than he did in school, he's been living as a widower, not as a single person looking to get involved again. It's a psychological weight he's carried so long he'd stopped noticing it, until suddenly it was lifted.
He kisses Yukimura hungrily, pulling himself in tight against the man's chest. Peripherally, he notices how flat and firm his body feels, a strange but not unwelcome change from fleshy softness and curves. Without breaking the kiss, he pivots and gently tugs Yukimura towards the bed, eager to discover what else beyond the obvious is different.