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It’s one of those rare moments where Kiyoi’s the gross one, painfully aware of how much he stinks. Felines have a keen sense of smell, but not as keen as canines, and he lives with the worst kind of those: his very own stalker. He hesitates outside the front door, wondering if there’s any point in trying to be quiet or if Hira can already smell him. That’d be mortifying. He’s caked in sweat from head to toe, still flushed pink in certain places, still breathing hard even though he had the whole care ride home to cool down. His agent told him not to overdo his workouts, but there’s half a dozen new baby-faces at the agency with plastic surgery and six-packs and the ephemeral glow of youth. Kiyoi can’t get surgery—it’d probably break Hira—and he can’t age backwards, so he has to at least keep up his figure. He can take it. He’s fine. He’s drenched in sweat and hates that—it feels like he’s in the bath with his clothes on and, like most cats, hates water (without Hira).
Maybe Hira can smell him and will have the good sense to stay at the other side of the house while Kiyoi rushes to the shower. He tells himself that as he twists the handle, knowing full well Hira’s never had good sense in his whole life.
Kiyoi slips inside, shuts the door as quietly as possible, and flinches as his boyfriend bolts down the hallway. Hira barrels right into his arms. Kiyoi barely has time to drop his gym bag. His old clothes are in it. He’s still in workout gear underneath his coat. He’d normally change into a new set, but he’d have to shower off first, and the showers were full of big fragrant dogs he couldn’t stand to be around. There’s only one canine he can stand. The wolf wrapped tight around him. Hira’s not a domestic breed, but Kiyoi can see his large fluffy black tail wagging frantically behind him. He’s ridiculous. Embarrassing. Kiyoi squirms in his grip and hisses.
Once upon a time, that would’ve had Hira cowering in the corner, even though wolves eat cats in the wild. In their home, Kiyoi holds the leash—they’re both tall, reasonably fit young men, Kiyoi with more muscle mass but Hira somehow more imposing, all dark deep eyes and brooding aura, as if his human fingers were claws. They’re gentle in Kiyoi’s hair, under Kiyoi’s jacket—one of Hira’s arms threads between his coat and tank top. Hira must feel how damp it is. Hira rubs his nose against Kiyoi’s cheek and audibly breathes Kiyoi in.
Kiyoi whines, “Gross!” and tries to shove Hira off, even though he always wants Hira all over him and he’s really the gross one. He really didn’t want Hira to know that. He complains all the time about Hira putting him on a pedestal, but he also loves being worshipped, needs Hira to adore him. He has to look good, smell good, taste good for Hira. Hira clings to him like he’s pure pastry.
Wriggling in his boyfriend’s grasp, Kiyoi snaps, “Bad dog!” And Hira whimpers, the fuzzy ears that poke out of his hair wilting down. His relentless cuddling softens but doesn’t stop. He pokes at Kiyoi’s throat, sniffing Kiyoi while Kiyoi desperately tries to reel away. He was already flushed from his workout but must be strawberry-red with shame. And other things. He was already warm, but Hira’s body heat is stifling, fire-hot, searing through his clothes. He can feel all of Hira’s weight, Hira’s strength, that quiet ferocity that Hira only ever shows in service to Kiyoi. Kiyoi’s always loved that brutal side of him, even when it’s scary. It’s dominant and hot. Kiyoi chews his lip, fights down the giddy rush of pure arousal, and huffs, “Ugh, can’t you at least wait until I have a shower?” And put some cologne on. He needs to smell good. Hira’s such a weirdo, burrowing as close possible and breathing in Kiyoi’s filth. Kiyoi knows he stinks.
Hira finally, faltering, regrettably lets go. But he doesn’t step back, so his sock-covered toes still nudge the tips of Kiyoi’s shoes. Kiyoi needs to take them off. Take his coat off. All his clothes off. He can still feel Hira all around him and is still too hot to function. He instantly misses Hira’s grip, like he always does. But he straightens haughtily as usual, chin up and face stern. Hira looks disappointed, so Kiyoi’s stench must’ve finally sunk in.
He mutters, “But... Kiyoi smells so good like this...”
“Huh?” Kiyoi stares at him, fully aware he’s psychotic but unable to comprehend the latest proof of that.
“It’s Kiyoi’s raw scent,” Hira explains, cupping his hands and looking up like a monk praising the heavens. His voice is faraway and awed as he murmurs, “Pure Kiyoi...”
Kiyoi can feel his blush consume his face. “It’s sweat, dummy!”
“B-but... Kiyoi... um... usually wears cologne out, and now it’s all gone, so it’s just Kiyoi’s skin and hair and essence...”
“Ugh, stop.” It’s bad enough when Hira uses his name like narrating a biopic on him instead of talking to him, but his skin? His hair? His essence? He doesn’t at all understand why he’s half-hard. Hira jumping him always makes him hard. But the follow up dialogue usually mitigates that. He can’t smell Hira over his own musk but doesn’t have a scent fetish anyway. He doesn’t care how Hira smells, so long as he bathes regularly. Kiyoi would care if Hira came home reeking. But then, he and Hira are very, very different people.
Hira, defeated, sighs, “Mm. Will go run a bath for Kiyoi...” because Kiyoi can handle water when he’s in Hira’s lap. He wants that. To have Hira wet and naked under him. He also wants Hira happy and hopelessly obsessed with him.
So he begrudging grumbles, “Whatever. I guess if I’m going to bathe anyway, I might as well get dirtier first.” He shrugs out of his jacket and fumbles out of his shoes. Looking anywhere but Hira. Hira blinks at him, obviously not comprehending, because god forbid Hira have a normal thought or follow a simple conversation. Kiyoi loathes having to say it, to admit any of his own interest, but he has to be the one to decide, “You can fuck me first.”
Hira’s eyes blow wide. And then he’s on Kiyoi again so hard and fast that Kiyoi’s thrown to the floor, back against the door, and Hira apologizes between licking his face and chewing his mouth and sucking his tongue, and Kiyoi’s too dizzy with want and love to do anything but purr.