* xxxHolic, Doumeki/Watanuki, Would you stop that? -- "Scritchies" Scritchies xxxholic Mithrigil Galtirglin
Scritch. Scritch-scritch-scritch.
It’s too hot to deal with a lot of things. The ice in the carafe can’t take the pressure, the cream puffs are withering, Kimihiro’s T-shirt’s wetter in some places than others. Kimihiro’s eyes are already awkward enough without glasses and the humidity’s just making him dizzier, not to mention a sun-glare that’s worse than Yuuko with a three-day hangover. The shade coped by leaving around the same time Himawari did (what rotten luck!) but Doumeki’s still here and it’s only polite to stay as long as he does, he’s a guest. And blazing heat or no, the park’s still nice, and the smell of melting dessert is kind of paralyzing, oversweet and calm.
But whatever Doumeki’s doing to Kimihiro’s bare big toe is clearly some form of abuse.
Scritch. Scritch-scritch-scritch.
“Cut it out,” Kimihiro groans, rolling his ankle so his foot falls sideward. Hopefully that moron’ll take the hint.
The touch reappears right in his instep. Scritch. Scritch. Scritch-scritch.
Heat or no heat, Kimihiro manages to summon the will to yank his foot clean away this time. The picnic blanket knots under his back. “Would you stop that?” he snaps. “Moron. Ugh.”
From his end of the blanket, Doumeki heaves a deep, cloudy sigh. Not like Kimihiro can see, through the sun flare, but it could sound like giving up if Doumeki made sense.
Which, of course, he doesn’t. Scritch. Scritch-scritch-scritch, this time under the cuff of Kimihiro’s pants.
Okay, there are some things that overcome even this kind of heat. Kimihiro springs up, railing about he-doesn’t-even-know-what and once the sun’s behind him he takes a page from its book and glares, hard, down at Doumeki. The other boy’s stretched on his belly, sprawled some on the blanket but mostly on the grass, and looking up at Kimihiro with a bland deadpan innocence. Kimihiro doesn’t shut up—the “personal space” part of the rant starts, and scurries to his knees, looming over—
“The shade’s nice,” Doumeki says.
“—from the incident with the can-opener doesn’t give you the right to poke me and touch me and do all the inconsider—OUMPH!” Kimihiro says around Doumeki’s tongue.
Doumeki’s mouth and skin are hotter than the sun—somehow Kimihiro keeps his eyes open anyway—for a damned frightening split-second he sees his own panicked face through the eye he shares with Doumeki and a scalding shiver runs down to his tailbone and then up around front. The blanket rucks up under his knees and then something pins him to it, a steady kiss and two half-callused-half-oiled hands fisting his damp T-shirt. Kimihiro closes his eyes, buckles, blanks—the melted-creampuff smell gets stronger, thicker—there’s something really perverse about tasting his cooking on someone else’s mouth but it’s no worse than seeing through someone else’s eyes—
Oh god, is Doumeki moaning?
Kimihiro pulls back from the kiss with a kind of snap, and his head hits the blanket. There’s some kind of sound caught in his throat and it might be a rant but—probably not? He tries to focus, dazedly upward, and the sun’s made a halo around the black silhouette of Doumeki’s head.
“Shade,” he repeats.
“Sh—shade,” Kimihiro agrees. His head flops back limply to the blankets—
Scritch, says the fingertip on Kimihiro’s sweaty nose. Scritch. Scritch-scritch-scritch.