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Junta woke on his birthday with a dull sense of loss, in a hotel room hundreds of kilometers away from Takato, a full day of work ahead, and no hope of more than a quick, snatched phone call because Takato was working too.
It shouldn't have been like this. He'd had it all planned out to keep this day free for both of them but for once the universe had refused to cooperate. Weather alerts, a burst pipe in a studio, a strike by airport workers; what hadn't thwarted him?
He'd be back in Tokyo in two days, but that prospect didn't cheer him at all. He had, hmm, thirty-six hours to get through before he could take Takato in his arms, kiss those protesting lips into softness, plunge deep into… No. He forced his mind away from the alluring images flooding it. He didn't have time to jerk off and it wouldn't be enough. He craved the real deal. Takato in the flesh, all elegant poise and cool stillness, a shimmering pond he could turn into wild, crashing waves of…
Stop it!
He'd celebrated so few birthdays with Takato that the novelty hadn't worn off. Probably never would. Everything he did with Takato was a delight. For him, absence couldn't make the heart fonder because his was dedicated to Takato, always.
He sighed. Time to get up. Time to smile and charm and dazzle a score of people who weren't Takato. To talk, eat, work, with people who weren't—
A knock on the door as he was about to leave had his hopes rising, but, no, Takato wouldn't have canceled work to fly out even if the strike made it impossible. He could've sent a text, but he hadn't done that either. Junta drooped sadly as he wandered over to answer the knock. It was so difficult for Takato to show his affection unless they were at a crisis point in their relationship and he got that, he did, it was the way Takato was built, but sometimes it would have been nice if…
"Package for you, Azumaya-san!" trilled a member of the hotel staff, her smile wide and hopeful. Sakura was a fan of his and didn't try to hide it. "I brought it up personally since it was so big."
The box slid sideways and Junta grabbed it from her before it hit the ground. Heavy, but nothing rattled. "You're so kind." He bowed, murmured some more expressions of gratitude and blessed his luck when she was called away by an employee whose glare made it clear Sakura wasn't where she was supposed to be.
He set the box on the bed and studied it, excitement rising when he saw it was from Takato. Too small and light to be Takato, curled up, waiting to emerge crying out, 'Surprise!'…no, that was silly. He pictured it, though, grinning, his depression fading.
His phone buzzed, the alarm he'd set warning him that he had no time to do anything but leave. He chewed his lip, indecisive, but a ping telling him he had a text saved him from himself.
Happy Birthday, Chunta. If you get a box delivered, don't open it until tonight and WHEN YOU'RE ALONE. I might miss you. Just a little. It was signed not with a name but the tiniest of hearts.
Junta stared at the box, ran his hand over it lovingly, then left, stopping only to place a Do Not Disturb sign on his door and by the reception desk to request no housekeeping service. No, not even the bed made. Nor the towels changed. Nothing. No.
He had to smile so much to get his way that his face ached, but it was worth it.
***
That night, he sat on the bed cross-legged and prised the box open, freeing it of the tape with painstaking care.
Inside was a mass of soft white material. On top was a note in Takato's handwriting, precise, neat. You forgot to wash these. Sheets. Two sheets and two pillowcases.
Their sheets. Their pillowcases. The ones they'd left damp with sweat, spattered with come, saturated with love and longing.
Hands shaking, Junta filled his lap with them, bringing the soft fabric to his face, breathing in the heady, musky scent.
He was hard, achingly hard, his cock demanding release, but he ignored the clamor of his body and let his emotions rule him for a while.
Takato had done this. Had gifted him with something immeasurably precious and intimate. Had made that final night (and morning…) of lovemaking doubly special because he'd shown it meant something to him too.
Junta got off the bed and stripped it of sheets and covers; took the pillows out of their case. Then he remade the bed using their bedding and slid naked between the sheets, closing his eyes and burrowing his face into the pillow that held Takato's scent.
Each breath brought him a memory. Takato, squirming angrily, kicking out slender legs as Junta undressed him, his face pink, eyes sparkling. Did he know how easily Junta read his body language, how fluent he'd become, to the point where Takato could stop him dead in his tracks with a flickered glance or have him on his knees with the faintest smile?
He was never sure. Takato knew more than he revealed while being…well, oddly innocent about other things. Just as well, maybe…
Another breath… Takato on hands and knees, ass up, taking three of Junta's fingers with a wail of pleasure, writhing to get them deeper even as he told Junta it was too much, take them out, I can't, Chunta, I can't…
Takato, skin pearled with sweat, eyes dazed, coming for the third time, body limp, exhausted, strands of hair sticking to his flushed cheek, mouth open on a whimper…
Takato astride him, riding his cock, his arms around Junta's neck, head hidden, teeth marking Junta's shoulder, tiny dents, spit-wet, prized.
Takato begging him as Junta used his mouth to tease and taste, driving his tongue into places only he'd ever touched, tasted, fucked…
Takato, Takato, Takato…
He dropped his hand to his straining, rigid cock and clasped it firmly, telling himself if was Takato's hand holding it, smaller than his, long, elegant, expressive fingers wrapped around it.
He didn't need to do more than that to come.
He soaked the sheets over him.
Round one.
This wasn't over yet. His birthday had another three hours left.
If he called Takato, would he listen while…
No. No, he wouldn't.
Junta sighed. He glanced at the box as his hands busied themselves again. He didn't trust the mail. The bedding was going in his suitcase.
Unwashed. Damp. Used, so very used.
Takato wouldn't want to sleep on them, fastidious as a cat Takato, but that didn't matter.
It wouldn't take long to get freshly laundered sheets messy again.
He had all sorts of ideas about celebrating their reunion—
Round two.
***
"You're glowing today, Azumaya-san, but you look tired as well. Trouble sleeping?"
Junta blinked. "Sleeping? Oh, no. I slept great."
He'd had at least two hours of it, his dreams filled with fantasies that had probably made a distant Takato squirm uneasily, plagued with premonitions of danger.
He planned to put most of them into practice. Yes, even that one.
After all, he had to say thank you for his gift…