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When Kaname says no, all Yuuki can hear is yes. Yes, in Kaname's fingers. Yes, in his throat. Yes, yes, yes.
Yuuki likes Kaname's shoulders, hunched over his desk as he ignores the thread of Yuuki's fingers into his hair. His uncertainty as clear as the denial shaped like Yuuki's teeth marks against Kaname's neck. His ear. Its softness, its frailty.
"Stop that," Kaname tells him. His knuckles are sharp against Yuuki's brow but his hand, it trembles.
Wanting, always wanting. In the first syllable of Kaname's stilted awkwardness, his bravado.
Their worksheets spill out onto the floor, blank, forgotten.
Yuuki likes Fridays -- the heady scent of arousal that comes with it, Kaname's mouth of better use wrapped around his cock and grinding out obscenities into a pillow. His pride absent, for once, as he begs and grovels on his knees. His dark eyes. His damnable tongue.
Their knees dig marks into the mattress, deep enough that Yuuki can still feel the uncomfortable dip as he sleeps on his side. Kaname looks so tired, so lost that Yuuki can only distract him with kisses peppered across his shoulder, the expanse of skin and the sharp crook of bones. When Yuuki fucks him, he thinks that Kaname is all blunt edges, that they will never fit perfectly, but it's enough to hear Kaname's fractured breaths, his fingers fluttering against Yuuki's neck, open and close. And Yuuki gives, and gives, and gives.
Like weakness; like willfulness. Something like shame.
Kaname hates Fridays. He does, he really does.
Saturdays are sleeping days. Kaname likes Saturdays the most because it's the only time he gets some relative peace, in between work and babysitting an irresponsible man-child. In the morning he makes tea and drinks a cup in bed. He reads the papers or types a report while Yuuki plays with his DS. Yuuki's head pushes up against Kaname's thigh when he has to execute a fairly complicated maneuver with his fingers -- to Kaname it's only button smashing similar to a particularly vitriolic Neanderthal, but he rests his hand on the top of Yuuki's head, absently, calming even as both of them pretend not to notice.
They don't eat lunch until 2:30, because Yuuki loses track of time and Kaname falls asleep against the headboard. Kaname isn't awake enough to put together anything more complex than sandwiches, and he has to feed Yuuki with his fingers and instruct him to chew. Crumbs litter the bedspread and Kaname's lower lip as Yuuki bends to kiss him, softly, tentatively, and Kaname does not kiss him back because Saturdays are sleeping days and, oh, he remembers, he has to go home to something more important than Yuuki, to something more material.
Yuuki hates Saturdays; they're the worst.
Sundays are quiet days. Quiet, and unsettling. Yuuki's phone has no messages, nor does he send any.
They wait.
On Mondays they don't talk about it. No one does.
They sit across each other during lunch. Yuuki leans against Yuuta and lets Yuuta feed him bits of bread. Kaname ignores them all as he crams his math assignment, feasting only on Shun's chips when Shun forcibly prods one to his mouth.
"It's not like Mr. Honor Student at all," says Chizuru.
Kaname touches his collar; beneath it, he feels a bruise from Yuuki's teeth ache. He wets his lips with his tongue; it feels cracked, parched. He can't breathe.
Yuuki does not miss the action, but he stays silent. It's a small mercy.
I know every part of you goes unsaid.
Tuesdays, Kaname yanks him into an empty classroom. Hitches his pants around his knees and hides his frustration with a vicious kiss. His hips are heavy against Yuuki's thighs but the aborted sound he makes when Yuuki crooks his fingers just like that is more than worth it.
They don't do things halfway, the both of them. Just, do, or not at all.
Wednesday is courtship day; like twice shy lovers, they dance around each other with brittle words. Yuuki does not touch Kaname but he leaves tiny notes in his bag. Filthy things that make Kaname cross his legs in class and suffer in silence throughout geometry.
Angles, planes, congruence. Yuuki does not need proof in formulaic terms, not with Kaname's lip, bruised red and bitten. It's too easy.
Thursday, Yuuki stops by Kaname's shoe locker. Rests his side against the metal like he belongs there, like it's natural, and says, "I need help with math."
Kaname stares at him, suspiciously. "You never listen in math class."
"It's why I need help," says Yuuki, shrugging.
Kaname tugs his indoor shoes loose. He sets it, carefully, inside. "You never listen to me either."
"I listen," says Yuuki. "I always listen to you."
(Listens to Kaname's string of profanities, a litany of curses and supplication to some unknown god; listens when Kaname tells him it's okay, it'll be okay, I'm alright, now fucking move; listens when Kaname hums, under his breath, as he slices tomatoes and sets the lettuce atop a piece of ham; listens to Kaname's quiet voice, when he thinks Yuuki is asleep, saying something like, please, and god, and hope, but never love; listens, always, always)
"Can I come over tomorrow?" Yuuki says, bringing a hand to straighten Kaname's glasses. He lets his finger nails brush against Kaname's ear, watches as it blooms pink.
"Only if you're good," Kaname insists, pointedly. Yes, yes, yes.
Yuuki can do that.
He's always been good at knowing what Kaname wants, after all.