Work Text:
Jiro can appreciate the subtle beauty in anything.
At the earliest years of boyhood, in the most fever-induced lucidity of his dreams, he’d recall, vividly, arcing plane wings, Monet clouds, impressionist brush strokes that allowed Jiro's poor eyesight to exist without fault, without humiliation.
He'd witnessed the beauty in the little girl and her caregiver, had remembered their sparkling eyes, the round vowels of the French they exchanged — Le vent se lève — and the curve of her smile. The splint he'd used to straighten the beautiful arc of the caregiver's broken shin, her unresponsive toes, her bravery following the earthquake.
The embers in the plumes of smoke, the mountain of books they managed to save, snowing paper, and ash of the ones they couldn't.
A mackerel bone, pinched between his chopsticks, so white and unmarred. Devastating in its final form.
Right now, though, what reserves his fondest gaze is the slope of a spine, glistening with sweat and quivering with muscle; the curl of ink-smudged fingers, squeezing until they’re white-knuckled over the edge of Jiro’s draftsman table; blades of raven hair warming to a burnt umber under the lamplight, in the quiet secrecy of their office, where Jiro can spot, even in this lighting, the way one ear remains uncovered by hair, and the tip of it blushes scarlet.
What Jiro considers beautiful about Honjo, and what Jiro allows himself to tell you, dear reader, barely grazes the surface. Though, ah, Jiro guesses he can’t really contain the way he feels about the sight of himself buried deep into the pert globes of Honjo’s ass.
“Honjo,” Jiro sighs wistfully, working his hips into a slow, meticulous grind. They’re both slick with sweat. It is the hottest month of summer in Tokyo, after all, and Jiro’s pores bead with it. He has to constantly reassure his glasses properly on the slope of his nose before the clear vision he has of Honjo’s writhing body beneath him blurs between clarity and fuzz. From below, Honjo’s torso slides against his draft papers, crinkling them, smudging them with his sweat and weight and shuddering frame. His body creates abstract art out of Jiro’s scribbling of abstraction. “You’re beautiful.”
For the price of his words, Jiro can feel the way Honjo tightens around him. They both gasp with it, and Jiro barely adjusts his glasses again in time to witness Honjo glancing, uncharacteristically sheepish, over his shoulder. His eyes are partially hidden behind the midnight sweep of his hair, but Jiro prides himself on being able to find Honjo’s gaze anywhere — in a crowd, across the room, and even when Jiro isn’t looking.
“Quit talking about me like I’m one of your fish bones,” Honjo presses his hips back, urging Jiro to move. His voice is heavy with pleasure and desire, but light with amusement. So he must not be truly angry about Jiro’s honesty.
Jiro laughs, short and airy. He stalls his hips just to listen to the way Honjo groans in protest.
Jiro says, “I’m not talking about you like a mackerel bone. I’m talking about you, my dear, as you are.”
“Charmer,” Honjo spits, but the squeeze of his body betrays him, telling Jiro everything he needs to know about how much he loves being spoken to like this. His gaze falls away when he turns his head, and Jiro longs for their eye contact again. “If you don’t move right now, you can think twice about calling me that again, or else, you’ll see what happens.”
“Yes, yes,” Jiro smiles, and he wipes his sweating lip with his sleeve before passing a hand over Honjo’s slick tailbone. Honjo’s hips open in response, not unlike a preening feline, and Jiro chuckles, smoothing his palm up the arc of his friend’s sweaty spine. He fists his hand into the white button-up bunched at Honjo’s heaving scapula.
“Will you make a mess all over my work?” Jiro asks quietly before he takes to a fair pace, feet planted squarely around Honjo’s unshined Haruta loafers.
It’s unfair teasing on his part, he admits, but he’s come to learn that Honjo quite likes the scandal of it. They’ve already gotten this far, at the mercy of their office’s unlocked doors. Had anyone accidentally left anything before calling off for the day, they’d be the first to know with the thudding footsteps and rattling sliding door. That — the risk, the sin of sodomy, the kindling for it — it’s all confirmed by yet another telltale squeeze around Jiro’s cock.
“N-Not if I can help it,” Honjo moans — they both ignore the likely fact that, yes, Honjo has already smudged his work — rocking back into the harmonious rhythm with Jiro tugging his shirt like a - like a dog, so to speak. Great heavens.
“Oh, but I think you should,” Jiro suggests, petting Honjo’s hip with his free hand. He removes his gaze from the back of Honjo’s head to admire where they’re connected. Jiro is mesmerized by this, too, even if it is the most provocative thing he’s ever had the pleasure of witnessing. His dark cock sinks, wet and throbbing, beyond Honjo’s puffy rim that clings desperately to him, unwilling to let go. Likewise, Honjo’s ass pushes back to meet every slow thrust of his hips, unassisted, unquelled by the makeshift leash. It’s captivating, it’s beautiful.
“All over the F-Falcon project? No, Kurokawa would kill me. He’d kill you,” Honjo gasps when Jiro drives forward at the thought, nearly curling over his friend with the way his sac slaps against the sweet slope of his wet, dribbling perineum. Jiro thinks that had he not decided that being buried deep inside of Honjo was of the utmost priority, he’d be on his knees, sucking sweetly on the smooth plane of skin leading to his heat. “Do you enjoy—ah—humiliating me that much?”
“And if I said I did? What then, my dear?” Jiro teases, before drawing his hips back, only to snap forward with a targeted force that rocks the table.
Honjo crumbles under him, fingers scrabbling to reach for the top of the drafting board. He holds on to it desperately, his subsequent moan buried into a graphite kiss against Jiro’s papers. For once, Jiro feels jealous of the smudgings. Feels angered that they do not reciprocate beyond a stain upon his friend’s pink, cigarette-chapped lips. “Fuck, Jiro, don’t—”
“Don’t, what?” Jiro does it again.
Honjo’s ass bounces at the force with a delightful clap that echoes in the room, drowning out the groan it pulls from his partner. Jiro relishes in it, sliding one of his hands away from Honjo’s hip to cup the spillage of fat and muscle that seamlessly connects to Honjo’s lower back. He spreads him impossibly further like this, feeling Honjo’s hole wink and tighten around him in embarrassment.
“You know what you're doing,” Honjo rushes to say with great difficulty, as Jiro carves and punches out his eloquence, his breath, his words.
“You told me to move,” Jiro coos in reminder, renewing his undulations into a savory grind. Arousal flares low in his stomach at the sensation of Honjo’s walls hugging him so ardently. He almost struggles to say, “I’m moving.”
“Not—” Honjo lifts his head with a gasp, and all Jiro can see is his red ears and neck, “Not like this, Jiro, you’re— you’re teasing—”
"You like it when I tease you."
"I—"
"Admit it," Jiro says, thoroughly amused, head heavy with arousal and sweat and the dizzying call to come. His hand slides further down, between the lightly furred, stretched wrinkle, to their connection. He tries to push his thumb inside.
"Mean," Honjo's sweating throat tenses around words. "You're being so mean today. What gives, huh? Gonna keep me on the edge like this? Is it because I ate half your food at lunch? Snapped your fish bones? What is it?… Jiro, that's too much—"
Jiro's thumb sinks into Honjo's asshole, wedging between the thick vein running up the up the surface of his cock and the soft, loved walls of his friend's hole.
It's so tight.
They both groan, taken by the feeling, by the sight.
"You're so beautiful," Jiro sighs again, brokenly, tilting his chin towards the ceiling as he relishes their succulent union. "Oh, Honjo… I'm not even thinking about my fish bones right now. Haven't I already mentioned that?"
Honjo does not reply to his question.
Jiro bites his lip. He does not mention that he wants to bend and mold Honjo into such a beautiful shape.
It is the chicken and the egg analogy. Is Honjo beautiful because of the fish bone? Or is the fish bone beautiful, because it was back-lit by Honjo's blurry, incredulous expression when Jiro first discovered it and pulled it from the deep recesses of his mouth? Truly a fascinating debate to be had, because whichever conclusion Jiro may arrive at, the answer will inevitably include that Honjo was there to witness it all. Though so was the fish bone.
He ought not to tell Honjo this. Jiro's tongue can smooth and suck over the fish bone all he wants. He can apply the beautiful curve to whatever draft he desires. Honjo is the same. Jiro thinks it may be impossible to separate the two beyond the presence of consciousness. And that matters: one has a conscience to know Jiro as intimately as this, whereas there is no reciprocity in a fish bone.
And perhaps most notable of all, Honjo is not so delicate.
"Turn over," Jiro hisses, scrotum drawing tight at the thought of Honjo’s warm embrace. He removes his thumb. "I want to see you."
Honjo makes a wounded noise, but he pushes himself up on his elbows anyway.
They adjust, and Jiro's drafting table shudders under Honjo's weight when he lays his back across it.
Jiro does not know what comes over him to have Honjo's knees hooked onto his shoulders, ankles crossed behind his head with his terribly unshined loafers.
Jiro gazes at Honjo's disgruntled, terribly vulnerable face. He sinks into him again, chest soaring when Honjo's lashes flutter as he takes Jiro's length, his girth. He wants to shove into Honjo's body. He wants to put his entire hand in him, his tongue, his head. He wants to shove between the fish bones protecting Honjo's heart. He is so beautiful when he arches up like this, lifting from Jiro's papers to receive his cock, his ribs exalting to the surface, underfed by this poor company, this poor Japan. Later, Jiro will feed him sponge cake and tea.
"I'm going to–" Honjo chokes out, locking his ankles tight behind Jiro's head, pulling his body closer. "--come, fuck, Jiro, I'mgonnacome—" His eyes are squeezed shut, thick, long lashes making the wetness of his face an indistinguishable amalgamation of tears and sweat.
"I'm not so far behind," Jiro pants, his hips pumping quickly. He tries to hit where Honjo likes it the most, every bump and ridge kissing his cockhead.
Honjo jolts beneath him, "Ah, right there!"
"Yeah?" Jiro climbs to the precipice once more.
He looks at Honjo, melting. Such a shame he did not have the foresight to unbutton Honjo's shirt completely. The white cloth covers Honjo's brown nipples, his heaving chest. The shape it leaves, however, is beautiful in its own right. Like two curtains drawing closed, their white fishbone drapery. He is so slippery with sweat that Jiro can make out how his wet skin sticks to the fabric, creating ovals of Monet's lily pads on pearlesque water. Jiro reaches around Honjo's knee, where it is slick against his cheek, and shoves his glasses up his nose bridge again before the scene before him has the chance to morph into impressionist brush strokes. He returns his grip to Honjo's thighs, his hips, his waist, wherever he can grab.
"Yes, yeah," Honjo whines, voice climbing octaves. "God, just this — I-I think I can come without you touching me! Don't you dare stop, Jiro!"
"You're incredible, Honjo,” Jiro shudders at that.
He fucks into Honjo, into the tight space their bodies make. His abdomen and glutes burn with the last ounces of his strength, determined to deliver both of them to bliss.
Jiro's draft table plummets.
Even when Jiro's knees bash against the floor, even when Honjo gets the wind knocked out of him, Jiro fucks him.
He pitches forward, thoroughly bending his friend in half, knees throbbing. There is no way Honjo can breathe, Jiro is sure. But he fucks him.
They create such a grotesque picture. Two sweaty, desperate men of sin and selfishness and sodomy. If you'd seen just that, you'd never known they were aeronautical engineers. Similarly, if you'd seen them working so hard at their draft tables amongst their coworkers during working hours, you'd never expect them to be desecrating the genius Jiro's very station.
But Jiro thinks they are beautiful.
Between them, Honjo's neglected cock twitches and comes.
Honjo draws out a loud and long groan. Jiro squints, hurtling and transfixed as Honjo's cum paints across his trembling, folded abdomen. So beautiful. Monet's impressionism. Leg splints. Aviation and plane wings. Sweaty spines. Honjo.
Jiro's eyes roll back into his skull as he soars over the edge with one final thrust, coming deep into Honjo's warm gullet. Behind his eyelids, he sees the burnt impression of Honjo's bowed body. He sees his skeleton, made up of the finest fish bones.
They work together to get Jiro's drafting table propped to an inconspicuous height again. The wood legs are warped out of shape.
Jiro runs his finger along the splintered, delicate curve of one. His index finger catches the strayest of strays. He clicks his tongue and digs it out with his thumbnail, drawing a bead of blood.
"If you're lucky, maybe Kurokawa won't say anything," Honjo sniffs from behind him.
Jiro looks at Honjo, who has since straightened up his appearance into something more presentable. They could only do so much to wipe away the graphite smudges all over his back and stomach, his sweat having turned tacky and dry. He may look composed, but Jiro's eyes linger at his navel, wishing to peek inside where his cum is undoubtedly warmed and dripping. He wants to take him apart with his tongue.
"Oh, don't look at me like that," Honjo hisses. "Neither you nor I has the time for another round. You've got all that work to redo tonight. Shit."
Jiro rubs the subsequent grin away from his lips with a scolding hand.
"I don't mind," Jiro then rises to his feet. He winces, knees stinging and bruised. "I had to revisit the calculations anyway. I think I figured out a more effective design for the tensile stress."
"Oh, really? And when did you have that revelation?" Honjo rolls his dark eyes.
"During the throes of our passion, my dear," Jiro laughs softly. He collects his dirty rolls of draft papers, tucking them under his arm.
Honjo splutters, crossing his arms. "Should I feel offended? If you had the capacity to think during — that — then-"
Jiro moves into his space, bending paper, and silences him with a chaste kiss. He pulls away to meet Honjo's wide, open eyes.
"Honjo, you're beautiful," he says.
Honjo's face colors, subtle and red.
Jiro is going to have him eat sponge cake and drink tea tonight.