—A usual night, behind closed doors
The rain hadn't stopped. It wrapped the city in a steady hush, a white noise that sealed the world outside.
Mikhail was quiet, as always. He moved like he did everything else—measured, deliberate, calm. He stripped in the low golden light of their bedroom, folded his shirt with care, set it on the edge of the dresser. His long black hair, streaked with silver, fell loose over his shoulders as he unpinned it, damp at the ends from the steam of tea and warmth of the room.
Leonhart watched him from the bed, propped up on his elbows. His curls were messy, eyes half-lidded and gleaming in the dark. He was all heat and hunger, stretched out with lazy intent.
"You're really going to fold your clothes right now?" he asked, voice thick.
Mikhail glanced over his shoulder, bare to the waist, pale skin catching light like ivory. "They wrinkle."
Leon groaned softly. "You're impossible."
Still, he smiled when Mikhail crossed the room and climbed onto the bed, a knee sinking into the mattress. There was no rush. There never was with Mikhail. But when he kissed Leon, it was quiet fire—his hand cradling Leon's jaw, thumb brushing over his cheek like he was memorizing it for later.
Leon pulled him close, large hands trailing down Mikhail's back, grounding them both. Mikhail exhaled into his mouth—controlled, restrained—but Leon could feel the way he gave in piece by piece. The way his body leaned into the weight of the touch, the tension melting slowly like snow in spring.
Clothes came off with ease, not torn, not frantic. Just the way they always did between them—intentional. Familiar. Craved.
Leon kissed the line of Mikhail's throat, his collarbone, the edge of his shoulder where grey strands tickled his skin. Mikhail's breath hitched only once, barely audible, but Leon heard it. Felt it.
"You're warm tonight," Mikhail murmured against his neck.
"You say that every night."
"Because it's always true."
Mikhail let Leon guide him onto his back, allowed the taller man's hands to explore him like he was something sacred and secret. His fingers threaded into Leon's hair, not pulling, just resting. Trusting. Accepting the touch with the silent reverence of someone who didn't give himself away easily.
They didn't speak much. They didn't need to.
The rhythm was slow, deep, anchoring. Leon kissed Mikhail's temple as they moved, brushing the damp hair from his face, murmuring his name like it meant safety. Mikhail's hands roamed his back, nails lightly dragging down with each movement, his mouth parting on soft, almost soundless sighs.
When they finally came, it was in silence—Leon holding Mikhail close, Mikhail's face tucked into his neck, breath hot against his skin. Neither of them pulled away for a long while. The rain kept falling.
Later, Mikhail lay beside him with one hand resting over Leon's chest, eyes half-lidded, breath even.
Leon stared at the ceiling.
"You ever going to tell me what you're really thinking?" he asked, voice drowsy.
Mikhail didn't answer right away. Then:
"I already do. You just don't listen the right way."
Leon turned to look at him—at those quiet, unreadable eyes. Then he reached down and took Mikhail's hand again, like he had on the couch.
"Then keep showing me," he whispered.
Mikhail closed his eyes. And he stayed.