You’re not in love with Chūya Nakahara.

You aren’t addicted to his taste, or drawn to his presence, or yearning for his heart, or any other exemplar of love.

Truly, you lack any form of affection for him, even as you let Chūya bunch up your tie and tug you closer to him, trying to lose himself in you.

You lean forward, biting down hard on his shoulder, where his unbuttoned shirt has slipped enough to expose, inadvertently caging him against the wall in an attempt to prevent your knees from buckling.

Chūya lets out a stifled whimper against your lips, his grip tightening on your tie as he tries to steady his own shaky legs from collapsing entirely.

You run your tongue over the bruise that bloomed where you bit, and Chūya drags you down with him as his legs give out and he sinks to his knees.

Two of his fingers are curled into your slacks, and his other hand is still twisting your tie, as he pulls you down to your knees as well.

His vest and bolo tie are discarded in one corner of the room, his jacket and coat in another, and his fedora is halfway off his disheveled head, and his lips are redder than decadent lipstick, and his eyes are closed, and still, he tries to pull you closer.

Your hand reaches up and nestles into his hair, twisting the locks as you bring his face closer to yours, and a breathless smile plays faintly at your lips as his eyes open, his mind still a bit fuzzy.

You’re not in love with Chūya Nakahara.

You simply want to admire this mess of beauty for the moment.

And when his head droops down onto your shoulder, you’ll card your fingers through his hair and tell yourself that he means nothing to your heart, because there’s no point indulging in this short-lived affection, even as you try to keep him for a little longer.