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Suzuki’s hands graze his sides, the faint impression a memory of his own hands on Suzuki’s hips all those weeks ago, and more recently the memory of his hands on his own body as he tried to chase that moment in his thoughts.
He twists his hips at the same pace, the reversal of their positions sparking heat up his body. Suzuki lets out a whoop, but it lands faintly in Suguki’s ears. All he can think about is those hands tracing the contours of his body. It must feel familiar after all the time they spend pressed together, yet it is fresh and new and exciting and he wants to drown in it until he can’t feel himself anymore.
Or: Suzuki takes Sugiki to another Latin club. Sugiki can only think of Suzuki's hips.
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