“Would you like to touch?” Utakata asks, with that same polite smile Shisui’s seen him wear doing everything from greeting people to dissolving people in acid.
Jolted out of his fantasy of licking his sake off of Utakata’s abs, Shisui wrenches his head up from staring at bare skin so fast he nearly pulls a muscle. “What,” he squeaks, suffers one instant of intense despair at the horror that is his life, then clears his throat and repeats in a deeper voice, “What?”
Utakata arches one judgmental brow at him. “Touch,” he repeats, and that at least sounds patient. “Would you like to touch?”
Shisui has very literally never wanted anything more. He practically dives out of his chair, scrambling to his feet and around the corner of the table. Utakata blinks, clearly taken aback, but Shisui already has a hand on his stomach, feeling the firmness of sculpted muscle and the softness of skin, and -
Utakata makes a startled, breathy, nearly winded noise, and red floods his cheeks. “Shisui?” he says, and that’s definitely a squeak.
Caught by surprise, Shisui blinks at him, one hand completely under his robe. “Uh,” he says, and then can’t manage a single syllable more because Utakata is blushing. There’s no way Shisui can survive that.
The flush is spreading, too, creeping down Utakata’s pale skin, and he ducks his head, hair swinging forward to hide his face. “I meant the pipe,” he says, and Shisui belatedly remembers that oh, yeah, his pipe is totally stuck in his obi, isn’t it?
Uh, well. Hello awkwardness, his old friend.
“Oh gods,” Shisui says faintly, wondering if there’s a Dooton jutsu that will let him literally sink into the ground. He’s pretty sure Kakashi knows one. “I’m, uh. Sorry. More than. Oh gods if you want to punch me in the face that’s totally valid.”
But when he goes to pull his hand away, Utakata catches his wrist and holds him where he is.
“I suppose,” Utakata says, and the nonchalant tone is only slightly ruined by the fact that he can’t quite meet Shisui’s eyes, “that technically, you already brought me a drink.”
Shisui’s brain stalls out.
“Um?” he manages, valiantly tries to scrape together a few more brain cells, and gets out, “Second base on a first date? That’s - progressive of you.”
Utakata visibly swallows, glances up. His lashes are so long, and his eyes are so pretty. Shisui kind of wants to die. “It’s cute you’re assuming I’m not the type to put out on a first date,” he says, and if Shisui wasn’t so close he probably couldn’t hear the faint tremble in it.
Clearly, clearly, the only correct answer is to lean in and kiss him desperately.