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How do I know he’s mine?
The thought popped up in Arthur’s mind as he looked down at his black leather gloved hands placed on top of his briefcase. It stuck there through the rest of the ride on the subway. It remained with him even when he had arrived home as he unfurled the plaid scarf from his neck and placed it on his coat rack. The phone in his pocket vibrated again, and he read the message with glazed eyes, an aching heart.
>I’m not saying I don’t want to, the latest text read, I’m just saying I wouldn’t have time
Arthur texted back that it was Fine and a Maybe another time. He lulled the pain in his chest, and changed the topic (talking of this and that; a business meeting, a navy blue cardigan Kiku bought, how Arthur wished the weather would get colder and so on) and ended the conversation when Kiku was falling asleep at his phone, and so he bid his ‘husband’ good night.
As he took off his dress shoes, the phone suddenly cold and lonely on the kitchen table, the same thought came back, swimming to the surface, whispering in his ear like a siren.
How do I know he’s mine?
It’s not that Arthur wasn’t accustomed to this. He knew what they were and how it worked; they had discussed it in length when they had decided to get ‘married’. He knew; he understood. But perhaps it was the human part of him, the all too fragile side that made him want more. Arthur figured even if they were completely human he’d still feel this way; it had nothing to do with nations. It was all simply them.
Arthur wanted Kiku to be his, and he wanted to be Kiku’s.
It was entirely selfish, he knew. He was self-depreciating enough to call himself out on it first. It was a contradicting emotion that put him at ends and left him confused. He wanted more. He wanted something intangible and unexplainable. It was vague and it hurt and it left him feeling empty and just a little lonely.
He glanced back to the phone. Arthur had the childish urge to spill this all out to his beloved, to just let it all out in one go. I’m not mad at you, he would begin, in fact I think I’m falling more in love each day.
But he looked away. Got up from the chair and pocketed his phone and headed upstairs, shoes in one hand, briefcase in other. Arthur was entirely too prideful and mature and afraid. So he did not send anything.
But he might’ve hit the call button once that night. And in the morning he lied and told Kiku it was all an accident.
A month later Arthur sat next to Kiku as England. They both listlessly took notes of the entirely too artistic powerpoint Alfred showed them, at his big booming words and suggestions. It reminded Arthur vaguely of a salesman than a politician; but that’s not what he was thinking about then. Instead, he glanced to his side, at Kiku’s concentrated face, the mildly furrowed brows and writing pen. His heart skipped a beat. Another thought swam to his mind, like bubbles from a struggling swimmer.
I want to kiss him.
And another.
I want him to kiss me.
But of course in this setting, where they were assumed to be co-workers and any mention of a ‘marriage’ was taboo, he couldn’t. His hand twitched with the urge to touch Kiku; in any way really, just anything intimate. Holding his hand or slipping it on his knee. But he couldn’t. Arthur shoved all that further down into him and he ignored the needs and wants and lust.
For a moment he wondered if Kiku felt the same way.
He looked over again. Caught Kiku’s eye. Kiku stopped for a bit and smiled, looking down once more.
Arthur’s heart leapt, yet he still did not know what went on in Kiku’s mind.
They made love in Arthur’s hotel room after hours. It had been months after all, so this was expected. When they were done Kiku watched Arthur smoke, a pleasured, sleepy smile on his own lips.
“I love you.” He whispered. Arthur smiled to himself, embarrassed, a happiness coursing through his veins. He looked over his shoulder, at the beautiful image his darling made; the black hair splayed on the white pillow, the bony shoulder peeking from the blankets. The sheer joy on his face. Arthur shifted over and kissed Kiku’s head, breathing in the smell of shampoo and sex.
“I love you, too.” He told him, and Kiku wrapped his arms around Arthur’s neck, brought him down again, gently laughing. Arthur jerked a bit, holding his hand high up in the air, cigarette between his fingers.
“God, Kiku!” He laughed, not a bit of anger in that voice, “You’re going to make me burn down the whole hotel!”
Kiku grinned, the most emotion he’d only show to those most trusted. He apologized, saying sorry, sorry, his tone joking. He’d just missed him so much, is all.
“Well, I can tell that much,” Arthur snorted, putting out the barely burnt cigarette in an ashtray, “With how much you screamed my name.”
“Arthur-san!”
Arthur laughed, as Kiku hit him in the ribs. Low blow, he accused him of. He climbed on top of him, chiding him and Kiku spoke sweet nothings to make up for it. They dissolved into loving pillow talk and quick kisses, complete and whole.
Arthur was happy.
But he still wanted more.
It wasn’t that he wanted to go overboard. Of course Arthur had his own morals and full on affection in public did not fit into that. It was just small selfish little things he wanted. Something on the edge of it but not really all there. He was reminded of this constantly however, what he could not have and what he desperately wanted. On their days off when they went out in public it was always either holding back or Kiku politely shrugging off any touches.
A hand slipped around the shoulder earned him only a disapproving sideways glance from the recipient. Sitting too close on the bus made him shy away. Saying I love you in public was responded with “Please don’t be so loud”.
And Arthur understood. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have been chosen in the first place, so he always withdrew his hand, settled into his seat, spoke more quietly. He respected Kiku; he wanted to respect him. The person who made his heart sing with joy, who brought him delight, who accepted each flaw and trait; he wanted to respect that person with every fiber of his being.
But that’s not love, he would think to himself, it’s not all self-sacrifice.
Arthur was old enough to know it was a delicate balancing act of give and take of self-serving and self-sacrifice and now he battled with that. He also knew that Kiku was not being cold, it was just how he was, and how he will always be. Quiet, subtle, more passionate behind doors then in front of judging eyes.
However, even in private Arthur felt there was a barrier there too. Don’t be overbearing. He doesn’t want this, don’t do that, don’t express all the love, don’t be too forward. Arthur is a mistrusting, fragile man who’s used to betrayal. So he had to grow accustomed to that too.
And some nights Arthur would try to weigh it all in his head and all those figures and pluses and minuses wore on him. Kiku would wake up to him gripping his head and sighing loudly, frustrated. And it was him who gently helped Arthur up and asked him if he was fine, and made him tea to make sure he was. Arthur would fall back asleep with Kiku hugging him from behind, and Arthur would savor those arms on him, want this to last forever.
He was in love. And that love made him hurt so beautifully.
A phone call.
“I want to see you.”
This sentence had sprung forth in the middle of a comfortable silence as Kiku made dinner with the phone cradled on his shoulder and Arthur sat at his desk taking a light snack as he worked on paperwork. He weighed the pen in his hand, tapping it impatiently against the desk with the same quick rhythm as his heartbeat. Kiku chuckled lightly, stirring the bubbling soup in front of him, noodles in the broth separating with each move.
“Arthur-san,” he replied lightly, “unless you have enough time for a twelve hour trip I don’t think that’s possible.”
“Then I’ll make time.” He returned, voice strong and determined and somehow delicate, “I want to see you.”
Kiku paused. He could sense the mood turning tense and worry itched at the back of his mind.
“…Is everything alright?”
“I just…I love you.”
“I know.”
“I love you so much.”
“Did something happen?”
Arthur frowned, dissatisfied and hurt. He wondered the same thing; did something happen? What was different? Perhaps, he thought, he’d just had enough and it was finally bursting forth. Did something bad had to have happened for him to express himself? Is that how love was? Arthur felt lost and he wanted Kiku to find him, to understand him, to just see how he saw it for once.
“No,” he told him honestly, “I just…I just want to see you. I love you, Kiku. I love you.”
Kiku was silent. Arthur felt stupid then, bare and raw and he tried to think of a million things to fill the silence, a million things to excuse it away. He could hear Kiku taking in an intake of breath, and braced himself.
“I love you, too.” He agreed, “But let’s be realistic.”
He was simultaneously relieved and disappointed. Kiku went on to say that they could spend as much time together next time they would be able to. Arthur agreed to this. Such flighty emotions in him deflated a bit, like the stars dimming, but he nodded. He’d like that.
Perhaps, he thought, it was best this way. There couldn’t be any forcing it. It wasn’t right to want more when only one was willing. Arthur conceded with respecting Kiku as was and satisfying his pride as well. He felt a little empty.
But his love was happy; that alone filled him up once more.
Three months later. Arthur woke up sleepily, eyes blinking away the dream dust, the sun barely rising. He stretched a bit in the shared futon and got up carefully so as to not wake Kiku. He looked out the window to Japanese rooftops and a cloudy dawn. He looked back at Kiku. The dream he had was the type that made one pause and reconsider their surroundings. He dreamt of winter, and of Kiku’s turned back. It was all terribly melodramatic and so Arthur shook his head of the dream, scratched his hair, and got up. He decided to go for a walk seeing it was only 5:40 in the morning. He absentmindedly picked up a baggy, navy cardigan from the floor and slipped it on to protect himself from the cold.
Pochi joined him on his walk, and he let him. Arthur took in the awakening scenery, the chirping birds, the chilly air. His mind wandered back to his dream no matter how much he tried not to let it.
Perhaps this was ok, he thought.
They didn’t have to be a heartfelt drama. They didn’t have to be constantly in your face. This love…he decided to express it in different ways. Through the respect and the quiet understandings and the constant care. They didn’t have to be a love story; they could just be themselves. It was a decision he reached on his walk, stretching weary legs. He had considered telling it to Kiku, but it was all too over-the-top an idea. It would end exactly the same, he concluded. And so Arthur decided on his own how he would handle himself and his feelings.
It hurt a little. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t. But perhaps this was love; making sacrifices you can afford, guarding their heart and then yours.
After a lap around the neighborhood, with Pochi at his ankles, Arthur turned the corner back to Kiku’s house. He saw Alfred standing there, putting something in the mailbox. He wore a comfortable outfit, a taxi waiting for him on the street. Arthur frowned; he didn’t know he was even in the country. He hurried his pace a bit.
“What are you doing here?”
“Good morning to you too,” Alfred made a face, dropping papers into the mailbox, a soft thunk heard, “Business. I’m leaving early today, though, so I thought I’d just drop these off now.”
“Oh.”
Alfred turned to him. Arthur wasn’t anxious to be spotted here; it was well known already to everyone the nature of their relationship outside of work. But Alfred looked him over, and frowned, cheeks flushing. Arthur looked at him confused.
“Geez,” Alfred rolled his eyes, “Could you guys be any more in love?”
“What?”
“It’s nothing,” he laughed, waving it away. “I’ll see you later, ok? Tell Kiku I said hi.”
Arthur waved him off, still confused. It wasn’t as if Alfred disapproved of the relationship so where had that come from? He watched the taxi drive off and when it was out of sight he decided to just let it go. It still itched at the back of his mind, however.
When he got inside, Pochi weaving around his legs, he smelled the fresh scent of steeping tea leaves. He found Kiku in the kitchen making breakfast.
“Oh, good morning, Arthur-san. You went out?”
“For a walk.” He mentioned off-handedly, yawning and stretching, suddenly the sleep catching up to him. He was just about to tell him about Alfred until he saw Kiku looking him over with the same embarrassed look.
“What?” Arthur asked, incredulous, “What is it?”
“You’re wearing my sweater.”
Arthur stopped. Looked down.
Remembered.
His face turned red, and he was ready to apologize but Kiku smiled shyly, shook his head.
“I don’t mind.” He reassured him, looking away, “I…I’m actually rather happy.”
Arthur’s heart jumped. He thought what sort of image he must’ve made to Alfred, and although he should’ve felt shame, instead he felt pride. Wearing a lover’s clothes, it felt like symbolism. Like showing he was Kiku’s; or perhaps he had earned that right to wear it. And his needs and wants were answered, it was exactly what he had wanted, exactly what was ok with Kiku. Just subtle enough; just loving enough.
Perhaps this is love. Not one-sided pleasing but reaching a middle ground, a happy medium, a joyous shared existence. It was possible, he realized. They could do it.
They drank the tea together, sharing lazy morning chatter. When Arthur asked if he could take the sweater home, Kiku only gave him permission under one circumstance: he wanted to borrow one of his pieces of clothing too.
And when he saw Kiku wear that plaid scarf with a sort of coy delight, it made him so very pleased.