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Our love is a star
Sure some hazardry
For the light before and after most indefinitely
It’s one of those nights—you know the ones. You’re exhausted but you lie awake squinting at the ceiling in the grayish haze of a dark bedroom. It’s 3am but time feels meaningless in this confined space. When you lie in bed like this on your back, stiff as a board, you can’t help but feel a bit like a corpse. You might even start to see yourself as a dead man. But if you’re one of the lucky ones—or maybe even one of the deserving—you’ll find yourself dragged out of this fantasy by the soft stirs of another body beside yours. They don’t ever bury two bodies in the same casket, do they?
The one beside you radiates heat—so much so that you might think, huh, maybe I’m in hell because you know that’s where you’d go if you really were dead. But the sleeping figure is much more like an angel than a devil, white sheets draped over his shoulders and tangled up around his legs like holy garments. He’s not even facing your direction but you know how he must look—eyes softly shut, accented by thick lashes curling up just so; mouth hanging open ever so slightly. You think about his lips, always a little chapped from licking them absently, and you think about kissing him as you brush the stubble on his cheek with your hand. You are always wanting this, always wanting him. You’ve found that no amount of having him will ever be enough to satisfy your hunger for all of his goodness . You liken yourself to an incubus, never satiated no matter how much he gives you, and having nothing to offer in turn besides a craving for more, more, more.
When he next shifts, his arm touches yours, and it feels so incredible that you reflexively move away because you don’t trust yourself not to wrap your limbs around him like you’re hanging on for dear life. In this moment you find it impossible to reckon his existence with your own—you can almost feel your mind splitting down the middle, dissociation of expectations and reality. You sit up and stare at him curled up beside you. The guilt is crushing. Why is he here? Why doesn’t he leave? What could he possibly see in you that he couldn’t get from anybody else? It’s been months since the first time the love of your life said the words you knew you’d never be ready to hear— I love you, too. But does he really? How could he?
You stare down at your hands, palms outstretched on your lap as if they don’t belong to you. You don’t feel like any “I love yous” are yours to keep. You haven’t done anything to earn them, but here they are. You think it’s kind of like existence itself—you don’t ask for it, but it happens, and it fills you up with something you don’t want to lose. You frown at the slow rise and fall of his chest and let your thoughts slip to that darkest place—Is he just here out of pity? Your eyes start to burn and your throat tightens and you fully intend to make a break for it—hide in the bathroom for a while or step out for a quick smoke—and that’s when you hear your name in his voice.
“Taka?” It’s gravelly-sounding as if it sticks in his throat and you make a last-ditch plea to whoever might be out there watching that your lover is still in the throes of sleep. No such luck, however. Katsuya rubs his tired eyes and they immediately widen at the sight of your tensed up silhouette. “Are you okay?”
You know you’ve been caught. “I’m fine,” you tell him, because you would try anything to shy away from the tenderness in his face when he worries.
“You’re crying.”
“I… I just couldn’t sleep, that’s all. I’m overtired. It’ll be fine. Please go back to sleep, okay?” You wave your hand in his face as if to shoo him off, as if there’s any version of reality where your best friend, your boyfriend of nearly three years, would shrug and leave you to it.
His brow furrows and he reaches out immediately to cup your face in his hands. You choke back a sob as he gently thumbs your cheek, wiping away a stray tear. “Arataka, talk to me,” he coaxes, and every inch of you wants to collapse into his arms and cry until your chest aches with the effort. Instead you grab his wrists and pull his hands back from your face. He lets them drop into his lap and wrings them together, a nervous habit he’s had since you first met him. He isn’t saying more and you can’t stand the heaviness of the silence so your mouth starts moving of its own volition.
“I keep having these fears—that none of this is real .” You gesture something you hope conveys what you mean better than your words can. “Like this— us— is all some sick joke!” You turn away from him and put your face in your hands, squeezing your eyes shut to try and hold back the tears threatening to spill. You’re petrified to face him like this, but you hear the sounds of a drawer opening and some shuffling and your curiosity gets the better of you. You tentatively uncover your face and tilt your head back towards him.
“Katsuya?”
He turns to face you with an expression you’ve never seen before, his eyes meeting yours with a startling intensity. He bites his lip and that’s when you notice he’s cautiously cradling something in his hands. “I was planning to wait until our anniversary to do this but…” He pulls one of your hands between his cupped ones, drops something small and cold into your palm. It feels smooth, round and metallic, and you gasp despite yourself.
“Suya, what is-“
“Taka, nothing about this is a joke to me. I love you. I love you so much that some days I don’t even know how it all fits inside of me. Sometimes I think I might burst.”
You take turns gawking at him and the ring in your hand. “Are you saying… what I think I think you’re saying?”
He takes your hands again and the softest of smiles plays on his lips as he meets your eyes once more. The sight is enough to take your breath away. He leans towards you and whispers the most impossible question in your ear. “Arataka, will you marry me?”
You have to ask, you have to know if it’s for real. “You-you’re serious?”
“Oh Taka,” he sighs, runs a hand through your hair. “I have never been more serious about anything.” He kisses your cheek, warm and wet. “Please give me the honor of spending the rest of my life by your side.”
You blink once, twice. Your throat is sandpaper; your limbs are rubber. The most you can manage is a slow nod. He is eager then, grabbing the ring from your palm and sliding it onto your finger with a newfound purpose. Something deep inside you unravels then, and you feel your face contorting into something hideous as you begin to cry. You grab for him, or maybe he pulls you towards him. Either way you end up buried in his chest as you let out shaky sobs, clutching onto the worn fabric of his sweatpants while he rubs your back and tells you he loves you, that you’re beautiful, that you’re the most important thing he has and wouldn’t dream of any other life but this one. Somehow, you fall asleep like this, your body collapsing under the weight of emotion now released.
You wake up to the sun in your eyes, lift your head from his chest, sticky with sweat, and peer up at him with your chin now poking his rib cage. He’s already awake, and flashes you a silly smile as he moves to sit up against his pillow. “Good morning, Taka.”
With a start, you feel for the ring on your finger to ensure it hadn’t all been a dream. Upon confirmation of reality, you ignore his greeting altogether and sputter out “Yes, Katsuya. Yes, of course I’ll marry you,” in case the question has an expiration date attached to it.
He laughs and you pull yourself up to lay a desperate kiss on his lips, transposing laughter into soft moans. You continue this a while longer, passion surging through both your bodies like an electric current. When you both tire, you simply lay there, basking in the afterglow of your mutual love.
You have to ask, you can’t help it. “Can we even afford a wedding?”
Katsuya rolls his eyes and jabs a finger into each of your sides, making you squeal. “If it comes down to it, we’ll elope.”
“I don’t think Tome would ever forgive us if we did that.”
“No, probably not.”
“Hey Suya?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
“I love you too, Taka.”
You roll out of his lap and sit up. “Let’s grow old together, okay?”
The laugh he lets out is your favorite kind—unpracticed, uninhibited. “You got it, boss.”