Work Text:
Tsuzuru is not used to relying on others.
This is a fact he cannot dispute, even in the earliest hours of morning, when Masumi snores quietly in the lofted bed behind him. He’s acquainted with expectations; forming a routine is second nature to someone like Tsuzuru, who survives on repetition and the mundane, who knows what it feels like to go without for the sake of someone else. He expects others to need help, and expects the expectations that others place on his own shoulders. This is a role that fits comfortably, like a threadbare shirt you can’t let go of. He’s become talented at being responsible for others, an all-inclusive notion that encompasses the wants, needs, and actions of those younger than yourself. This idea becomes all the more heavy when the bedclothes of his roommate rustle.
Tsuzuru squints behind him and only just makes out the blurry form beneath the sheets. The younger actor snorts in his slumber, but doesn’t wake. Typical. Masumi usually only woke to throw things Tsuzuru’s way when he was too loud during the night, mumbling to himself about the weight of words and how to combine character tropes, and Tsuzuru had finished this script hours earlier. The only thing keeping the elder boy awake is his own, tired string of thoughts, so Masumi dreams on.
The first dull rays of light get cut off by heavy curtains on the window, but the effect caused by the sun rising above the building behind the dormitory casts the room in an eerie shade of grey. The weather had mentioned rain, after all. It’ll be the fourth storm this week. Tsuzuru makes a mental note to remind Masumi and Sakuya to take umbrellas, regardless of the fact that the former of the two will refuse out of stubbornness, and the latter will likely forget the advice altogether. Those are his expectations.
He wonders, halfheartedly, when he’ll be able to go to sleep. Raindrops start to ping against the window.
The thought from earlier bursts his distraction. It’s an idea that won’t leave his heart, and has, in fact, refused to do so all week. I’m not used to this feeling. It’s not...Uncomfortable, he knows. The whole epiphany had been warm and fuzzy, if not a little startling, when he first felt struck with it, helping to cook breakfast on Sunday morning. Twirling around, back to back with Omi, listening to Sakyo read the news out loud, greeting Izumi who still showed up to help wearing those rabbit slippers; he’s too used to the bustling of his younger siblings, too comfortable with making sure everyone is accounted for, that he nearly missed the transformation from caretaker to partner . The unusual feeling begins in his stomach; Citron was pushing the school-aged kids around and fetching backpacks, Hisoka was already asleep on the nice leather chair in the corner. The unnamed emotion wrapped around his lungs like smoke, filling his chest with something that felt like nostalgia but twisted . Tsuzuru can almost see the younger boys that look like himself at that age, but now there’s green-and-pink hair toddling around, half awake and sleep-confused. He hasn’t been sleeping well himself, not with the new script that keeps refusing to be written. He tries to chalk the feeling up to being drained. Omi nudges him out of the way of the stove-top, smiling in that gentle way he does, and Tsuzuru feels flustered. Still, he steps to the side, suddenly too confused by himself to nudge back.
He wants to open his mouth and join in on herding the younger actors around. He wants to make sure everyone has their homework and the right notebooks for their classes. He feels like he needs to do that, even though he’s aware Homare is going to come through the door like clockwork and join in with Citron. Knowing he doesn’t have to speak feels...Wrong.
Tsuzuru had nearly stumbled and dropped a plate of pancakes when it smacked into his heart just how long he’d been reliant on others; he hadn’t realized that he’d willingly shared his older brother role. It’s an epiphany that comes hard-won, bittersweet and a little like victory. Like he’s beaten an enemy he didn’t know existed.
The others around him had almost allowed him to escape without notice of his little mistake; had Izumi not been in the room, he would’ve been fine. Lucky for Tsuzuru, he turned just in time to see the director perk a single eyebrow in wonder. A warm blush had heated Tsuzuru’s cheeks and he was quick to sit the plate of food down and fumble through an excuse to leave.
Recalling the incident, even in the dim light of his bedroom, was still embarrassing.
Tsuzuru runs his fingers across the keyboard, careful not to add any gibberish to the still-open script. The piece itself is an original, a little unorthodox, but he’s proud of it. He checks the clock to see that it’s barely 5:30; he’s remotely thankful that his classes today aren’t going to be important, because he can feel that he won’t be awake very much longer. With a peek to ensure that the document saved to his flash drive, Tsuzuru disconnects the port and stands with purpose. He’s even awake enough, for the moment, to be gentle when he closes the door.
When he reaches the common area, Tsuzuru feels anxious. It’s not the same worried feeling from the first time he shared his script with Izumi; he’s come a long way, and he trusts that the director will be honest if there’s any changes that need to be made. He’s startled to find the very person in his thoughts, curled up in the most comfortable chair in the room, scribbling away in a notebook.
“Ah...It’s a little early to be blocking a stage, isn’t it?” Izumi drops the notebook on the floor; it becomes apparent to Tsuzuru that he may have been a little too quiet. The director clutches at their chest and heaves a bursting sigh, before shifting down to retrieve their work.
“It’s a little early to exist, but here we both are.” Tsuzuru rubs at the back of his neck, left hand clutching the flash drive hidden in the pocket of his jacket. He can hear the gentle tease in Izumi’s voice, though, and it’s comforting.
“I was just going to leave this on the table with a sticky note, but I’m actually glad you’re awake for it,” he pulls the little device out and holds it out for Izumi to take. They do so with a tiny smile that grows wide and warm when they see what it is. “I hope it’s up to your standards.” He starts to pull his hand back with his eyes stuck to the ceiling, too flustered by the obvious affection the director shows to all the actors at Mankai, but hits an obstacle: Izumi has him by the wrist. Tsuzuru blinks, once and then twice more, mouth hung open in a way he knows must look a little dumb. The director is still smiling, but it’s grown reserved.
“You seem to have something on your mind. Why don’t you tell me about it, because we both know you won’t sleep well unless you spill the beans.” They finally release him only for Tsuzuru to stumble haphazardly into the couch near where the director is sat. He can feel that repeated thought reverberate in his lungs, and takes a steadying breath, if only to let the idea out.
“I…” Tsuzuru falters. Izumi has leaned forward, notebook drifted off to the side and replaced with the flash drive holding his hard work. He takes another breath. “I’m thankful for the opportunity you’ve given me--” he watches in horror as the director’s expression morphs into concern and follows up quickly, “I’m not going anywhere!” And Izumi breathes their own tiny sigh of relief. “I just...I’ve been responsible since I was really young. I know I’ve thanked you for letting me write these scripts, and I’m still really grateful for that, but it’s different, I guess?” He’s started to ramble, words tripping over themselves, but Izumi makes no move to stop him. “A lot of growing up for me was making sure my brothers were growing up, too. And I’m not mad at my parents, I know they did the best they could, but it’s like...You gave me a chance to be something more?” Tsuzuru has hung his head by this point, too embarrassed and ashamed by his feelings to keep looking at someone he looks up to . “You gave me a place where I don’t have to be big brother Tsuzuru all the time. You gave me a place to be just me .” He has never really been a crybaby, but there’s hot streaks running down his cheeks and dripping from his nose and that’s all he can really look at, and it stings to tell the truth but it hurts a little bit less when Izumi reaches out to hold his hand.
“You’ve always been just Tsuzuru . But I think you’re even more than that.” He still can’t look Izumi in the eye. “You’re a really good actor, and an amazing writer, and a wonderful friend.” Tsuzuru sniffs a little pitifully, but he’s smiling. (It’s watery and his nose is running. He doesn’t care.) He squeezes Izumi’s hand back, unable to offer up any more thanks but feeling it so strongly that it hurts to breathe, and knows they understand the words he can’t say.
Izumi sits with him for a few more minutes, just enough for his tears to stop running, then stands abruptly and returns with tissues. Tsuzuru blows his nose and decides it’s finally time for sleep not much longer after that.
Later, after seeing everyone off for the day, Izumi gives the script a read. The director is pleased to find a story about independence and found family, and Tsuzuru wakes up to a sticky note on his forehead that says “no edits necessary.”
The next day, the sky is clear.