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They had something, at one point.
Fleeting touches to the waist, soft hands reaching for another's, shoulders rubbing against each other when they sat close by. They were young and easily excited, so of course, it even went farther. He remembers a baby blue sweater hanging off the younger's shoulder loosely, exposing his collarbone as he drowned in the soft fabric. His hair was tousled and unkept, his fringe messy with random little strands of hair standing up. His boxers were slipping down his waist by the second, revealing a glimpse of his slim hips. He sat at the end of the apartment's grey couch on his knees, hands pressing against the sofa, and their eyes met with barely concealed hunger and determination. He looked dishevelled, a little dazed, with a soft blush decorating his face that was inherently, irresistibly cute.
But Javier Fernandez could not love him.
When they held hands, he felt stiff and awkward. When they hugged, he felt uneasy, like he was being watched, and judged. When they kissed, his lips weren’t as soft as they looked, and he found himself looking down once more. He was always so patient yet willing, so understanding whenever Javier had to pause, separating from him despite the evident desire in his eyes. Javier himself would never have been able to stand it, being so close yet so far, the tension so palpable he could drown in it. Every time Javier saw the longing in his eyes, he felt a bit scared, or nervous, like he had to catch up because he…he wasn’t ready.
So, Javier ran away.
“I’m trying, I’m trying so hard... but I feel off, Yuzu.” he said, like an idiot.
The younger smiled weakly, but took his hand, returning, “Javi's trying. I’m happy with just Javi trying.”
“But I don’t want to lie to you, Yuzuru.” the wretched fool stressed.
The grip on his hand tightened. “You’re not, Javi, no lying. It’s different to Javi’s relationships before, so I understand. You’re giving me everything I could ever want.”
“I think we need to stop, Yuzu, I really, really can’t hurt you because of me.” the ignorant jerk continued, tone unwavering.
“Javi isn’t hurting! I…I love you, Javi.” he proclaimed so boldly, his eyes so soft and warm that Javier wanted to crumple to his knees right than and there.
“That’s the problem.”
“W-What?”
“I- I thought I loved you but I don’t know Yuzu…because…because…”
“Because what?”
“I can’t say-"
“Javi, please!”
“It’s my problem, not anything to-“
“It’s clearly not, if-"
“Sometimes I look at you and wish you were a woman.”
Javier remembers the grip on his hand loosening immediately, and he remembers the sharp burn in his right cheek as Yuzuru Hanyu slapped him. The rest of that memory is a blur. He recalls Yuzuru sobbing painfully into his chest, weakly punching at his shoulder, crying incoherently something along the lines of “I thought we talked about it”. He can faintly recollect the Japanese running down the barren hallway of the cricket club, and him cursing his own treacherous heart as he saw the tears streaking down Yuzu’s porcelain face when he turned around for one brief second.
However, he can vividly remember that sting, that poisonous weight in his chest that teared at his heart relentlessly, making all the warmth lingering dissipate.
Guilt.
The weak following the confrontation was one constantly on edge. Yuzuru looked so sullen, so disappointed that he couldn’t even look him in the eye. Javier tried to reach out to him, but he always eluded him swiftly, footsteps fading into the distance as he left yet again. There was one time Javier almost caught him, grabbing on to his hand. But feeling a harsh flinch from the boy, he had to let go, and watch his back once again as he trudged down the grey and beige halls.
The tension eventually got better. Yuzuru was always kind, too kind, and when Javi apologised softly in a locker room one Saturday morning, he almost wanted to cry, feeling that warm embrace once more. They ever so slowly returned to normal, Javier still letting it all happen: fleeting touches to the waist, soft hands reaching for another's, shoulders rubbing against each other when they sat close by. Sometimes, on a particularly exhausting day, Yuzuru would rest his head gently on his shoulder, and Javier would sit in silence, inhaling the scent of his hair. It smelt like a soft sea-breeze, which was fitting: it was familiar, comfortable, relaxing.
It was also cold, a little distant.
Ephemeral.
Yuzuru wouldn’t let those touches last extensively, and he’d excuse himself before long, like he was a child indulging in chocolate before bed time. Whenever that desire built up in his eyes, he’d control it, let it simmer out and lay it to rest. Javier let him do so, it was the least he could do. Sometimes, he’d go weeks without that yearning in his hooded eyes, only for it to return blindingly. Sometimes, he’d go even longer, not letting that thirst affect him, and Javier would be proud of his growing friend.
But one day, he realised that it wasn’t coming back. He realised that the young, emotional Yuzuru had moved on, and his old desire was laid to rest permanently.
Javier didn’t know how to feel about that. On one hand, he found Yuzuru strong, as steadfast and resolute as always. The young Japanese who pouted when he didn’t get a hug or cuddle was much firmer now. He had grown up and flourished, keeping his mind and body pristine as he strived for the skies, far beyond anyone else. He was beautiful but powerful, with unyielding strength.
It was this same growth that confused Javier, because it forcefully ridded him of all his excuses and trampled them with haste. His slender figure, his fluffy hair, his silky smooth voice, it was so new and mature, and looking at the determined man push his limits every training made his stupid, ugly heart skip a beat.
Deep down he already knew, but he had pushed it aside. Their breakup wasn’t anything to do with him being a him. Yuzuru was a man in all sense of the word, and Javier loved that. He didn’t want a her.
He was just scared.
When Javier Fernandez was almost 25, he realised he had fallen in love with Yuzu again, or rather, hadn’t stopped for a very long time.
He wanted to be selfish, beg Yuzuru to take him back, to kiss those pink lips again, and to take in his warmth. But each time he wanted to take his hand, to claim him and mark him as his, visions of that day would flood his mind. The desperate wailing as Yuzuru, just barely 19 years old, had his heart crushed to pieces by him.
He was the villain. He was the disgusting one, the embarrassment, the one who hurt his beloved to protect himself. He is the asshole who still clings to dreams where they’re together again, ones where Yuzuru wrapped his thin arms around Javier’s back as he cooked breakfast, pressing a shy kiss to his nape. He’s such a lowlife he even has dreams where he feels a burning urge, the dream unbearably heated. He imagines them pressed together, the Japanese’s blissed out expression as he gets closer and closer, babbling incoherently as Javier took him apart, piece by piece.
Most dreams are dark though, with little light. They are blank, with practically no noise. Just the overwhelming feeling of self-hatred laughing at his pitiful state. Suffice to say, those are his least favourite.
He goes into the next seasons with the goal to prove himself, and to make sure that Yuzuru’s precious smile never leaves him.
He sticks close to Yuzuru. They make jokes about weird splats on the ice after a botched quad salchow, they tease their juniors together and ruffle their hair, and they sit together at break times looking outside. He always listens patiently as Yuzuru eagerly points out something random in the distance and somehow turns everything into an anime reference, making Javier smile as he sees the male beam excitedly at some new episode. Yuzu sometimes cutely clings to his arm when they walk together, and he always turns to him with a frown first whenever Brian says something ridiculous and he has to make sure he doesn’t end up throwing hands on the ice. They’re best friends again, even if Javier wants more, and they dote on each other as they face competition after competition. Occasionally, Yuzu stays over in his apartment, and Javier’s heart never fails to stutter seeing the younger’s peaceful expression as he naps, drool hanging out. Seeing Yuzu asleep on his bed, memories of his best yet worst dreams often flood his mind, and he begs to taste him, make him feel ecstasy and bring him to a high unachievable alone. He usually settles with patting his black hair, cherishing and relishing in the feeling of Yuzuru nuzzling into his hand.
Unsurprisingly, even as he tries harder and harder to stand by his side, he still ends up staring at Yuzuru’s back as he runs farther and farther ahead.
He’s crushing records, easily dominating the entire figure skating scene without a care in the world, and he does so with beauty and grace. Yuzuru doesn’t let anyone or anything weigh him down in his path, striding with confidence. Meanwhile, he’s stuck, watching Yuzuru slip from his fingers, and he wants to punch his past self for giving up such a presence for the sake of self-preservation.
So when he sees that desire in Yuzuru’s eyes suddenly appear again, he’s shocked. He wonders if it’s his new and combed hair, or the changed costumes this season.
He’s kidding himself.
That love, that passion, that energy is not reserved for him.
Yuzuru’s gaze softens every time he sees Shoma. He always tries to be close to him, press his chest to the shorter’s arm and blab on continuously. Shoma would respond dryly but make Yuzu laugh without fail each and every time. Yuzu would then wrap his arms around Shoma and bury his face in his hair, making a small smile creep up the other’s face.
Javier wanted to rip his heart out. He wanted to shout, cry, do anything to make Yuzuru potentially see him again. He was really too self-serving, wanting those arms to be around him, that gaze to belong to him, for Yuzuru to be his forever. But he had promised himself to let him be happy, to let a smile grace his face. He was the one who was too late, and he was the one who was too much of a coward.
Fleeting touches to the waist, soft hands reaching for another's, shoulders rubbing against each other when they sat next close by.
That was all he would allow himself to have.