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Camus was not one to voice his feelings. He was often quiet to begin with, and his emotions very rarely made their way to his lips, except in moments of frustration. That was the first difference Ai really noticed.
The apartment could make for tight living quarters, and the four of them often crossed lines and tested boundaries. If Reiji was too loud, Camus didn’t hesitate to snap at him and narrow his brow when he was met with nothing but a smile. If Ranmaru did much more than exist too closely, he made his distaste known. Personal space was to be respected, deadlines were to be met, and mild irritation was seldom tolerated.
However, when Ai found himself in the way and expected the man to be immediately irritated, he was met with little more than a blank look from a pair of pale blue eyes. That was, to his knowledge, not like Camus. He wouldn’t have been surprised by frustration, but the lack of reaction at all as Camus maneuvered around him in the kitchen, broad shoulder brushing against his, was unexpected. The moment passed silently, with seemingly no need for further discussion.
That was the moment when Ai decided that he would get in Camus’s way more often. That had certainly been a small fluke. Perhaps the man had been in a particularly good mood, a moment of peace that couldn’t be shaken by a small disturbance. There was no other decent explanation for the steadiness in his gaze and gentleness in his face.
Ai arrived fifteen minutes late to their scheduled recording session. They only had the studio for limited time, and to cut so far into it by arriving so far behind schedule without so much as a text would certainly be enough to shake him. Ai had been careful not to be unkind in his curiosity, though. It would be cruel to force Reiji and Ranmaru to deal with Camus’s frustration just to see what would happen-- he had witnessed far too many near death confrontations over misplaced sugar cubes to think the man wouldn’t start an argument with them. His tardiness was intentionally planned on a day when only the two of them would be in the studio.
As Ai entered the room, phone in hand and boredom on his face, Camus sat on the small white couch outside the booth, cup of coffee pressed to his lips. His eyes shifted toward the door, and he placed his cup back on the table with a delicate motion that quieted any rattling before standing. “Mikaze, are you alright?”
Ai raised a brow. It wasn’t what he’d expected.
“You aren’t one to show up late.”
“I lost track of time.” It was a bold faced lie, and he was certain Camus knew it. Ai always knew the exact time, and what he was meant to be doing. But the man didn’t argue. He just held the door to the booth, and followed when Ai entered.
That confirmed to Ai that the gentleness Camus showed him was intentional. He shouldn’t have been surprised by that-- most things the man did were done with overt purpose. The one thing that remained unclear was the reason. Camus was cold whenever it didn’t expressly serve him to be kind. Ai didn’t offer anything more as a bandmate than Reiji or Ranmaru did. He had never given Camus any special attention that needed to be returned. The knowledge that Camus’s actions were on purpose only served to confuse him further.
Recording and album release went quickly, even as Ai’s mind became preoccupied with his bandmate. Promotion went as usual. Radio interviews, television appearances, meet and greets. Ai kept careful track of it all, and also kept track of Camus. For a month, he kept a running tab of the times the man greeted him with a softness that seemed to be reserved only for him. After that, he gave up, finding that the number was too high. Still, he noticed more and more the differences in the way Camus acted around him. While he would drop the laughter at Reiji’s jokes the moment they were off camera, he smiled at Ai even when it was only the two of them.
The days of interviews could run long. Half of Ai’s mind was focused, but the other half lingered on the man beside him. By the end of the night, while Reiji and Ranmaru tapped beer bottles together in celebration of making it home for the night, Ai was worn out. He was low on power, and felt as if he was watching the two of them chatter from a mile away, even as he rested on the couch across from them. His blinking slowed, and he let out a small sigh. He needed to charge, but he didn’t want to move. He leaned against the side of the couch, and laid his head on his arm.
A cool hand on his shoulder caused him to stir, and he lifted his head, meeting Camus’s eyes. There was something there he didn’t often see, but could recall witnessing when he’d arrived at the recording studio. Concern. “Let’s get you to bed before you crash.” His voice was quiet as his grip tightened for just a moment.
Ai nodded. He wasn’t incredible at figuring out his exact levels when he was this low, but he would estimate that he was running on less than five percent battery. He sat up, but the motion was slow. He was grateful when Camus offered a hand. He gripped it, and pulled himself up, relying more than he would have liked on the man’s strength to help him up. If Reiji and Ranmaru noticed as the pair moved down the hallway, taking slow steps, Ai couldn’t hear them comment.
Camus helped him to his room, and kept his arm extended, offering support as Ai steadied himself and lay on his bed. “Do you have a power cord?”
Sometimes Ai forgot just how much Camus knew about him. He was certain Reiji and Ranmaru hadn’t figured it out yet. He never really thought of it as something to bring up. At this point, it would be a conversation too uncomfortable to be worth having. Yet, Camus had figured it out. It seemed he watched just as closely as Ai did. “Purple one next to the bed,” he said, his eyes falling shut. He was exhausted, or at least as close as he could approximate to exhaustion. Beside him, he could hear the plastic of the cord as it moved across the floor.
“Your port is on your lower back, yes?” Camus’s voice was calm.
“Mhmm.” He could feel a hand on his waist, the chill of it palpable even through the fabric of his shirt.
“Is it alright with you if I plug this in?”
“Please.” He was worn out, but there was a flicker of thought in the back of his mind, that it was sweet of him to offer, and perhaps sweeter to ask so carefully. “It’ll uncover if you press a little above my tailbone.”
The man’s hands were slow and purposeful as they moved against Ai’s back, pushing his shirt up, moving it out of the way. His thumb pressed firmly against Ai’s skin, and he felt the familiar sensation of the port being uncovered. The mark that looked like nothing more than a small scar on his lower back retracted to reveal a small, mechanical hollow. The cold metal of the charger pressed in, and Ai’s eyes lit up for just a moment. He blinked, and turned his head.
Camus’s face was only dimly lit in the dark room, pale skin illuminated by moonlight slipping past the gap in the curtain. “Is that in correctly?” The softness Ai was growing accustomed to was present in his voice and in his eyes.
Ai nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”
“Of course.” And there was that smile again. “Goodnight, Ai.”
As Camus rose and exited the room, Ai scanned his tired mind. Camus had never called him by his first name in private. To be cute for a camera, or to play along with an overly friendly radio interviewer, sure. But never when it was just the two of them.
It was a night of firsts, Ai supposed. No one had ever placed his charger in his port on his behalf. At least, not outside of a laboratory setting, and never with any kind of tenderness. It was different, too, he thought, from the exaggerated sickly sweet personality Camus displayed at times. It didn’t feel performative. He was just careful and sweet in his actions. It had felt like genuine care.He hadn’t realized that was something Camus was capable of.
For a moment, Ai didn’t understand the small glow of warmth in his chest. But a quick scan of associations for the feeling brought up instances of heartburn and soft emotions. He was quite certain that the former wasn’t a possibility. The latter, however, wasn’t much less confusing.
He sighed. It wasn’t worth thinking about too much, not when he was this low on power. Considering too many possibilities when he was so tired would only cause frustration. If Camus wanted to offer some sweetness Ai didn’t quite comprehend, and if it made him feel oddly comforted, then so be it. He could deal with that later.
Ai knew that, generally, people first expressed their love in a confession. But Camus didn’t seem the type for that. That made things more difficult for Ai to parse. Clear cut rules and methodical action were easier. When it came to things like work, they both followed those. A smile at the right time, a perfect answer for a question, a well maintained schedule of recordings and photoshoots. It was easy to keep up with things that were set out obviously before him. Emotions were harder. Lines blurred. It would be simpler if Camus would say something.
Granted, Ai himself had no intention of discussing this with the man. If he had misread the situation, it would only strain their relationship, and that was the last thing the group needed. Tension between any of them always led to poor performance on everyone’s part.
Their workload didn’t often weigh on him too heavily, but Ai found himself grateful for a day off. Reiji and Ranmaru had left early in the morning, and Camus was muffled by Ai’s headphones as he moved around the kitchen. Ai had slumped onto the couch, controller in hand. Focusing on a game kept his mind from wandering toward things that were better left alone. He shouldn’t overthink things that would go nowhere. It would only frustrate and overheat him. Perhaps, though, if he wanted to keep his mind off romance, he shouldn’t have invited Ren to play.
Love always seemed so simple for him. At least, romance did. Those were different. Ai wasn’t sure that Ren had ever actually been committed to anything more than a quick fling, but he knew exactly how to express his feelings and how to brush off rejection like it was nothing. Ai supposed all skills were built with plenty of practice.
A familiar cool grip clasped his shoulder, and Ai pressed pause, hearing Ren’s voice in his ear, asking why he’d stopped. Ai muted his microphone before pulling the headset off, setting it aside and turning to see a warm smile on Camus’s lips.
“I made breakfast. I know you don’t need it, but I also know you enjoy pancakes.”
Ai glanced past Camus’s shoulder, toward the kitchen island. Two carefully assembled plates sat there, small stacks of pancakes and piled high with berries. Camus never cooked for the four of them. Ai reached for the controller, turning off the television screen. Ren could wait. “Thank you.”
Camus, when it came to sweets, was a well versed chef. Even if Ai didn’t particularly have opinions on flavors, he knew that it was objectively balanced, and well made. He found himself smiling. He was glad Camus had shared this with him. As sunlight filtered in through the large window beside them and birds chirped outside, Ai felt at peace. The frustration he had experienced seemed to disappear as he sat beside the man. When their forks rested on their empty plates and Camus’s arm brushed against his, elbow pressed against elbow, wrist touching wrist, he forced his mind to slow. Even if it made him feel a bit too warm, it was comfortable.
And then it was over, and Camus was loading plates and pans into a the dishwasher, that same gentle expression written over his features. Ai watched him, trying to glean anything from the man’s face. It was difficult to discern much of anything, except for the small upward curl of his lips when Camus glanced up, meeting Ai’s gaze. Ai could feel himself flush, and couldn’t help feeling as if he’d been caught. He stood, taking his phone in his hand, and disappeared into the hallway. What was this? This need to hide as his cheeks heated? Embarrassment.
As he closed the door of his room, leaning back against it, he let out a sigh. Even if the phone in his hand was buzzing with Ren’s demands for attention, and even if his face was pink with nerves, he could admit, it wasn’t a bad day off.
Opportunities for quiet mornings became few and far between as tour began. With each new city, Reiji always seemed to have an agenda for their downtime, picking up a rental car and driving them through the busy streets, a list of restaurants and sights already picked out for them. It was endearing to hear him explain his plans with the same level of excitement each time, Ai would admit. At least the man knew how to fill the time between early morning interviews and late night concerts. Ai was never certain what to do with that.
He leaned against his seat in the back of the car, eyes falling shut. They had been stuck in the same spot in traffic for the last half hour. Horns blared around them, making his ears ring. His brow narrowed, and he did his best to tune out the noise, but it felt so piercing in the back of his head.
A hand brushed against his, and he glanced over. Camus sat beside him, that look of worry written across his face. “Ai?”
“I’m fine. It’s just loud.” It usually wasn’t too difficult to filter out sounds, and loud noises themselves didn’t always irritate him. He was built to be receptive to the sound of a crowd. But the blare of cars and the dull thrum of music from the stereo in the front mixed with Reiji and Ranmaru’s quiet talk was beginning to overlap in a way that made him feel dizzy. His auditory processing was having trouble filtering this particular combination.
Camus reached into the pocket of his jacket, and reached out his hand, a pair of pale blue earbuds resting in his palm. “They should be paired to your phone already.”
Ai took them, his fingertips brushing against Camus’s palm. He pressed them into his ears, and was grateful for the muffling of outside sound, even before he could press play on his music. He closed his eyes once more, and took a breath. The horns disappeared, and the soft radio and chatter was drowned out completely.
An arm moved around his shoulders, pulling him into Camus’s side. He was surprised, but didn’t move away. The cool touch of Camus’s hand on his arm almost made up for the heat that built inside him when it made contact. It was comfortable, resting his head against the man’s chest. The anxiety that had begun to rattle him as he was bombarded with conflicting sound faded. Realistically, that had more to do with the headphones than anything else, but Camus’s hold on him didn’t hurt.
The peace that Ai had felt the last few weeks seemed to have spread across all four of them. Tour was usually frustrating-- at least once a week, they would threaten to disband after someone left something in the wrong hotel room or made a snide comment. But it was calm. Even when Reiji’s daytrips went awry and they ended up lost, no one seemed too upset. Even Camus and Ranmaru butted heads less often. Still, those two could never be perfectly at ease with one another. The four of them had long maintained a system of intentionally scheduled time for the two of them to part ways to relieve pressure so neither would blow up too quickly.
The past few tours, it hadn’t been uncommon for Camus to disappear for a night alone at a cafe or to walk the city alone for the day to get away from conflict in the hotel, but Ai found himself getting ready for dinner beside him in the bathroom mirror. He watched as Camus smoothed his tie and pushed his hair out of his eyes, and he smiled, pinning his own hair into place. When Camus held the door open for him, he followed.
The restaurant Camus had chosen was only a short distance away, one they’d been to as a group years ago. As they walked, their shoulders brushed together. Despite the constant chill of Camus’s skin, he seemed warm against the cool fall breeze. There was a part of Ai that wanted to take the man’s hand in his. Instead, he held the door and followed Camus inside the restaurant.
It was quiet and warm inside. The pair sat at a table in the back, tucked out of the way of other patrons. The coffee brought to their table was hot, and Ai wrapped his hands around the glass as Camus began piling sugar cubes into his own. Ai kept his gaze on the little white cubes, following them from their small plate, into the hot liquid. Even if he didn’t have many opinions on flavor, he knew that wasn’t something that could be considered good. But he kept quiet, just eyeing Camus’s hands. He stirred his tea, and rested the small tongs on their plate, hand laying on the table.
After a moment’s hesitation, Ai laid his hand over Camus’s, and met his eyes as if searching for approval. He was met with a smile. There was a quick fluttering in Ai’s chest, and he did his best to keep his expression bored, but could tell that his cheeks had gone pink and given him away. If he noticed, Camus didn’t say anything.
The entire evening was quiet. Between courses, the pair sat hand in hand, idle chatter passing between them. When Ai finished his food too quickly, he busied himself by arranging the sugar cubes beside Camus’s coffee into neat pyramids. Camus laughed. Ai didn’t hear that sound very often. It was nice. The thought crossed Ai’s mind that he’d like to hear that sound everyday.
A rare night off in a foreign city, with good food, soft glances, and quiet music playing over expensive speakers ended when a waiter returned Ai’s card. There was a part of him that didn’t want to leave, but when Camus’s arm pressed against his as they approached the exit, he was satisfied with the knowledge that the night wasn’t truly ending. They would return to their shared hotel room, and the time between then and when they eventually be fored to give in to sleep would still be theirs.
The air outside was cooler, and the wind whipped around them, and Ai squinted as it beat against his face. The hotel was only a few blocks away, but as thunder rolled behind them, it seemed so far away. Autumn storms always came quickly and heavily. Even with a quick pace, there was no way to outrun the rain. There was no gentle onset, only deafening sheets of water, as though an ocean had opened intself in the sky.
Ai’s eyes widened, and he stiffened for a moment. There were no nearby awnings to duck beneath, no quick safe havens. In a regular sprinkling of rain, he would usually be fine for a while, but in something this heavy, it wouldn’t take long for him to malfunction.
A heavy, warm weight fell over him, and the fozen stance he found himself in softened as he looked up to see Camus’s jacket over his head and shoulders. He gripped it tightly with one hand, fingers digging into the thick fabric. With the other, he latched onto Camus’s arm. It didn’t take words for the man to understand and for them to both pick up the pace, walk quickly turning into a sprint, dashing down the wet sidewalk and slashing through crosswalks.
They must have looked like madmen as they hurried through the door of the hotel and down the hall to their room. Once safely inside, Ai tossed the soaked jacket onto the ground, and leaned back against the wall. As his eyes met Camus’s, he couldn’t help but laugh. The man was absolutely drenched, hair plastered to his face and shirt clinging tight to his chest. At the sound of Ai’s laughter, the serious look he wore gave way to a small smile.
It was then that Ai realize just how close they were. Even if he had escaped the rain, he felt hot in that moment. When Camus placed a cool hand against his cheek, it offered a moment of relief, but it didn’t last long. The feeling of the man’s skin, though cold to the touch, made him feel so warm. The thought that clung to the back of his mind as he stared into those soft blue eyes only worsened the feeling, but he couldn’t seem to shake it.
“Camus, may I--” he started, but before he could finish, his question was answered. Camus’s lips met his, though only for a brief moment, a moment that could have been an eternity. It was only a kiss, delicate and sweet, but it left Ai’s lips feeling electric. He reached a hand up slowly, pressing a finger to his lower lip, as if he could touch the lingering sensation.
Camus say anything. There was no need for words when his eyes held such softness. The man had never been one to discuss his feelings or make grand gestures. But, as Ai stood there, only inches between them, he knew that love did not need to be spoken aloud to be recognized. Camus didn’t need to say it bluntly-- he said it in a thousand other ways. The brush of a shoulder, the offering of a hand, the gentle touch of a second kiss, this one slower than the first, lingering against Ai’s lips, the fingers that found their way into Ai’s hair as the space between them closed and their chests pressed so closely together that Ai could feel the man’s racing heartbeat. All of that was loud enough to speak love.