Work Text:
Koutarou has spent so long looking at Keiji’s face that he feels like he’s memorized all of his little tells.
He’s sure he doesn’t know everything (and god , doesn’t that excite him — the chance to keep learning and learning about the boy he loves), but he can still see the way Keiji’s eyebrows pinch together, letting him know he’s only a few cut strings away from tears. He can see the way his fingertips drill anxiously against the surface of Koutarou’s table, because he isn’t Keiji unless he’s channeling some sort of emotion into his hands. He can see the way his toes curl and uncurl from where he’s got his feet tucked to the side, his entire body tensing from nerves.
He knows all this, knows all of his looks, and yet he still can’t quite seem to figure out what to do in times like these. Keiji understands how to talk him down (so efficiently it’s sort of scary sometimes), and the guilt that washes over him when he realizes that he can’t quite give the same effort… is incredibly overwhelming. ( It’s alright, Keiji always tells him, you being here is enough, but is it really? The question keeps him up at night.)
Now, he’s not sure it’s enough. Keiji’s home life is something he’s heard of through the course of their friendship only through muffled voices behind FaceTime calls and strings of vents through their message history on Snapchat ( because it deletes after twenty-four hours, Keiji had said, so even if they tried to find it, they couldn’t ). There’s never bruises, never any marks — at least not physical. There’s no thrown punches or shattered glass or screamed words of hatred, but rather impossible expectations, metaphorical (and non-metaphorical) chains and locks, and softly-spoken words that prove time and time again that Keiji is not a son but rather property .
And Keiji is so, so strong ( I’m not, the Keiji in his head instantly argues; he always does). Koutarou cannot help but wonder how he can live each day in that house without going mad. Even though he has his moments (sitting now in Koutarou’s bedroom, silent, staring at the stains in the table with trembling eyes), he’s still so incredible. Koutarou is so lucky to be alive at the same time as him.
Swallowing thickly, he reaches out. His palm tingles against the carpet beneath him, sliding until his fingertips brush Keiji’s exposed ankle (he’ll never understand why he just won’t wear socks even if he complains about being cold). He can barely even make out his figure in the first place; the only light in the room is the moonlight that shines through Koutarou’s closed curtains, hiding the two of them from the evils of the outside world and giving them their own space. Keiji jolts out of his trance at the touch, but doesn’t turn his head, or make any movement to stop him. Koutarou closes his hand around his ankle, smoothing his thumb against the line of his bone. His hand feels warm compared to the chill of Keiji’s skin, but he can feel his own goosebumps rising just from the electricity of their shared contact.
(He’s so incredibly humbled by the fact that Keiji’s chosen him as his source of comfort.)
Keiji makes a small sniffing noise. His hand shifts so it’s propping up his chin. Him finally moving around is a good sign — he has a tendency to get lost in his own head, and it’s difficult to wring him back out during his darkest moments. He’s still not talking, but that part isn’t as bad. Keiji’s always been quiet with his voice — never shy, not that — but graceful in his form.
Koutarou slides his hand up higher to hold onto Keiji’s calf. He leaves it there for a moment, and inhales sharply when Keiji responds by scooting a bit closer. He’s still not looking away from the stain on the table (which, at this point, may just be something solid for him to focus on rather than being annoyed by a dried sauce stain), but his torso is more pointed towards Koutarou. Slowly coming back. Koutarou takes the chance to hold onto his thigh, and strokes his fingertips along the fabric of his sweatpants. He’d taken the train and walked the rest of the way, all in his pajamas, not giving a damn who could’ve seen him or what anyone would do about it. All the way to Koutarou’s house, to his room; his first choice (he flushes just thinking about that).
Suddenly overcome with emotion, Koutarou tightens his grip on his thigh and pulls him closer. Keiji stumbles a little with the movement, and when Koutarou catches him by his hip, he finally glances up away from that stain and into his eyes. Koutarou can see the tiredness reflected around the edge, the glassy sheen from unshed tears, the way his eyelashes flutter from trying to keep himself from falling apart.
(Even at his lowest, he’s so impossibly beautiful. Koutarou feels a little starstruck just being able to look.)
Keiji holds that gaze for another moment, but then his bottom lip starts to quiver. His muscles start twitching underneath Koutarou’s hold. His eyes lower and his chest heaves with a single deep breath. Then, the first tear comes. A second. A third — until they’re streaming down his face like a waterfall. No end in sight. Keiji’s face scrunches up, and his hands come up to cover his eyes, baring his teeth to suck in another deep breath; it ends in a hiccup, and a small, stuttering sound escapes him when he exhales.
Koutarou’s heart twists, his chest blooming with agony. He grabs onto Keiji, maneuvering all nearly six feet of him to his side. He hikes Keiji’s leg over his lap, the other tucking behind his back. Holding securely onto Keiji’s thigh, he wraps his other arm behind Keiji’s back and lets his palm rest on the back of his neck. Keiji all but melts into his arms, instantly going to tuck his head into Koutarou’s shoulder and wrapping his arms around his neck. One of his hands reaches up to twist almost painfully into Koutarou’s hair, like an anchor, but he just ignores it and holds the other closer. They’re holding onto one another so tightly it could probably be considered painful, but this is nothing compared to what it feels like to hear Keiji cry.
No matter how hard he tries, Keiji is not a silent crier. He does his best, but his breathing gets so heavy he hiccups over it, and he sniffles and sobs over barely-intelligible words. Moments like these are just months of repressed emotions being unlocked all at once, so he can’t really blame Keiji for how he is (and even if Keiji was incredibly open with how he feels every day, he still doesn’t think he’d blame him).
Inhaling carefully to make sure he himself doesn’t start crying, Koutarou turns his head to rest his lips against Keiji’s hair — not quite a kiss, but rather a promise. He lifts his hand from the back of Keiji’s neck to tangle in the locks near the base of his head, pulling apart the sweaty strands. Even after running almost all the way to his house, Keiji still smells sweet; it might be because Koutarou is just in love with everything about him that it cancels out any actual body odor (he just hopes he doesn’t smell, actually; that would be awkward to deal with once Keiji’s down from his break).
After a beat, he looks down at the two of them and somewhere in the back of his mind, distantly, he tells himself he’ll have to do laundry soon. But for now, as Keiji starts to relax against him, making a soft noise against his shoulder, he decides he’s just fine right where he is.