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Girls are easy to love, and that’s why he keeps at it.
Mizuiro doesn’t think he’s gay. If he was gay he would not enjoy it, and—ok, he doesn’t enjoy it, but it’s not unenjoyable either, right? Going out with a girl, flirting, watching her smile when she says yes (or when he does). Cracking a joke and making her smile. Taking her to the theatre, taking her to museum dates.
(That sick, joyful-joyless satisfaction when the girl is not a girl but a woman, and she tells him he’s a nice boy, and he could hear his mother’s voice superimposed on hers if his mother had ever said kind things to him.)
After a while, Mizuiro figures it’s not the girls he likes, it’s the dating. But he can’t imagine dating a guy, so he keeps going anyway.
Maybe the problem is not girls or guys, but himself; maybe he’s broken and will never love right anyway. He’s pretty sure feeling the hard smack of his mother’s hand on his cheek when he was twelve, because he had ruined her date with a greasy-looking man, had hurt more than just his face. He’s pretty sure going to Keigo’s place some school night at 11 pm, when he was thirteen, because his mom had kicked him out to hook up wasn’t normal. He’s certain that lying to your best friend and saying “I was just bored” when Keigo asks him why he’s at his door at 11 pm wasn’t normal. And Mizuiro had felt something twist horribly wrong in his guts, noticing that Keigo, a pillow imprint on his cheek, had most certainly been sleeping.
But Keigo had said: “I’ll turn the PS2 on. I can’t get past this boss in Final Fantasy.” And then: “Staying the night? I’ll get you sweatpants. We can’t wake my parents.”
They had fallen asleep on the couch at 2 a.m, huddled together with the gamepad between them, and the following morning Mizuiro had woven a story for Keigo’s parents about being kept away from his apartment by the police because a masked, unknown man had broken into his home. He had even fake-cried. When he was done, Keigo’s mom had given him two servings of cereals, saying “I’m flattered you chose our house as a safe haven, Kojima-kun—you can come whenever you like”.
It had been one of the best nights of his life.
And then, in ninth grade, they had met Ichigo and Chad, and Mizuiro had thought— oh, so that’s how it’s like, feeling normal.
At eighteen, Mizuiro is still weird, but he thinks he’s getting better at not caring.
They’re in their last year of high school, and Mizuiro has stopped dating older ladies. Well. At least much older than him. He dated a twenty-something two months ago, but they had met during a karaoke and not on a dating site like the others, and they ended it in very cordial terms — they’re still in contact, in fact (she texts him links to vines compilations) so he can’t say he regrets it. But he’s done with 30 and older.
It had been a two-step decision, really. Or a two-step something , at least; it hadn’t felt like a decision.
More like a late escape from preventable doom.
The first step had been this:
One time, Keigo had asked at lunch out of fucking nowhere: “Mizuiro, what’s so interesting in old women?” and Mizuiro had choked on his bento. (They never talked about it, not seriously, not without Keigo whining about his best friend getting pussy when he didn’t.) A wheezing fit and a near-death experience later Mizuiro had said They’re nice and rich and they never want anything serious! , and he had smiled; and he had not said When we’re not fucking I can pretend they’re my mom .
The shame that followed —washing over him, a tidal wave of bile in his throat— wasn’t something he had been prepared for.
It was the first time someone he cared about dared ask.
The second step had been a date —his last date, actually— with an older woman. And the woman, oh, she had been very nice, very sweet. Old women praying on highschoolers always are, he can’t complain. But he had spent the night at her place four months ago, and in the middle of the night he had woken up needing to go pee.
The apartment was dark: he had stumbled on his own clothes scattered on the ground, and almost knocked himself out on the closed door. Not his proudest moment, but he could live with it. In the corridor, his hand on the wall, he’d felt for the bathroom door.
There, a doorframe. Open slowly, noiselessly, find the switch. Suddenly, light—
This is not the bathroom, he had thought. And then, belatedly: There is a kid asleep in this bed.
She hadn’t mentioned a child. His vision has swum before him. There was a sick feeling in this stomach, and he had thought of switching the light off only when the kid —he was, what, six, seven years old— had stirred in his sleep.
Doorframe again. Close slowly, noiselessly. The wood is moving under his fingers, or, no, actually, he’s just shaking, and there in the dark Mizuiro had knelt down and remembered: nine years old, going to pee in the middle of the night and seeing a man naked in his mother’s bed. (That was before his father found out and divorced his mother, and thought that he could kill two birds with one stone and let go of the son as well.) For a moment he had thought someone had broken into his home, lied down next to his mom to hold her hostage. And then he had seen his mom’s arm around him and something had shattered.
Mizuiro felt the door under his palm. He exhaled. He was the man in his mother’s bed now, and there was a little kid behind the door who would be broken if he saw him, and maybe go on fucking whoever wanted him a few years later just to think he had his life together, or just go see a therapist if he was any better than Mizuiro.
Kojima Mizuiro had gone to pee, and then he had gathered his clothes, gotten dressed in the dark, and left.
He had never dated an older woman again.
Weeks pass, and he goes out -and breaks up- with the student that still sends him vines, and he revises his finals with Sado and Ichigo (who is an actual war machine when he puts his head in the game), and somewhere along the lines he realises single life is not so bad.
At eighteen and three quarters, Mizuiro lies still on Keigo’s couch after a night of video games, and listens to his friend breathe. They had a small party, and now it’s down to the four of them: Sado, who sleeps in Keigo’s queen size bed because it’s the only thing he fits on, Ichigo, who fell asleep on an armchair like a dork, Keigo, on a futon he unfolded near the couch, and Mizuiro himself. It’s February, and soon they’ll be done with highschool for good. For now, it all seems very far away.
Ichigo sleeps, face squished against his own shoulder, frowning brows finally taking a break. It’s rare seeing him like that. Keigo didn’t have the heart to wake him, and if Ichigo has a stiff neck tomorrow morning, he’ll have no one to blame but his own cute frownless face. He’s silent, almost not there at all.
Keigo, on the other hand— he’s not silent, Mizuiro doesn’t think he can be. He moves and rustles the sheets every so often, and with his chin tilted at a weird angle, his breath comes out a little whistling. Mizuiro got his leg out of the cover and poked him with his toe ten minutes ago, smiling when Keigo let out a huff in his sleep; and it’s freezing, but for some reason Mizuiro can’t get himself to put his foot back under the cover.
Keigo’s breathing is a metronome, counting measures in Mizuiro’s head. In and out, in and out, one, two, three, twenty-seven, three hundred and six.
It happens then, quietly, a moment stretched out in time between his best friend’s breaths; Mizuiro realises he’s in love with him.
There is no big revelation, no epiphany. It’s not even a surprise. It feels like opening a window; light flooding in but you already knew the outside view. Mizuiro gets his foot back under the cover, and stretches his hand to the ceiling. He can’t see it in the dark. He asks himself, How long have I known?
(Maybe he’s been in love since the bicycle ride when they were 9, or the PS2 when they were thirteen, or when they shared Keigo’s bento in tenth grade. Or maybe it hasn’t been a single moment, maybe it has been a lifetime of these —little moments, attentions, smiles. Maybe it’s because cowardly Keigo, who by all accounts should have found him weird, stuck around all this time; because he has always been impressed by Mizuiro, rather than repulsed. Maybe it’s because he laughs too hard at his own jokes, and even harder at Mizuiro’s ones, and maybe it’s because Mizuiro knows he’s so much smarter than anyone thinks, and maybe it’s because he trusts him.)
He thinks all this, and doesn’t feel anything other than a gentle warmth settling all over. After a while he gets his hand under the cover as well, pressing it flat to his stomach. It’s cold, but it won’t be for long.
He falls asleep.
Mizuiro feels, very stupidly, exceedingly adult and mature in the following days. This newfound love is never forgotten, but it keeps still. More than once, Mizuiro finds himself thinking, Maybe it’s gonna follow me my whole life long, like a soft animal under his ribcage.
I don’t need to tell him, ruin everything. I don’t really even want to.
Love, he discovers, is a soft, quiet thing.
He looks at him, during their English exam, nose scrunched in front of a grammar exercise. Jotting something down, crossing words out here and there. Keigo looks up and finds Mizuiro staring, and sticks his tongue out at him for finishing early. Mizuiro bites his lip trying to smother a chuckle.
It’s peaceful being himself, for the first time in a while. It feels like everything has fallen into place.
Of course, it all quickly comes crumbling down.
They’re on the roof eating lunch, early March sunlight a pale white rather than spring’s yellow. Yet winter is receding, finally. Ichigo said something along the lines of We’ll be cold, but we won’t die when he stepped out, but Mizuiro can recognize joy under the grumpiness after all these years.
It’s really still rather cold. Mizuiro’s hands are red against his bento, and he tucked himself under Sado’s arm, his big form shielding him from the wind. In front of him, Ichigo seems to handle it just fine (when doesn’t Ichigo seem to handle things just fine, really) but Keigo scooted over to him and mashed their thighs and sides together.
“You know the notion of personal space?” Ichigo had asked, while making no move to dislodge him.
“You know the notion of helping a friend in need?” Keigo had retorted. Which (considering this is Ichigo he’s talking to) had everybody snorting.
Mizuiro picks at his bento, onigiri ice-cold when he munches into it. Keigo is saying “It’s not bad faith, y’all are just mean ”, Ichigo and Sado are trying to have a normal, civil conversation, and Mizuiro looks up, a laugh halfway through his throat.
The laugh catches there.
Keigo is taking a swig from his thermos, tilting his head back, adam apple bobbing along the column of his throat — the long expanse of bare skin there, stretching when he gulps — and the light is sitting on him just right, outlining his head and hair in gold, and the suckerpunch of sudden want leaves Mizuiro reeling.
Keigo looks at him, cocking an eyebrow. “Tea?” he asks when he’s done.
“Yeah, thanks,” Mizuiro says.
Love is not a soft, quiet thing.
Ever since the Roof Accident, Mizuiro has been-- restless, shaken, dazed. It seems Keigo has become the default point his eyes focus on when there’s nothing interesting to look at. It seems Mizuiro’s become hyper aware of things that don’t exist, like the warmth of Keigo’s back when he rides Mizuiro home on his bike, even though they’re a careful hand apart, Keigo on the saddle and Mizuiro on the rear wheel rack.
He feels like he’s losing his mind and honestly, what the fuck.
Then one week-end, they’re lounging on the riverside (and yeah, maybe the riverside is usually the meeting place for Karakura’s romantic teens, but the soft green patch close to the bridge has always been their spot, so hah , good luck trying to read too much into that ) when Keigo scoots closer to show him a funny reddit post. Mizuiro cackles, turns to his friend to say This is SO stupid, oh my god , and Keigo is close, and, oh, no,
nonononono,
he wants to kiss him really really bad this is awful what the fuck .
Great, Mizuiro thinks. Or maybe he thinks in caps, actually.
GREAT. JUST WHAT I NEEDED.
What if you told him, says a little voice in his head the following night.
“What’s up with you?” Keigo asks.
They’re seated at the Asanos’ kitchen table. Mizuiro blinks. “Um, what?”
“You’ve been staring.”
Mizuiro rolls his eyes. “I have been staring at my notebook, Asano-san,” he mocks, tapping on said notebook with his pen. “Which is something you should consider doing too.”
“I didn’t mean now , idiot, I meant as a whole. You’ve been looking at me weird lately.”
Well, shit.
“Or, not just me,” Keigo says, scratching his neck, “you’re staring at the walls, or into space, ah— just, what’s going on? You’re having problems at home?”
“Nope.”
“Then what is it? It’s not just an impression, right?”
Later, Mizuiro will like to believe he thought about having to leave Karakura for uni soon, thought about chances and you only live once and the difference between regret and remorse.
The truth is, as always when he’s about to say something really stupid, his mind is blissfully blank.
“No, you’re right, I’ve been weird,” he says. “I just realised I’m in love with you.”
Keigo opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again to say: “Ha, ha, very funny.”
Mizuiro knows he expects him to burst out laughing, say Your face! The face you made! because this is exactly the kind of hilarious, shitty stuff he does on a daily basis. And Mizuiro could take it back, then, pretend, but the possibility doesn’t once cross his mind.
Instead, he closes his notebook and says: “Yeah... it’s not a joke... Sorry. I think I’ll go home.”
He doesn’t pack or get up very fast, but Keigo seems frozen in time. Just when he’s about to head out, Mizuiro says, “Um, see you Monday.”
“Mizuiro,” Keigo says, voice strangled.
“Look, it’s okay,” Mizuiro says. “You’re straight, you don’t like me. I just wanted you to know. Hiding it was becoming hard anyway.”
“I’m not straight,” Keigo says, turning around on his seat and finally meeting his eyes, and well, this isn’t a thing he had seen coming, but now is as good a time as ever, he guesses.
“Well, it’s okay if you’re not straight and just not into me, too.”
“What are— fuck, no, you’re really committed to not understanding me , are you?”
Mizuiro blinks.
One second, two, three.
“What--” he tries, but can’t go further.
There are words ringing in his head, he’s not sure which ones but they must resemble What, for real? , or maybe just indistinct screaming.
Silence in the kitchen is so thick you could cut it with a knife.
“Why didn’t you say?” are the words that make their way through it.
“Um, hello? I didn’t know you were bi? You had more game than I ever could? My parents don’t even know I’m attracted to men? I didn’t even know a while ago?” Keigo’s voice has been slowly but surely getting higher, and he’s practically squeaking, and he stops to breathe, inhale, exhale. “Also, hahaha , I was ashamed,” he adds, eyes to the ground.
“Ashamed,” Mizuiro mirrors.
“You’re my best friend, Mizuiro, I-” he trails off then, and asks, “Weren’t you?”
Mizuiro thinks of all the lies he told, twisting the truth for adults to leave him alone, thinks of the little kid in his little bed sleeping soundly, thinks of how much of a dick he can be sometimes, a hypocrite behind sleek smiles. Ashamed , hah, but how could Mizuiro be, when-
“Falling for you is the least shameful thing I ever did,” he says.
A silence. Keigo is looking at him again, gaze sweeping over his face like it can’t be still, and he gulps. “Thanks. I look like an idiot now.”
“You always look like an idiot.” But it’s too soft to be rude; it’s the softest he has sounded in a long time.
“Yeah, well,” Keigo clears his throat, “you seem to be into it.”
The smile on his lips is shy and he’s blushing a dark, dark red, and Mizuiro thinks Why don’t you get up and kiss me already , and tells him just that.
Keigo stands up so fast he knocks his chair down. Mizuiro tries not to laugh, he really does, but a desperate wheeze tumbles out of him; and then he looks up, and suddenly his laugh dies down.
Standing a mere breath away is Keigo, beaming in this special, secret way that makes him look like he’s ten again, and he says: “That sounded awfully nervous.”
“Shut up,” Mizuiro says, and oh, he’s not used to his voice sounding like this.
Keigo doesn’t move, looking at him. He’s getting even redder, which didn’t seem possible.
Not for the first time in his life, Mizuiro wishes he were taller.
“Hey, um,” Keigo says suddenly, “I don’t have much experience in the kissing department, except this bet with Ume-chan in tenth grade, so you don’t get to complain if, if I’m, you know-”
“Come here,” Mizuiro says, wrapping his hand around Keigo’s nape and pulling.
The kiss is a mere contact at first, pressure point against pressure point; until Keigo seems to snap out of a trance and grabs Mizuiro’s hip, other hand coming to rest on his cheek. Mizuiro leans into it, tilting his head just so , and feels Keigo breathe through his nose.
He feels so, so warm, like his body is an ember both scorching and soft, Keigo’s mouth is so hot, Keigo’s neck is so hot, and when he places a hand against his torso to steady himself he feels Keigo’s pulse jack-rabbiting against his palm, thump-thump-thump, warm-warm-warm. This is the best thing I’ve ever lived , he very objectively decides.
He breaks away, but Keigo pulls him right in again,
and Mizuiro closes his eyes and feels himself exhale.