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Your days together have settled into a surprisingly comfortable routine.
He wakes before you, most days, and you wake to a cold bed and the sound of the bathroom fan, or the shower, or soft movement in the kitchen. You get up, dressed, meet him in the kitchen for coffee and a quick kiss, complete your morning routine, and both of you are out the door without another word.
It’s fleeting, but sweet in its own way. It’s not as though either of you have much to work from in terms of relationship experience, but you’re making do. Learning as you go. Feeling through the territory.
(Not that — well. You can’t speak for Jakurai, but you’re a bit of a distance from any sort of abstinent lifestyle. It’s steady relationships that have never seemed to last for you.
You hope this one will, but — ah, fuck. Two things you hate: weak blends of coffee and the voice in the back of your head that just can’t let you have nice things.)
It’s only weekends that these moments happen — rather, weekends that Jakurai isn’t needed, or weekends that you aren’t occupied with too much work to take a break from. Put crudely, it sucks, but there’s something about the infrequency of your meetings — dates? Not meetings, that sounds like work — but they’re not particularly dates either, not when all it ever consists of is staying the night and spending plain time together.
It could be written off as a casual friendship if you didn’t sleep in the same bed.
It’s shit like this that occupies your thoughts as you rinse the copious amounts of product out of your hair. It’s your house this week, so you don’t have to feel guilty over hiking up Jakurai’s water bill — except Jakurai’s still out there, waiting for you to finish.
Good hosts don’t leave their guests out to dry, except Jakurai has established that you are not merely a guest in his home and therefore he shouldn’t be merely a guest in yours, but —
It’s awkward. You shut off the shower. It’s horribly awkward, and you know Jakurai likes that somewhere about you — that you’re rough around the edges, gentle and cautious in your inexperience, but it’s not exactly comforting. Or comfortable. It’s not uncomfortable, just a learning curve, and it’s even uncharted territory for flawless and experienced Jinguji Jakurai, but — there you go again.
You throw on pajamas and avoid the mirror on the way out.
He’s waiting on the couch with the TV on, already having changed into more comfortable clothes. It’s almost embarrassing how relieved you are that this sort of thing isn’t vocalized, how when you sit down heavy next to him it’s nothing more than a strikingly tender glance in your direction that gives you permission to lean your head on his shoulder.
It’s new, this sort of casual intimacy. New and not an entirely unpleasant experience despite the way you have to force yourself to relax and not get overly emotional from such a simple action. It’s new territory and you probably wouldn’t be too far off in assuming Jakurai... might possibly feel somewhere close to the same way. It’s not much of a comfort, considering how awfully schoolgirl-ish it is of you to freak out over such simple contact, but... god, you’re repressed. And touch-starved. And pathetic.
You don’t realize you’re dozing off until Jakurai shifts and the motion startles you awake. Jakurai chuckles at that — he must be tired, too; he lets the smile spread through his entire face instead of being contained to a sparkle in his eyes and a slight curve to his lips — and reaches to shut off the TV, stands to head to your bedroom.
It’s all so stunningly new. The way you get up to follow him like it’s routine, like you’ve been married for years and — christ, where’s that line of thought coming from?
Exhaustion must be addling your mind, even though you don’t feel all that tired. Just — marriage has never been something you’ve put much thought into. You’d rather not think about it now, either, because — for fuck’s sake, Jakurai is probably here to kill time and nothing else. He’s not thinking about marriage. When did you get so soft?
Apparently some (or most) of your thought process is showing on your face, because Jakurai shoots you a quizzical glance from the doorway of your room.
“It’s nothing,” you say hurriedly, pushing your bangs back out of your face to give your hands something to do. You hate your hair down, but Jakurai tends to absently run a hand through it when you lay down next to him, and the action feels far nicer than you’ll ever admit to him. Or to anyone. Maybe loose hair isn’t so bad.
Jakurai doesn’t press, which is good, because you don’t physically have the words to get out what you’re feeling. There’s two things you hate: one, grocery store pre-cooked chicken; two, being completely goddamn whipped for someone miles out of your league. Problem is, he doesn’t seem to think so, and frankly — you’re not entirely sure what defines your “league.”
Two more things you hate: expensive restaurants with small, artsy portions, and the way Jakurai watches as you set your watch down on the bureau and arrange it to face an angle that won’t reflect the moonlight or the rising sun; the way Jakurai watches as you hesitate in front of the mirror, the way he watches you run a hand down your jaw. You should probably shave tomorrow morning.
No time to run the usual course of bad thoughts. No — tonight needs to be nice. Nothing’s gone wrong. You climb into bed, and the feeling you were looking to name before — the one you falsely mistook as a desire for marriage — was safety. Safety with a man you never thought you’d even begin to rebuild ties with — safety within yourself — you’re struck, suddenly, with the realization that you’re beginning to not fight yourself at every turn. Despite lingering doubts, you’re... is healing the right word? Is growing the right word? Is feeling safe and secure in your own skin something you’re allowed to do?
Whatever it is, you don’t want to let it go.
You don’t know what time it is when you wake up. All you know is that it’s still dark out, and there was movement next to you, and that’s probably why you’re awake, and you sit up to see what’s going on — it’s still dark, and there’s barely any moonlight to see by, and — holy shit — there’s movement next to you, fast and sudden and something grabs the hand you reach out in concern, flips you, twists it behind your back too fast for you to even react. It hurts, and you grunt as you try and shift in the hold — you haven’t been able to process why just yet, or what’s going on, or — oh. Long hair brushes against your shoulder. The heavy, ragged breaths from behind you take on a familiar voice. Shit.
“Jakurai?” you whisper, cautiously settling into the hold so your arm feels a bit less like it’s about to dislocate. You don’t know what’s happening — you don’t know what this is, what this means, and it’s silent save for the roar of your heartbeat and harsh breathing from both of you. It’s silent for almost too long, long enough for you to open your mouth to say something more — there’s a gasp from behind, you’re released, and you roll over to stretch your poor shoulder. It’s been through a lot.
The bed shifts, and there’s something murmured that you can’t quite make out. You crack open an eye, and it’s still tough to see in the light (or lack thereof) but — ah.
In any other situation, you'd marvel at how the moonlight reflects so beautifully off Jakurai's hair as it pools around him, out of sorts from sleep and yet orderly as always; how the silvery glow highlights his cheekbones and the angles of his face in a way that can only be described as ethereal. In any other situation, the emotion lodged in your throat and constricting your lungs would be love and purely love — not some undesirable concoction of fear and confusion and concern above all else. Concern, because Jakurai is crumpled kneeling on your bed — on your bed — head ducked and long fingers twisted into his endless hair.
His breathing turns dangerously close to sobs, and ice lances through your chest as you realize this is the most broken you’ve ever seen him.
It’s terrifying, actually — not the thought that whatever just happened was some sort of violent attempt, that’s not Jakurai’s style — but that this is Jakurai , broken and vulnerable — in your bed. Jakurai and broken don’t belong in the same situation, Jakurai and broken don’t belong anywhere near your sorry ass, and yet. And yet.
Colder than the reality of Jakurai near tears — have you ever even seen him cry before? has anyone ever seen him cry before? — is the split-second relief that he is, in fact, capable of these things; that he is, in fact, just as human as you sometimes.
You hate yourself for thinking that. You’re a horrible person for thinking that.
This isn’t the time to get hung up on it, though. You can go over the hundreds of times you’ve secretly wished for something like this, wished for Jakurai’s facades to crack for just some proof that he’s real and grounded — you can go over that later. It isn’t important right now.
You hesitate for a moment too long — not out of disgust or (is that what he thinks it is?) anything of the sort, but out of confusion, out of unfamiliarity. Two things you’re unprepared for: one, a serious and vulnerable relationship; two, when that serious and vulnerable relationship leads to the man you have always regarded as unbreakable falling apart at the seams before you. You hesitate for a moment too long, and Jakurai seems to recollect himself somewhat — he disentangles his hands from his hair, takes a breath, mutters an apology, moves to get up.
You move faster — touching him doesn’t seem like a good idea, but you reach out a hand anyway and let it hover near his shoulder. He doesn’t move further, which is good, because you don’t know what you’d do if he left. Not after what’s just happened.
“It’s okay,” you say, and a wry smile breaks through the turmoil on Jakurai’s face. “Okay?” he asks, incredulous, and it’s almost a laugh — or could be categorized as one if his voice didn’t break (it’s unfamiliar, again, and the vise tightens around your ribs).
He composes himself again, and it hurts. Hurts that Jakurai feels he needs to put himself together so fast, hurts that you can’t do anything to stop it. Inaction has always been your greatest enemy.
“I apologize —“ he begins, and you reach out again. You don’t touch — you don’t want to startle him, don’t want to make whatever this is worse — so you lay your hand next to where his is balled into the sheets. Not touching, no contact, but close enough for him to understand the invitation.
“It’s okay,” you say again, and push on as you hear Jakurai breathe in to respond. “Whatever this was — whatever you saw that caused that — it’s not your fault, Jakurai.” He tenses at that — the sheets move under your hand as he grips them tighter. You’ve never been good at comfort. What does he need?
You keep going. There’s nothing else to do. “I promise it’s not your fault, angel.”. The nickname slips out. You keep going. You can be embarrassed about it later, if either of you remember it. “It doesn’t hurt. You didn’t hurt me.” A lie, because your shoulder still twinges and you know full well it’s going to be insufferable tomorrow. Jakurai doesn’t need to know that. You keep going. “I don’t think you ever could.”
“ Hitoya. ” he says, and you’ve heard him say your name in a myriad of ways before, but this is new. This is new — the way his voice dips too low and cracks up on the second syllable, how it shakes and trembles and sounds so unlike Jakurai that it wrenches your heart sideways, tears it in two within your chest.
It’s silent again, save for the hum of the heater and quiet, halting sobs from Jakurai’s shaking shoulders. You watch: watch how the folds of fabric from his shirt are taut across his shoulders and loose down his back — it’s your shirt, and he doesn’t quite fill it out despite his height. Watch how — and you’re struck by this, suddenly — how little the fact that Jakurai attacked you matters to you. Maybe it’s sleep addling your perception of it — maybe it’s the fact that you just don’t want that to be the full truth, maybe — there just isn’t enough evidence to go off of. Two things you hate: gas prices not rounding out to an even number and uncertainty.
You stretch out your fingers, brushing gently against Jakurai’s fist. He doesn’t flinch, but he does let out a shaky sigh — and his fingers unclench. And his fingers touch yours.
“It’s okay,” you repeat, quieter this time. “Are you?”
He nods in response — and as nearly imperceptible as it is, it releases a tension from your shoulders that you hadn’t noticed before. An affirmation, a reassurance that this was borne of a nightmare of some sort — and that maybe, just maybe, your presence is... wanted? Helpful?
These words should only be applied to settings in which you’ve done more than exist. You’re wanted when you can solve a problem, helpful when you have solved that problem and fixed things. Something like this, something like the way Jakurai is slowly creeping back into the bed to lean into your side — it’s not as though you’ve done anything. There’s nothing tangible for you to pick out from the pile and say I did that! I fixed things! There’s nothing to fix.
Two things you hate: one, when the weather is too warm for your good jackets but too cold to go without; two, this feeling of abject helplessness that sets you in its vice grip to be crushed by dawn. Speaking of dawn — no, the sun hasn’t peeked its way over the clouds just yet. You still have plenty of time.
Jakurai is still tense next to you, but he’s at least somewhat settled into the pillows. That’s good — means you’re getting somewhere. You reach out a hand to brush against his shoulder, but hesitate — would it do more harm than good right now? You’re not the biggest fan of touch, but Jakurai tends to do similarly for you when you have bad nights — and it helps, but would it help him?
Your question is answered when Jakurai shifts closer, inadvertently bumping into your half-outstretched arm. Fractured as it is, he smiles up at you — oh lord, how much of this is showing on your face? — and nestles into your hold.
“I’m so —” he begins, voice half-muffled by your shirt, but you shush him before he can get any further.
“Enough of that,” you say, running your fingers through his hair. You can’t quite reach the end of it, so you awkwardly drop it after stretching as far as you can and start back up at the top. Jakurai doesn’t seem to mind, though. “We’ve been over it. Doesn’t change a thing between us — doesn’t change... anything I think of you. Hell, if anything, I want to be here for you when things like this happen. You don’t need to tackle shit alone, not when you’re with me.”
Oh, you’ve gotten cheesy. Jakurai is silent, which either means he’s fallen back asleep (unlikely) or he doesn’t know what to do about your words (which is distinctly out of character, because Jakurai always knows what to do, but tonight’s been... a lot. You’re off your game, and you wouldn’t blame him if he’s off of his.)
“Thank you, Hitoya,” he says, and it’s almost too quiet for you to hear. It travels directly from your ears to somewhere in your chest, though, filling it with something... warm.
Warmth that you haven’t felt in... a long time, at least. It’s something you’ve searched for, something you’ve felt incomplete for years without — you can’t quite put a name to it, but it’s nice. It’s something you’ve come to associate with Jakurai over the past few months — safety, maybe? Peace? Whatever it is, you’re content to let it rest. You’re both okay, at least for the time being, and there’s a promise in the air now.
Two things you are: a sap when it comes down to the wire, and a man that never leaves a promise unfulfilled.