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“You sure you both don’t wanna come inside? Alisa’s not that busy anymore!” Miwa’s smile wavers a little, although excitement is still undeniably splattered in little reds and pinks on her face. “Or at least that’s what she told me on the phone earlier. Although I have a feeling her studio’s still quite messy. It’s only been a few days since she finished her new paintings. You probably won’t like paint on your clean clothes, will you, li’l bro?” She reaches over from the driver’s seat to ruffle Tobio’s hair, and Tobio doesn’t pout or scowl or grumble like he usually does. Instead, he only sleepily blinks under the touch.
Miwa turns to Akira. “Watch over him, ‘kay?” She doesn’t wait for his reply and hops out the car, practically running to the door of her girlfriend’s house.
The whole thirty-minute car ride from the dental clinic to Alisa’s place has been awkward, to say the least. Akira’s not usually one to care what people think of him the first time they meet him. But this is his boyfriend’s older sister, who, according to Tobio, has grown more over-protective over the years.
Hell, he thinks. This isn’t even the first time he’s meeting her. Probably the fourth. But the fact that there still is an expanse of awkwardness between them is slightly giving him the chills. Maybe someday he’ll cross that one for Tobio with a little more effort. Not today, though.
His boyfriend can’t even remember his own address as of the moment.
The distance Akira’s willing to cross today is the singular foot between him and Tobio in the backseat of Miwa’s car.
And he does, with no needed effort.
Just slides his ass across the leather.
Lightly daps the edge of Tobio’s elbow with a cupped palm and asks, “Did you somehow get your brain functioning again on the way here?”
Tobio blinks again, slumber writhing through his eyelids. “Wha- what??”
It’s the smallest things, the most normal of words, that send Akira whipping his head to face no one in particular, so he can somehow gather his composure. This doesn’t really happen often when they’re not alone.
But they are now, and he feels as if to look him in the eye is to have his mindscape fleshed out of his skull.
“What did you say?” Tobio slurs again, but Akira remains facing the other way. Looking at the rough ebb and flow of the November tide in the distance through the car window. “Is that the ocean?” Tobio asks in the most innocent tone he’s heard from him.
Akira Kunimi, 24, currently wishing away the mutant butterflies in his stomach, in his head, in his chest
“It is,” Akira answers him dryly, carefully turning his head back in place so as to include him in his line of sight. There is commotion on the cup of his palm. He realizes his grip has turned from light to tight somewhere between the ocean-staring and the 1-vs-1-million-butterflies combat, and a fistful of Tobio’s sweater has been bunched up between his fingers.
“I’m going.”
It’s said guilelessly but certainly, and Akira muses that maybe it makes him sound a bit like a young blueblood. A freshly-crowned ruler, if you will. Straddling the line between naivety and dexterity. Akira detaches from him, claw recoiling from soft fabric. Even under the influence of heavy anesthesia, even now that Akira is the talon and Tobio, the carcass, it’s always like this.
“Dumbass,” Akira spits with no genuine intensity.
Tobio doesn’t really take offense in that. Because Tobio goes and Akira goes after him. In a matter of seconds, they’re making footprints in the sand, trotting, lilting, lurching towards the open sea. Ample evidence that even people in their mid20s can be stupid.
Two men in flimsy sweaters, hair tossing and turning in the loud autumnal wind, ready to catch a cold, just because.
“Miwa’s friend lives by the ocean. That-that makes me so glad!” Tobio lisps through whatever the hell the dentist put in his mouth after the wisdom teeth extraction. Akira’s never had his removed.
“Actually, that’s her girlfriend,” Akira practically screams, barely winning against the wind’s concerto.
“Oh, I didn’t know.”
“You told me that yourself on the phone about a week ago. Don’t you remember?”
“No. I only remember Sho challenging me into a race and losing to me.” Tobio then… laughs. A sound almost alien to Akira’s ears. Tobio gives him the shiest of smiles when he’s happy, but never a laugh.
Maybe it makes more sense for Akira to be jealous. Why do you call him Sho but can’t and won’t call me Aki? Maybe the smartest reaction is to pout, or sulk. But a stubborn smile stretches his mouth, stretches the seconds into minutes. Stretches his hand onto open air, onto the back of Tobio’s neck, to get a hold of the hood of his sweater that’s flapping wildly in the wind. To carefully pull it over his head whilst willing the heat in his cheeks to transfer to Tobio’s body.
Tobio gently kicks at the sand and Akira does the same, feeling a tiny flicker of warmth as the sand clings into his slides, and inevitably, nestles under the soles of his feet. November sure is mercilessly cold. Akira shivers. He should have worn shoes. Earlier this morning, he did not even stop to check the weather or to keep in mind what time of year it is.
The single text from Tobio about his dental appointment sent him shooting upwards from the safety of his sheets, rushing, burning, un-thinking. An arrow; a flower of fireworks; a shot of confetti.
It’s been weeks since he’d been near him.
Akira Kunimi, 24, a self-aware fool.
As if this day can’t get any stranger, after a moment of silence, Tobio squints at him, “What did you say?”
Akira raises an eyebrow. “Hmm? I didn’t say any-”
“How much do I love you?”
Maybe it’s just Akira’s imagination, but suddenly the howling of the wind hesitates, then dies down, as if someone turned down its volume, urging Tobio to continue.
“Well,” Tobio considers, eyes thoroughly scanning the ground beneath him, suddenly squatting down, leaning back with open palms on the sand. Akira sits next to him; anchored down and curious. Grounded, above all else, despite the demon butterflies stinging every nook and cranny of his body.
“How much sand is there in this beach? A hundred million? A trillion? A bajillion? How many beaches are there in Miyagi? What about-what about Japan?” A peculiar hush falls upon the sea in front of them. “The whole world? What about Mars? Are there beaches in Mars?”
Tobio’s brows are furrowed in concentration. He’s… thinking hard.
Akira’s heart is a chart-topping hyperpop song, barreling to-and-fro in 130 beats per minute, quick and fast and bright. He’s… falling deeper.
“Like, what is sand, for real? It’s like. Clean dirt. Mud but dry. Powdered earth,” Tobio continues to ponder. “This shit’s hard to think about.”
The wind resumes its toll and picks up speed; Akira laughs with it. He’s struggling to keep it shut, to just forget about this whole thing and pretend he’s not that down for Tobio Kageyama. But he has no control over it. He can only really laugh.
Tobio stares at him. “What’s so funny?”
Laughter turns into a content little smile; content little smile turns to pursed lips; pursed lips turn into a mockingly exasperated sigh.
“So, that’s how much?” Akira asks after a moment. If yours is sand, mine is… mine might be the amount of audacity the universe had billions of years ago, to make life, take life, continuously, until it becomes sentient and feels guilty of all the pains it has caused itself.
“Hmm?” Tobio tilts his head and blinks slowly. “How much what? Sorry, Akira, I was thinking about how many Martian professional volleyball players there possibly are. I wonder if I can beat them.”
“Oi, lovebirds, you don’t want to catch a flu this time of year!”
They both whip their heads towards the voice. It’s Miwa, waving them over. “Come on! It’s gonna rain soon!”
-
Akira can’t help but lag behind them. He realizes sand is on deserts, too. Did Tobio also mean desert sand? Did that mean anything at all? Does sand last for forever? Or will it fade away just like everything else?
He watches Tobio and Miwa walk towards the car; they seem to be talking about dinner Alisa’s made and packed for them. Tobio slouches a little after hearing he’s only allowed to eat the soup, not the pasta. Miwa cackles, all witch-like. She climbs into the driver’s side, but Tobio lingers, looks back at him.
Approximately four meters and a half between them. And under the soles of their footwear: sand. Sand for miles, stretching infinitely to either side of the beach.
It’s funny, Akira remembers that one time in middle school he’d asked a 13-year-old Tobio, Why are you so stingy this early in the morning? Got more sand in your shorts today?
Tobio starts to sluggishly walk towards him, face devoid of calculation, dark hair whipping in all directions. His cheeks are flushed and slightly puffy, and Akira thinks that it’s unfair how intimidating he still looks even though he’s just gone through wisdom teeth removal.
Approximately just ten inches between them now, and Tobio lisps, “Can you walk faster?”
Akira Kunimi, 24, current walking speed: definitely slower than normal.
“I’m trying to,” he lies.
There is patience in the way Tobio slowly searches his face, his eyes stilling on his mouth, and the magnitude of the stare sends him looking away again for a short moment, only to find himself instinctively turning again to Tobio who half-grumbles, “We’re stepping all over my heart right now. It doesn’t feel so good. Come on, let’s get in the car.”
Akira’s mouth hangs half-open as he gets what he’s saying.
Oh. So. Tobio’s still on his sand thing. They’re both still on it. Quite literally, and not.
Tobio closes the small gap between them and painstakingly pries Akira’s hands off the snug tuck in his sweater’s pockets, as if Akira’s fingers are porcelain-fragile; pulls him into a hug. Akira’s body leans into him, his mind a little immobilized by the gentleness of it all. He buries his face in the crook of Tobio’s neck without thinking.
“Come on, Akira Kunimi. You’re so slow,” Tobio half-whines, a sleepy rasp in his voice. The sound of it sends a sudden blast of warmth over Akira’s head.
“Do you really have to say my entire name?” Akira asks.
“Yes, because I like your name so much. All seven syllables of it.”
“Oh.” Then after a moment, “There’s just six of ‘em, Tobio.”
“A-ki-ra Ku-ni-mi.” Tobio counts, then yawns ever so faintly, and the cut of his jaw pushes at Akira’s temple, the contact a mass weapon of distraction that makes Akira’s knees wobble. “That’s my wifi password, by the way. But don’t tell anyone, okay?” Another yawn, another push. “It’s a shheeec-ret.”
“Oh.”
As Tobio drags him to the car, his deep desire for Tobio to give him a nickname seeps out of his body, disappears into the wind.
Is it okay to be loved like this?
Is it okay to love like this? To love this hard?
-
“I googled it, Tobio. Apparently, Mars is covered in sand. Just… a different kind.”
Akira thinks, Tobio won’t know what he’s talking about. It’s been more than a week, and Tobio’s no longer under an anesthetic trance. Akira carefully traces a finger over the sharp ridges of Tobio’s left knuckle, always fascinated by the topography of his boyfriend’s artfully calloused hands.
“Hmm, okay,” Tobio hums, drifting in and out of sleep.
“I was hoping for a bigger reaction,” Akira teases. It’s ten minutes past eleven in the evening, but he still hasn’t gone back to his apartment. He has work tomorrow, but he can’t care less about that.
“Hmm.”
There’s so little time. So little time, for them to be alone like this. He leans over, swipes Tobio’s fringe away and plants a kiss on his forehead. “Thank you.” Thirty-five decibels, slightly more than a whisper. An unplanned act of gratitude. Rarely does he like saying it with his own mouth.
Tobio’s eyes flutter half-open, thinking this must be a dream. “For what? You’re the one who cooked dinner tonight. I should be th-”
“I’ve never-” Akira makes an attempt.
I’ve never been loved like this
; I don’t know how to be loved like this.
“I’ve never cooked beef stew before but you ate my cooking anyway. Pretty sure it was horrible.”
“Hm, you could use a few cooking lessons. If I weren’t so hungry I would’ve eaten you instead.”
The seconds tick by, laughing and pointing at a stunned Akira as they go.
Akira scoffs. “Excuse me?”
“Um,” Tobio pretends the ceiling is suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. “Anyways, you should stay for the night. It’s late.” He gets up, suddenly looking too alert, too awake. “I’ll go get an extra pillow.”
A moment later, Akira’s swaddled in not one but two layers of blankets because Tobio’s insisted, muttering he noticed him shiver earlier then quickly sliding under his own blanket to drift back to sleep.
An extra pillow, two blankets, and all the sand on Earth and on Mars.
Now, Tobio shifts a little beside him, snoring faintly.
I’d give you all my time if I could, if you’d let me, Akira wants to say.
To be cared for like this, to care about someone like this, for the first time- it’s strange. A bit disorienting. A bit disquieting. A bit out of his comfort zone.
But it feels vaguely comforting for some reason. Nothing absolute about it yet; so much room for thought, for discovery, for anything, really. No unit of measurement, no math, no formula could put everything about this into approximation.
He chances Tobio another glance. Then closes his eyes.
Akira Kunimi, 24, currently three seconds into a dreamless yet content sleep.