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How do you know someone?
Is it through the clothes that they wear, the things that they say, the reputation of their name? Or is it the shine of their eye, when you've little trust in the curve of their mouth, or think foreign of the lilt of their voice.
Perhaps it is through superstition, the tarot cards and loose charms and zodiac signs that tell you what a person ought to be according to the stars. The string of fate which binds everyone must know its captives, after all. But omnipresence can only be understood so much by the human brain, much less that of someone like Tsumugi.
Would a name be enough? A word whose meaning precedes and defines a child before cognizance; a manifestation of human contradictions as an adult.
Summer's eye. Natsu-me. The summer that sees. Visions of vitality and energy, of passion and recklessness. Red-hot and unforgettable. Natsume. Has he become familiar then?
Natsume -chan, Natsume -kun.
Memories—vague recollections of when you passed them unwittingly on the street, or ate at the same restaurant tables apart, or when they used to look far different from now. When their sentences were crooked, like his own glasses quite often as a child, and spoken with the bravado of someone yet to truly face the world.
He used to call him Natsume-chan, back then. And he was Tsumugi-nii-san most of the time. The voice that called him always held a bit of mischief, but also a pure sort of charm, like how you'd think fairies would sound like bells. He's pretty sure Natsume-chan was a fairy, all dazzling and magical and sweet and kind. But not now. He's Natsume-kun now.
Is he that different from before? How can Tsumugi know?
The tone of his voice has shifted. It comes with age, he supposes, thinking back to his own middle school years of awkward vocal cracks here and there. Natsume still sounds magical, still wonderfully vibrant and vivacious when he speaks, but coy (if not vaguely teasing) calls of Tsumugi-nii-san are traded for almost disgusted and mocking spits of Senpai, and none of his words feel warm anymore. Like molasses, his words are sweet and sticky and drip off his tongue onto skin in uncomfortable heaps. Enlivening but not a cause for enjoyment. An inconvenience, sometimes.
He doesn't mind, but he's glad that at least his distinct red hair has stayed the same.
Tsumugi wonders. Looks up at the moonlight blurrily cutting through the blinds and the dark mass of the ceiling. If he squinted he could make out the outline of the lightbulb screwed on. Looks around as best as he can without glasses. Two other beds off to the wall on the side; papers scattered everywhere on the floor, books strewn across one of the mattresses. It makes the room feel less lonely.
He closes his eyes and breathes. Inhale, exhale. In, then out. Up, then down. A constant pattern, rhythmic, steady, unchanging. Familiar if only because it's natural.
Beside him, a weight shifts, moving the blanket. It shuffles closer and huffs out a breath of its own. Suddenly, there's a weight on his chest, on top of where he rests one of his hands.
He opens his eyes, adjusts back into the not-quite-darkness, and sees a manicured hand near his own. An unconsciously comforting action from Natsume sleeping beside him. Even if he refuses to admit it, or denies the fact, he really is still quite cute. And sweet, and kind, and magical, of course.
It's then that Tsumugi thinks he knows the answer to his question.
As if seeking warmth, the hand resting on his chest twitches and wraps itself around Tsumugi's wrist. Natsume's fingers brush the back of his hand, not very delicately as dictated by the heaviness of sleep, but it's this, Tsumugi thinks, which tells him he knows.
Natsume's grip is firm. Sometimes, in its intensity, it betrays the elegance of his hands, the nonchalant rolls and flicks of his wrist, the precision of his fingers when he points and gestures and waves them around. To Tsumugi in particular, they can be particularly harsh, but never suffocating. A hold that's tight in the way a child clings to the leg of their parent on the first day of school.
It's a grasp that his hands have felt long before—in the shoddy stage wings, before recitals and performances in their old idol school, from the prodigy who left as fast as they came. Now, his arms are more acquainted with it, but he still knows what it means. It betrays the mysterious, cool façade and shakes and breaks the walls around himself until there's only a child left in the ruins of a palace, alone and unsure of what to do, or where to go.
A brush of hair, a tuck behind the ear, fingertips lingering on skin. From where Tsumugi lies, the view isn't much to talk about, but it's beautiful all the same. And real. He could trace the contours of his face—well, the part of it not smushed into a pillow—to commit the curves and bumps and ridges and slopes of Natsume to his memory, to his sense of touch, so that he knows this is Natsume. Knows exactly how he feels and what he is. But he'd get scolded if he was found out, and he figures he doesn't need to.
Tsumugi knows better than anyone not to rely on those tells to recognize someone. So he resorts to what he knows won't change: the twitch of his nose when you brush near it, the breathless sigh he lets out after kisses, the glitter of his piercings and gems and crystals under lights, the near imperceptible scrape of his nails on Tsumugi's cheeks when he adjusts his glasses, the laugh that reminds you of a bunch of small, sweet bells, the presence that ebbs and fades and then comes crashing into a room when you least expect it.
He tightens the grip on his hand just the slightest bit and moves closer. People are at their most vulnerable when asleep, it's said, and Tsumugi thinks it's true, because he can call out Natsume-chan in a whisper and get a halfhearted, sleepy wriggle in response, not an insult; it doesn't hurt that Natsume looks as peaceful as he did back then, too.
But the Natsume now is just as fierce and loving and kind and alive as the Natsume then. And Tsumugi knows this. He knows him.
The determination and genius. The grief and condemnation. The innocence and kindness. The strength and hope. The hatred and ignorance.
The roll of his eyes, the scoffs that escape him, the grit of his teeth, the tightness of his fist, the vitriol in his glare.
The curve of his smile on skin, the tenderness of his hold, the hitch of his breath, the crystalline drops of his tears, the hoarseness of his shouts.
The loneliness of his cries, the affection in his voice, the quietness of his trust.
Familiarity comes naturally, recognition becomes instinct. To Tsumugi, there is nothing more natural than them being beside each other. A realization built upon days and weeks and years of obliviousness and denial, and a good amount of miscommunication.
Tsumugi knows Natsume. And Natsume knows Tsumugi.
He supposes that to be the natural course of things, as fate has played out; and it will remain as such as the rest of its threads unravel.