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Mornings are good, most of the time, in Leo’s books. Mornings mean waking up to Izumi cuddling him, then lying in bed for hours talking about nothing in particular. Mornings mean warmth and music and love.
Today is clearly not most of the time. Today, Leo wakes up to emptiness on the other side of the bed and an exhaustion that he can’t quite shake. Today, his head feels heavy and he doesn’t want to move. Today is cold and quiet and lonely.
“Sena,” he calls into his pillow, holding it to his chest and staring numbly at a spot on the wall. He sort of feels like sleeping, even though he just woke up.
“Good, you’re finally awake,” comes Izumi’s voice from somewhere else in their apartment, “it’s half past ten, Leo-kun, what are you—”
Izumi cuts himself off at the doorway, expression unreadable even as Leo stares. His eyes seem to travel from the lump of blankets that is Leo to where the composer was staring at absolutely nothing on the wall, and then—
“Oh.”
There are good days and there are bad days, and it’s painfully clear that today is one of the bad ones.
Leo’s sure he looks perfectly miserable right now, curled up in his blankets with a pillow clutched to his chest, but Izumi doesn’t comment.
“Breakfast?”
Leo shakes his head slowly, and Izumi’s lips part in a sigh.
“Coffee?”
That... sounds a little better. Leo gives a tiny nod, and then Izumi is gone and whatever warmth was in this room is gone with him. His chest aches for reasons he doesn’t quite understand and isn’t sure he wants to know, and now that he’s alone with his thoughts they all feel so heavy.
(He wonders why, even years later, he still has to wake up like this sometimes. He wonders why the bad days are different now, why he wakes up feeling numb and exhausted instead of broken and crazed. Maybe it’s better this way; he doesn’t hurt himself anymore, and Izumi doesn’t have to worry.)
“Hey, Leo-kun.” Izumi’s voice is soft, and the kindness has needles pricking at Leo’s heart and it feels like the air has been emptied from his lungs. “I’m back,” he whispers, and he’s closer this time. There’s the sound of something being placed on the bedside table, then sheets ruffling as Izumi’s hand finds its way into his hair, unmoving yet comforting all the same.
It’s quiet; peaceful, even, and Leo can nearly ignore the emptiness and the numbness and the vague feeling that he’s not really here. Sitting up in bed makes his head spin, and he’s still exhausted beyond belief, and as soon as he slumps into Izumi’s side he thinks it’s be nice to go back to sleep.
Maybe forever.
The thought enters his mind unbidden, and he reaches for Izumi’s hand and squeezes it tight. He doesn’t want that anymore, he’s sure of it. Izumi passes him the coffee, and he has to let go of the model’s hand to hold it. The drink burns his throat as he takes a sip, but the sting of it makes him feel like he’s actually here, reminds him that he’s real and the world around him extends past Izumi and their bedroom.
“Sena,” Leo starts, voice grating on his own ears, wobbling, and if he continues he’s sure to push himself over the edge. “Sena, can I write?” It’s somewhere between a request and a genuine question, and deep down he knows the answer is the same whichever one he means. His hands holding the coffee are shaking, he realises, creating ripples and distorting his murky reflection when he stares into it. He can’t stop them from shaking, how does he stop them from shaking—
(He knows how, but he can’t. Won’t, for Izumi’s sake. Maybe it’d help to imagine the pain, even though that, too, would surely have him scolded.)
Something in Izumi’s face flickers, cracks, breaks. “No,” he breathes out in a choked whisper, and a wave of guilt crashes over Leo even as his hands tremble and tears prick at his eyes.
“Okay. That’s— okay,” Leo replies between sips of his coffee; between shaky breaths. Izumi’s hand finds his again, and the shaking stops because the model’s hand is warm and his touch is gentle and just being there is enough to make Leo feel a little bit better.
“Tomorrow, okay?” Izumi squeezes Leo’s hand, his own breaths slightly uneven. “Tomorrow, it’ll be better, and you can write as much as you want.”
(It’s not really clear whether Izumi’s trying to reassure Leo or himself.)
You can’t know that, how do you know I won’t be just as much of a mess tomorrow—
“Yeah.”
‘—it isn’t our second year anymore, Leo-kun.’
(How many times has Izumi told him that, again?)
Taking the now empty mug from Leo’s hands, Izumi pulls the composer impossibly closer, and he can feel Izumi’s heartbeat as he lays his head on the model’s chest. It’s soft and familiar, and Leo idly traces shapes onto his lover’s thigh, matching his own breaths with Izumi’s. Like this, he feels a little less numb, a little more like it’s late at night and it’s been a long day and they’re simply being with each other. If he ignores the sunlight filtering through the curtains and the clock that reads something close to eleven in the morning, he can pretend it’s real.
“I love you,” comes the barely audible whisper, and Leo glances up into beautiful blue eyes filled with guilt. Through the numbness cuts worry as well as something softer, warmer underneath. “I— I probably don’t tell you that enough,” Izumi admits, “but I love you more than anything.”
Leo finds his eyes widening — it’s not as if he didn’t know, but heartfelt confessions are completely out of character for Izumi — and, for the first time today, he doesn’t feel empty at all.
“You don’t have to tell me, Sena,” Leo says, nearly laughing, “I already know.” He feels a little better, a little more like himself. “I love you too, more than anything. More than composing, more than the whole world.”
Izumi’s face is a pretty red, and he turns away, staring at the wall. “Idiot, don’t say that stuff, it’s embarrassing,” he mumbles, and Leo finds himself grinning.
“Really, though,” Leo sighs, burying his face in Izumi’s chest and taking a deep breath, “none of this is your fault. I promise.”
Izumi’s arms around him feel tighter, and it’s not just his imagination. “Maybe not. But I was still the one who pushed you over the edge.”
Leo knows Izumi thinks about what happened back then. He does too, sometimes, when he’s alone at night and there’s nothing to hold back his thoughts, and he knows there’s no point in digging up the past, but sometimes there’s nothing else to do.
“Hey, Sena,” Leo calls, “tomorrow, write a song with me.”
“Okay.” A kiss is planted on top of his head.
“Promise, Sena,” he adds, and it sounds far too much like they’re talking about a tomorrow that will never come, and that stings just a little.
Izumi buries his face in Leo’s hair, and Leo can hear the smile in his voice when he speaks. “I promise, Leo-kun.”
(Tomorrow will come, and the sun will rise, and the two of them will keep stumbling along like they always have: messy and awkward and flawed, but they’re together, they have each other, and that’s more than enough.)