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The station is empty. Devoid of the usual rush hour passengers, it’s all quite dreary. Gray walls; once-bright posters now worn and faded, bleached by sunlight and crinkled by humidity.
Kind of like Tatsuru, who’s completely spent and weary from a night out with some rather tiresome clients. He’d barely managed to excuse himself from the Izakaya, citing the need to catch the last train as his reason for leaving early.
Tatsuru is very capable in social settings. He’s good at livening up the atmosphere, he knows how to keep the conversation and sake flowing. But listening to the other chairman speak nothing of the deal they were in the process of securing and instead go on and on about his (uninvited) plus-one was a bit much.
Then there was the chairman’s wonderful niece who smiled prettily at him and apologized for intruding; who allegedly played the piano like an angel and cooked like a Michelin Star chef and liked watching badminton and had come to all of their matches. Who also happened to be thirty years old and unmarried—
It feels like he’s been sucked dry of all his energy. Perhaps age is finally catching up to him.
There are a few more minutes until the train arrives, and in this quiet, lonesome station, there is no need to keep up appearances.
So Tatsuru lets himself sigh. He stares up at the ceiling. It’s a shade lighter than the rest of the station. Or maybe it’s white, and the bad lighting just makes it look gray and— well, it’s nice, really. It’s nice to be able to take time to observe these little details for the first time at a train station he frequents all the time.
Tatsuru wonders if this is Mikoto’s influence, too. Is this what Mikoto always sees in the world, he wonders.
Mikoto.
Speaking of Mikoto, he was supposed to stop by Mikoto’s room today to look over the videos of their next opponent. Since it doesn’t look like he’ll make it back to Fukaya until well after midnight, he should probably reschedule.
It’s unfortunate. Tatsuru had been looking forward to seeing him. Laser-focused Mikoto is always a joy to watch on the court, but Tatsuru’s been missing off-court Mikoto—they barely catch glances of each other in the corridors at work anymore.
Just as he’s about to pull out his phone to text Mikoto, it vibrates in his pocket.
New message. From: Shiratori Mikoto
I’m using your spare key.
Tatsuru stares at the screen. The exhaustion that had been weighing him down floats away like a feather. It’s amazing how just one line—a mere five words—can make your mood do a 180 if it’s from the right person.
Mikoto is at his apartment. There is someone waiting for him to come home and it’s Mikoto.
As he boards the train, Tatsuru glances around the station again.
Maybe it’s his imagination, but the station lamps seem to glow a bit brighter.
- -
When Tatsuru steps into the genkan, there is an absence of the usual ‘welcome back’ he’s come to associate with returning home to the lights on.
The reason becomes clear when he enters the living room. There are open notebooks scattered around the coffee table, a half-full bottle of natto cola sitting on one of the coasters from the set Mikoto bought him as a housewarming gift.
A dvd continues to play in the background, but Mikoto’s head is pillowed on his arms, his breathing soft and even.
He must have only just fallen asleep. There is a towel hung around Mikoto’s neck; evidence of a fresh shower, and his hair still looks damp at the edges. Tatsuru doesn’t let himself touch to confirm. Instead, he tears his gaze away from the sleeping man, takes off his coat and hangs it on the rack next to Mikoto’s.
His throat suddenly feels dry, so Tatsuru quietly makes his way to the kitchen. Out of habit, his fingers trace the jagged line carved into the handle of his fridge door—the scratch Mikoto made when he accidentally nicked it while helping him move here. Now the corner of that wall also bears a matching mark, and the memory of Mikoto’s panic at the damage makes Tatsuru smile whenever he passes it.
The fridge is miserably empty; a few eggs, a half-eaten packet of biscuits, a container of roasted green peas—he doesn’t even have any mineral water left, let alone a nice can of beer like he had been hoping for.
There is, however, Mikoto’s stash of natto cola. And it’s a full six-pack carton at that.
Tatsuru chuckles. Maybe natto cola isn’t too bad once in a while. He resolves to get chewed out by Mikoto later when he notices the missing bottle—he always does.
The floorboards creak as Tatsuru makes his way back to the living room, but it’s probably quieter than how it was in his old room at the dorms, because Mikoto continues to doze, unaffected by the sound.
The pile of laundry Tatsuru took out of the dryer this morning and then chucked on the couch as he realized, crap he was going to be late for work, has been folded and stacked into neat piles, no doubt Mikoto’s doing. There is now space on the couch to sit, but Tatsuru moves closer despite himself. He kneels by the coffee table.
Mikoto’s sweater is slipping off his collarbone. It’s at least two sizes too big, well-worn and threadbare at the edges and actually Tatsuru’s. Tatsuru’s favorite, in fact. Tatsuru’s gaze inadvertently drifts to that silver of pale skin before he catches himself and averts his eyes.
You shouldn’t.
He takes a swig of that god-awful natto cola Mikoto likes so much, and the cloying taste that spreads over his tongue is a rude shock to the senses, startling and sobering in the way beer and Mikoto are intoxicating.
An acquired taste, he supposes.
Mikoto continues to snore blissfully, peaceful and oblivious to the direction Tatsuru’s thoughts are heading. His sleeping face is angelic, relaxed and free of the perpetual frown marring his features in the day, and—
“Mikoto.” The name rolls off his tongue easily. Sweetly, helplessly. Without permission.
—it makes something warm blossom in his chest.
Mikoto stirs but doesn’t wake. Tatsuru rests his cheek against the palm of his hand.
“Mikoto,” Tatsuru says again. More deliberately, more softly. “Wake up.”
Tatsuru’s voice puts a little furrow between his brows that soon smooths out.
It’s a pointless thing, really. This is just so he can tell Mikoto that he did try, when Mikoto (guiltily) starts to complain in the morning that he should have just woken him up.
It’s also a foolish little game that Tatsuru plays with himself sometimes. Where he allows himself to think about the what-ifs. A bit like plucking daisy petals. He loves me, he loves me not.
If Mikoto wakes up, he’ll tell him—
But Mikoto never wakes up because Tatsuru is always careful not to wake him. Maybe there is a funny contradiction there, but Mikoto is very good at making him feel I want, I can’t.
I love him, I love playing badminton with him.
It’s an obvious choice. Tatsuru could never risk their partnership for anything, never to bet on the off chance that he occupies Mikoto’s heart the way Mikoto has taken over his.
While he’s always playing to win when it comes to badminton, love is a game that Tatsuru is willing to lose before it even begins.
That’s why Tatsuru does what he always does. He hits the books, rewinds the video of their next opponent. Makes sure he lowers the volume before pressing play.
The notes printed in Mikoto’s loopy handwriting starts off neatly. But as Tatsuru flips through the dog-eared pages, the words start to tilt one way, to run off the lines until the pencil eventually slides off the page completely— and it’s just so like Mikoto to doggedly pursue whatever he’s serious about; beginning with a shuttlecock carried off by the wind from a court drawn in sand, and now…
That thought carries with it a rush of affection, sitting warm and heavy in his stomach like the strongest whisky he’s drunk. Looks like he really didn’t need that beer, after all.
According to Mikoto’s trusty notebook—filled with statistics and diagrams, and weird drink flavors accompanied by doodles in the margins that has Tatsuru stifling laughter because Sunbeaver-kun’s buck teeth look nothing like that—the front player’s shoulder pulls lower when he goes for a smash compared to a drop shot. It’s hard to catch the habits without having Mikoto point them out to him. Why is it so difficult with other people when he can read Mikoto at a glance?
Tatsuru forces himself to look up at the screen rather than at the mop of green hair beside him.
He rewinds the video over and over until his vision blurs.
- -
Tatsuru tries not to think about how Mikoto fits snugly against him as he carries him over to the bed.
Come tomorrow morning, Mikoto will make that constipated expression he always makes when he finds himself in Tatsuru’s bed and realizes that Tatsuru slept on the tiny couch. Mikoto’s voice will be rough from unuse as he grumbles about backaches and old men needing to sleep properly, insult and concern rolled into one.
And Tatsuru will smile at that tuft of hair sticking out from the side, try not to laugh at his horrific bedhead, ask, “Did you sleep well?”
Mikoto’s cheeks will color slightly, but he’ll sound appreciative when he says yes, and his tone will get harsher when he starts to nag, but next time—
And Tatsuru will smile again, more to himself this time, because of the implication that there will be a next time. He’ll get the ridiculous urge to say something like you should move in, and then we can get a bigger bed to share.
Only that it’s not really a joke, and Tatsuru fears that Mikoto will see it for the truth it is.
Which is why Tatsuru keeps it buried deep in his chest, locked safely within the confines of his ribcage.
He’ll watch as Mikoto yawns, navigates his way around the apartment with eyes half closed.
Like he belongs.
I love him. I love playing badminton with him.
It’s always a no-brainer—that never changes—but it’s a choice that gets harder to make each time Tatsuru rewinds, and finds that Mikoto’s left yet more traces of himself around. Mikoto effortlessly calls out to the greedier side of him, and that, Tatsuru muses, that hasn’t changed from the time he first saw Mikoto’s name on Mitsuhoshi’s player list, either.
But for now, he simply makes sure that Mikoto’s toes are tucked comfortably under the blanket.
For now, he wants himself to cherish what they already have.
“Goodnight, Mikoto,” Tatsuru says softly. He brushes the hair out of Mikoto’s eyes and turns off the light.
Even in the safety of the darkness; even though he’s certain Mikoto is fast asleep (something he just knows because he’s seen through many such nights and close calls), Tatsuru dares not whisper it to the air.
I love you. I’m so in love with you that I don’t know what to do with myself.
Because the things that he received from Mikoto, both ten years ago and now again, are meant to be properly treasured, after all.