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He looks at Shiro's chest-rising and falling- and tries not to let his mind wander to places he can't let himself go to. To places that might awaken feelings he won't allow himself to have.
Unfortunately he doesn't have any jurisdiction over neither his feelings nor thoughts, so his heart jumps to 20 years ago. To his parents: smiling, waving and then no more. To their dead, lifeless corpses lying on the floor barely identifiable, barely them. He gulps down fear, nausea and some feeling he won't ever acknowledge and focuses on breathing, on the now.
Now.
He's taking out a cigarette, letting it rest in his mouth without lighting it up. This is real, it is real, it's there.
He starts counting. Counting books and finding fascination in doing so: he's never seen Shiro read anything other than articles in the newspaper and it's a mysterious thing to have in a house when you're going undercover isn't it? so ridiculously obvious to the prying eye and so absurdly private and telling about your personality at the same time.
One, two, three.
He breathes in-catching some magazines in his sight- and out.
Four-
Shiro.
His eyes lead him to his body, resting on the couch. He's there (alive, warm, alive) and he's sleeping. He's not gone, he's full of life and soon will be dragging his feet around the house, eyes barely open, reaching for the coffee and sugar at the same time. He shakes his head amused at how fast they've grown used to- how fast they've gotten closer to each other. He sees him sleeping on the couch, in a cocoon made of all the blankets of their home and suddenly, breathing has never been easier.
His blonde golden hair is sprawled on the pillow and his brows are furrowed in clear distraught about whatever that's happening in his dreams and although he's very aware he could kill (that he, in fact, has killed) he's just so vulnerable. So open, closer than at an arm's reach, but so hazy at the same time,as if he would never be able to reach him. His eyelashes flutter and his breath catches.
It feels like he will wake up but he just moves, facing the other side and turning his back to him. Ichiro exhales, crouching next to the sofa in awe. How is it possible that it takes only one creature to make him so aware of where he is, of where they are and of where they will go?
Before he can process it he sees his hand reaching out to him (he's now discovering he never had any kind of control over his own body either). Fingers wanting to ease the creases between his brows, to go to his hair to caress it, to his arms to touch them, to his hands to
Dark eyes open, vigilant, expectant, looking at him. As if he had been caught stealing he rises, taking a step back with an apology and excuse ready in his mouth. But it doesn't open and he can't stop looking either so he just stays still, mid movement.
Now that he looks at him carefully he doesn't look sleepy, doesn't look like he's been sleeping, unaware of what was happening on the other side of his closed eyelids. There's amusement playing in his eyes and in a swift movement, Ichiro finds him standing in front of him.
Shiro.
Getting closer while Ichiro fights against all logic that begs him to step back just to be able to take a look at his face, to give him his unswerving attention.
From his hands- tucking a lock of golden hair behind his ears- to the dark brightness of his eyes;
to his right eye to left eye
to nose
from the right eye to the left,
mouth,
to the right and the left again,
to the right to the left, to his
mouth and then
from his lips curving upwards to-
he closes his eyes, breathing in only to find him a second of distance when he opens them. They're standing so close he can almost count his eyelashes. So long, he thinks, so prett-
Eyebrows rise and there's a bizarre mix of emotions playing in Shiro's eyes: emotions he'd never had to decipher before. Purposely showing feelings he hadn't wanted to share with Ichiro before. He gasps, the fog dissipating and his hand finding Shiro's without looking. He's still looking into Shiro's eyes. Only his eyes. But he knows his fingers. Cold and steady, slender but hard and they fit perfectly well with his; shorter and sturdier, nimble but strong.
They stand there; breathing the same air. Ichiro doesn't feel like putting space nor distance between them but feels Shiro unlacing their fingers (longingly, slowly, one by one), stepping back while smiling-in fear, in sadness- going to the kitchen without looking back.
- Have you eaten breakfast yet?- he asks.
And maybe that's enough for now.