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It wasn’t uncommon for them to end up sleeping in the same room after a round of drinks. In fact, it was rarer that either one would even make it back to their own beds before they inevitably passed out on the sofas, or on Yamato’s rug. But when Mitsuki opens bleary eyes to daylight and a weight on his stomach, it’s something of a surprise to recognise the sight of his own room. That is, until the fog in his mind eases and he can recall the day before with some clarity.
Yamato had come home. And, despite all his secrecy up until now, he had shared everything. All of it. His guilt, his fear, and his pain, and it was almost too much to bear, thinking about how it must have weighed him down all this time. When he had clung to Mitsuki, his forehead pressed to his shoulder, he had been trembling. It had taken everything in him for Mitsuki not to pull him into an embrace then and there, afraid to startle the small, timid thing that had so carefully bloomed within his best friend. Like a small animal taking its first steps on shaky legs, too vulnerable to touch. Instead, he stood there as an anchor, fighting back tears while Yamato’s hair tickled his cheek.
That night, he had knocked on Mitsuki’s door, a pack of beer in hand. It might have seemed like a painfully obvious attempt to restore their relationship to what it had been, but the events of the last week had corroded the walls Yamato liked to use so much, and Mitsuki could read him much better now. He could see the way his smile flickered nervously, the furrow of his brow that betrayed his real intentions. He wanted to make up properly, just the two of them, and this was the best opener he knew to use.
Usually, if it wasn’t the living room, it would be Yamato’s room they drank together in, not his. But Yamato had forgone texting him to ask, and instead come directly to his door. He had suspected it had something to do with not wanting to be in the place where it had all fallen apart, the wounds still fresh and stinging, and Mitsuki imagined the still half-unpacked suitcase in his room wasn’t a comforting sight either. But as the night went on, and Yamato kept finding convenient reasons to be near him — their legs bumping together when they laughed, their hands brushing as he handed him another beer — he suspected that there was another reason. Mitsuki’s room was familiar, comfortable. He had wanted to be with Mitsuki, in the place Mitsuki exists in. In other words, he hadn’t wanted to be alone.
They didn’t really talk about what happened. They had both exhausted themselves emotionally during the pseudo-press conference earlier, and had already more or less got their feelings about it through to one another. There would be time for a deeper discussion later. But that night was for unwinding, for talking about their upcoming tour, about how the Mission shooting was going, about a recipe Mitsuki’s mother had sent him recently. Normal things, innocuous things, silly things. But it was the most at peace Mitsuki had been in weeks. And whenever he said something that made Yamato laugh, he would watch him closely, take in the smile that split his face so genuinely, the way he doubled over trying to hide it, the way his voice sounded when it was full of joy. He wanted to make him laugh like that forever, to see the heart that had been suffocated for so long being worn proudly on his sleeve. Never again did he want to see that darkness in his eyes.
And now it’s morning, and Mitsuki has a headache, and the weight on his stomach is Yamato. They had probably passed out around 2am by Mitsuki’s judgement, and although they had ended up on his bed, they aren’t under any covers. He has to suppress a laugh when he looks at his friend; he looks like a mess. Hair sticking up in wildly different directions, glasses pressing red marks into his face — it’s shocking he isn’t drooling on Mitsuki’s shirt as well. He’s holding onto his waist with a surprisingly strong grip for someone who’s unconscious. Mitsuki’s never felt more like someone’s favourite teddy bear.
He’s cute like this, he thinks, as he brushes some of his hair from his face and out of his mouth. He tends to look somewhat ridiculous when he’s asleep, but right now, Yamato just looks peaceful. It’s a good look on him. There’s nothing to marr the gentle calm on his face as he breathes deep, a snore catching on his inhale. Mitsuki takes great care not to disturb him as he reaches for his phone, and snaps a quick picture. Call it revenge for storming out on him, future blackmail material, maybe. But really, he just wants to be able to capture this moment. He doesn’t think he wants to share it with anyone else, anyway. It can be his, and his alone.
When he sets his phone back down on his nightstand, Yamato shifts. For a white-hot moment, he’s scared that he’s woken him up, but he just pulls himself closer, sighing in his sleep. Mitsuki breathes a quiet chuckle, and eases the glasses from his face.
Deep in their drinking, Yamato had confessed something to him. It was something about wanting to be accepted, but not wanting to accept himself. About how the idea of being loved scared him, even though he wanted it more than anything. It sounded painful coming out of his mouth, slurred and mumbled though it was. He had looked so ashamed in that moment that Mitsuki’s heart had nearly shattered. There were a million and one things he had wanted to say to him, but he had been too far gone, and couldn’t string together enough thoughts to respond.
Now, though, he looks at Yamato curled up around him, and he can put his feelings to words.
I already love you. There’s nothing to be scared of. I’m here.
Maybe, one day, he’ll be able to tell him those words. But for now, he’ll let him hold him while he sleeps, and hopes that it’s enough for him to understand.