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i.
you once asked me if i was a morning person or a night person. i said it might be more accurate to say “early bird” and “night owl.” then you rolled your eyes at me, giving away my answer.
It started, as far as Mikage Reo was concerned, some months ago, the first time Chigiri Hyouma stayed the night. He woke up to his boyfriend in his kitchen, the sound of running water filling up his electric kettle. Chigiri looked content, a silhouette Reo committed to memory, as he did so, in the white Rolling Stones tee Reo wore the last time their schedules allowed them an early lunch together.
“It suits you,” he said, letting Chigiri pull him by the neck for a quick kiss on the lips.
He let it drop after that, didn't pester Chigiri over it further, as his rarely-brave bastard arse normally would have, not over the tamagoyaki they had for breakfast or on the train ride to Shinjuku. Reo didn't think he had the heart to, anyway. Chigiri seemed genuinely happy as it was, and that was what mattered to him.
ii.
you told me you're a child of the winter, yet i have never felt cold when i'm with you. thank you for showing me how fascinating is contrast, that my fancies -- old and new -- can coexist.
The second time it happened, it was chilly outside. Chigiri had forgotten his bright purple shawl, the one he proclaimed his favourite because it was the colour of Reo's eyes. What he brought out of his bag was a jacket. And much to Reo's amusement, it was his. A worn-out sukajan adorned with a relatively morbid memento he didn't really think was still on the racks of his closet.
“It doesn't smell like you.” Chigiri pouted, Reo squeezing his gloveless hand, chuckling and curious, hoping it helps.
Chigiri pulled him in, after confirming they were alone in that narrow street, enough for his nose to touch Reo's neck, and catch the combined fragrances of his US shampoo, Italian hair treatment, and damned French perfume that he all took pride in -- screw his cosmopolitan arse. Reo giggled like a fucking child at both the contact and thoughtful recollection. And he wondered what Chigiri had thought of the sound.
iii.
home, being one’s place in this world, is not a matter of spatial location. what separates “you” and “me” is not the distance from kanto to kyushu; it’s a heartbeat, unsteady but persisting.
It was just through a tiny screen this time. Chigiri in a familiar grey tank top, hair in a bun, guesting in Yukimiya Kenyuu's livestream, in Raichi Jingo’s PC, more or less eight hundred and thirty-nine miles from him. It had coincided with that time of year, where the library had to become Reo’s dwelling place for a while. They’d agreed upon it, to not demand of each other more than what was needed. Only they didn’t get to delineate what exactly was necessary and what was to be let go. It appeared the usual good morning texts and the occasional video calls before bed were on the latter list.
“Do your best on finals week, Reo!” Chigiri's voice rang from his phone, cheery with something quite amiss, the shoutout abstracting the longing he'd felt for ten days, sixteen hours, and twenty-seven minutes now. Surprising, but not unwelcome.
Well, at least Chigiri had his shirt to stroke and sway with whenever he missed Reo.
iv.
i grew up believing gift giving was a strange confession, because the inanimate didn't interest me. so, don’t worry about the paper rings; when you ask for my hand, i’d give you my entirety.
It was the week of their second anniversary, and Chigiri was in for a surprise. (“You know I hate surprises.” “But you love me!”) Reo had three moderate to enormous shopping bags in tow, Baaya being kind enough to drive him to his boyfriend’s apartment, consciously abstaining from commenting on the extravagance. Because even if very few material presents had left an impression on him, perhaps Reo-sama would never be truly free from the shackles of his parents' protection.
Chigiri was in the process of tidying up said place, unapologetically sporting the knitted sweatshirt Reo’s mother took home for him from a summer summit in Chugoku, when Reo burst through his front porch. ("I had nothing else to wear, all right, don't look at me like that!" "Stop flaunting your --" he swiftly glances at Baaya "-- desirable lower abdomen then.")
Reo handed over the bags, well-meaning, like always, this way, you won't have to borrow mine anymore! Not really understanding why Chigiri's smile never quite reached his eyes despite the fondness in his voice, you didn’t have to.
v.
i always hoped we'd be more honest and less afraid, to each other and of ourselves. i always promised i'd wait, but boy does patience all too easily crumble when you're so close yet so far.
Reo was with Karasu Tabito when he viewed that one Instagram story of Bachira Meguru. Brilliant red hair, back turned to the camera, a sweater that had "WASEDA" embroidered in bold maroon.
Maybe Chigiri never wanted those in the first place, went Karasu's two cents, because crows were cryptic like that. You're smart enough to figure it out, loverboy, rolled Karasu’s go-to advice, because, apparently, it’s forever their honour to make Reo suffer. Reo, of course, was thrown into a much madder void of confusion, beacause what the fuck.
Later, Chigiri's text would instruct him to drop by Bachira and Itoshi Rin's place, skipping his evening yoga class altogether. His boyfriend was in the showers when he arrived, so Bachira gladly kept him entertained, on how he thought it was super cute Chigirin and Rin-chan borrowed their boyfriend's clothes, and, even cuter, how Rin-chan was extra shy about it, whereas Chigirin gave zero shits.
It was Reo's smile that turned a little shy when Chigiri emerged half naked, promptly greeting him, then searching for where he'd put his beloved uni merch.
+ i.
i despise having to spell out the obvious, but i guess that is the beauty of this. loving you is breathing, like life itself; making you feel loved is deciphering why, like a higher form of purpose.
Reo’s attempt at retribution goes something like this: an otherwise uneventful afternoon, at a scarcely peopled bookshop on the fourth floor of ever-booming Ginza Six. He asks flat out, the if, and then, the why. Chigiri’s eyes twinkle in a way that screams fucking finally. Laruku’s Blurry Eyes begin playing, and it becomes a raucous obbligato to Reo’s racing heart as Chigiri takes his hand, leading him to an empty aisle.
“I don’t care for fancy clothes.”
A dubious stare.
“Fine, maybe I do.” Chigiri takes a step forward, and another, until Reo’s back hits those of the contemporary lit novels behind him. “But I’m saying, that's not what I'm after.” Chigiri cups Reo’s cheeks, his palms a little cold and a little wet. “I only ever wanted your clothes --” his hands drop to Reo’s shoulder “-- because they smell of you. And you are comfort.” Then, to the small of his back “I think it’s romantic. Intimate.” On Reo’s hips and -- “Wait a damn minute -- these are my jeans!”
A sheepish chuckle. “Doesn’t your point stand?”
“No. Take them off!”
“Hyouma, people are --” Reo tries to dodge Chigiri’s assailing hands, and succeeds, to an extent, giggling as his boyfriend maintains a serious frown.
Reo trips, falling on his back to the ground. Chigiri tries, and fails, to save him, his palms supporting the back of his boyfriend’s head, eventually crashing on top of him. A few hardcovers make their descent from the shelves onto them, for good measure. An elderly couple edges into their aisle, the look on their faces horrified.
They scurry to their feet, bowing their heads profusely in apology.
Later, Reo would whisper, his voice low, “Why don't we go home, so you can take them off for me, hm?”
Chigiri would cock an eyebrow at him. "You're starting to get the hang of it, rich boy."
"I learn from the best."