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Yamato wakes up with a pulsing pain behind his eyes and a bitter taste in his mouth.
Awareness comes to him slowly. As he runs his tongue against his teeth, he takes note of the vague sounds of others moving about, which then leads to the heavy feeling of his limbs, the crick in his neck from having slept oddly. He opens his eyes and immediately regrets it, vision blurred as he tries to reorient himself against the harsh sunlight that streams in from a nearby window. It takes a second for him to determine that he’s in the living room of the dorms, and another to realize that he’s been drinking.
Damned hangover, Yamato thinks, and groans.
“Oh, are you up now?” comes a voice from nearby, and if Yamato had the energy he would’ve startled off the couch. Instead, he looks lazily to the side to meet the bright gaze of Izumi Mitsuki, who’s in a pink, frilly apron, ladle in hand. The younger ones must have left for school by now.
“Unfortunately,” Yamato sighs, slowly moving into a sitting position. “What time is it?”
“It’s only 8. Hold on, I’ll grab you water and painkillers.”
“Thanks.” Yamato brings a hand to his forehead to try and block out the light and realizes with a start that he doesn’t have his glasses on. He practically chokes on his next inhale of air, fingers shooting out and grasping around the couch as he looks around, searching, where are they, where are they, did I fall asleep without them on? But then that means—
“Heeere you go! Got some breakfast too— um, is everything okay?” Mitsuki stops by the kitchen doorway, tray in hand.
“My glasses,” Yamato seethes, turning away so that Mitsuki can’t see his face. “I can’t— they’re not— don’t look— ”
“They’re right on the table, Yama-kun,” Mitsuki says, gentle. He hears, rather than sees, Mitsuki walk closer. The tray of food is let down with a quiet clink.
Yamato dares to peek and sure enough, his glasses are neatly folded up on the living room table. He scrambles to quickly put them on, pretending that his hands aren’t shaking as he brushes a few strands of hair out of his eyes. “R-right… thanks, Mitsu.”
He’s expecting Mitsuki to say something— he’d go ‘you look better without them’ in that light-hearted tone, or if he’s feeling bold, scold him with ‘ you know you don’t need to hide from us anymore, right?’ Yamato might laugh, smiling to avoid the accusation altogether. Complain about his hangover and shuffle away into his room.
From deep within, another voice offers a different suggestion: the glasses don’t hide how rotten of a person you are.
(The voice is himself.)
His chest constricts at the thought.
It’s not as if Mitsuki doesn’t know about his father, or the Chiba Salon, but for some reason being seen without his glasses still leaves him with an unshakable anxiety. As much as he says he’s made amends with his father, there’s still a lingering, bitter edge to his soul that seems to have warped forever in its hatred. He’s trying to be better about it all—really, he is —but when he looks in the mirror and sees that man reflected back, feels deep in his heart that he’s still just as poisonous as before his confession, he can’t take it.
The truth is, Nikaido Yamato is an ugly, wretched being. The idea that someone might look at him and see everything he hates about himself—the idea that one day, Mitsuki and Nagi will come to their senses and realize that loving the real him was a mistake—scares him more than he likes to admit. This tender, warm feeling he’s been told is ‘love’ is wholly unfamiliar in his hands. Yamato isn’t sure how to handle it.
So, he hides. Behind his glasses and a smile that won’t fool anyone but himself. Because as selfish as it is, he’s never held onto affection this closely before, and he isn’t sure what else to do but cling onto it. Until his wrists bruise from the effort. Until his fingers bleed from holding on too tightly. Until the world tries to rip it from his dirtied hands—Yamato holds on, selfishly, looking away.
“I hope miso soup and grilled mackerel is okay,” Mitsuki says, instead of any of the interrogation Yamato had been expecting. Like a child, Yamato finds himself getting fussed over, Mitsuki carefully placing the food and utensils on the living room table, adjusting the cushions on the couch so he can sit comfortably, handing him a glass of water. Yamato is about to protest, when Mitsuki brushes his hand against his fringe with a soft expression before finally leaving a chaste kiss by his temple.
It burns.
(Yamato wants more.)
“You okay?”
Yamato rolls the question around his tongue. Yes, because you’re here with me now. Yes, because you’re so kind. His mind flips the narrative. No, because I don’t deserve this kindness. No, because I can’t figure out what I did for you to love me like this.
“I hate hangovers,” Yamato says. “So, we’ll give that a soft maybe.”
Mitsuki rolls his eyes. “Make sure you take those painkillers, okay? I was thinking we could slip a bit of practice before lunch, if you’re up for it.”
“I’ll see if these old bones are still working…”
“You’re not that old, stop saying that!”
“Ehehe, I don’t know Mitsu, at this rate I may have to go into retirement early.”
“If you’re going to be this dramatic every time you drink, I’m cutting you off.”
“But who else will you drink with? Sogo-kun? Sure you want that?”
Mitsuki pales at the thought. “…Okay fine, I won’t cut you off for good. But get yourself together and eat before the soup gets cold! I worked hard on that, y’know?!”
“Right, right, your wish is my command.” A pause. Yamato stares at the meal before him, and he wonders if he’s somehow already eaten the mackerel, because it feels like a piece of fish bone is stuck in his throat. Poking. Prodding. Making him bleed from unspoken words. “Um… Mitsu?”
“Yeah?”
“…Thanks,” Yamato says, an offbeat later, hoping that that single word can somehow express the mess of thoughts tumbling around him, the mix of despair and hope and fragile affection that seems to have deeply rooted itself in his chest.
Mitsuki smiles at him in return. “You’re welcome. I love you.”
Ah.
Yamato pops the painkiller into his mouth, and swallows the I love you too he wishes he could say back.
He’ll get there one day.