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“Yes, that was the last time I drank root beer, wasn’t it?” Tatsumi prattles on in his smooth, angelic voice, but Mayoi, who he has somehow chosen as his confidant, cannot concentrate on a single word coming out of his mouth. A lowly worm such as him ought to be paying more attention, to revel in what little holy light he is given, but there’s an issue: Tatsumi’s hand is holding onto his.
They’re at Cinnamon, where they often meet on Monday afternoons—Hiiro and Aira are both in sports clubs, so they have a much more active extracurricular schedule than Mayoi does; what with his Chieftain’s other responsibilities, the Ninja Association’s meetings are sparse—Tatsumi orders a different tea every time, and Mayoi doesn’t remember what he ordered. It’s hard to remember anything, think anything, when Mayoi’s hand had unwittingly found itself on the table, and Tatsumi, likely by accident, put his hand atop Mayoi’s.
Tatsumi’s hands are bigger than Mayoi’s, and they’re cold ( coldhandswarmheartcoldhandswarmheartcoldhandswarmheart ), but quickly warm up in the places that he touches Mayoi’s gloves. Mayoi feels too unworthy to thank God he’s wearing gloves, but it feels like nothing other than divine intervention, a holy miracle, a thousand times Amen that he’s not actually experiencing skin-to-skin contact with Tatsumi in this moment. It shouldn’t be allowed to happen, his skin would burn, Tatsumi’s big, sturdy, comforting hands—grounding him like an anchor in the tumultuous stormy sea of Mayoi’s world—would be sullied.
“Mayoi-san? Are you alright?”
Mayoi shrieks a bit as he snaps out of his doomspiral. Tatsumi wiggles a bit in his chair to draw even closer to Mayoi across from him, and adjusts his hand. It is worse now. Tatsumi’s fingers are under Mayoi’s, holding his hand aloft as if it were some piece of priceless jewelry on a fancy satin pillow, and his thumb runs soothing circles over Mayoi’s bony knuckles.
“I– I–” Mayoi sputters, before steeling himself to inform Tatsumi of the terrible accident he has made. “…Tatsumi-saaan, I must inform you that you are h- hhh- holding my hand!!”
Tatsumi smiles, the way he always does, with his eyes fully closed and peaceful like a corpse and a smile that looks like it came straight off the Mona Lisa, beguiling and bewitching, yet noble, unassailable, lovely.
Mayoi suddenly flashes back to the time Tatsumi called him lovely. It rings in his head like chronic tinnitus would after being caught in an IED.
His smile doesn’t falter at all, not like it should when he’s just been informed of contact with an unclean person. “I am aware I am holding your hand, Mayoi-san. Is it bothering you? Are you uncomfortable?”
“Aren’t you?!”
“No, of course not. I quite like this feeling. Your hands are so warm and delicate. I feel as though I could put an egg in them and it would surely hatch.”
“No, no, I would definitely drop the egg, I couldn’t handle bringing life into this world!”
“Really? Baby chicks are so small and innocent, I can’t imagine Mayoi-san passing up the chance to hold one.”
“But– But I can’t hatch one! Something that’s imprinted on me as its mother would surely be doomed!!”
“I don’t think that’s true. You are such a diligent and nurturing soul. You would do excellently as a baby bird’s mother.” Tatsumi pries his gaze away from Mayoi for a single moment—not enough time for Mayoi to catch his breath, but he’ll take any reprieve he can get at this point, however brief. “I must admit, lately, I often find myself jealous of how much attention you pay to those who are small and vulnerable. It’s a laudable pastime— blessed are the meek, after all—but, well…” He chuckles softly. “Add envy to my long list of sins, I suppose.”
Mayoi tries to process what Tatsumi has just said. Between him making direct eye contact and the whole (purposeful?!) hand-holding thing, it is getting harder and harder for Mayoi to string together a coherent thought of his own, much less comprehend another’s.
But Tatsumi is a truly wonderful person, and he deserves to get what he is asking for. Mayoi gulps, not intending to do so multiple times but being unable to stop himself, before finally answering. “I understand. It will p- pain me to relinquish quality time with Shinobu-kyun, but you deserve his company more than I do.”
Tatsumi laughs. Why is he laughing??? “Mayoi-san, I apologize for not making it clearer.” Tatsumi grabs Mayoi’s other hand from underneath the table, holding both so securely and steadily, despite the fact that Mayoi’s corrosive aura should be making that very difficult. Mayoi is constantly in awe—even as Tatsumi confesses his sins, he is still a bulwark of holy untouchability. Sainthood incarnate no matter his past. “I want you to pay more attention to me. ”
There is real ringing in Mayoi’s ears now, scoring the scene of Tatsumi and the rest of the cafe beginning to blur and spin, spots in his vision growing until—
—
When Mayoi comes to, he is in an even more compromising position than when he last left off. He looks up at Tatsumi, concern written in his sweet lavender eyes as fluorescent lights above serve as a halo, before doing the math on the angle from which he is viewing him, discovering with shock that Tatsumi has seen fit to put Mayoi’s head on his lap.
There is something cold in Mayoi’s hands, cold and wet, and he imagines it's his own heart, having been unable to handle existing in such a filthy body, gained sentience and clawed itself out of his ribcage, before dying and running cold and hard, full rigor in his hands.
He peeks down to inspect the fetid and black organ, but it’s just a juicebox. Grape, with a little sticky note on it that says “ On the house Please don’t faint in my cafe I’m worried about you –Niki”
Mayoi is in Hell. Everyone being so kind and attentive to him is surely a form of eternal torment.
“Mayoi-san?” Mayoi looks up. No, it can’t be Hell, Tatsumi’s here. He’s holy enough that a devil couldn’t take his form.
Tatsumi brushes a lock of hair out of Mayoi’s face. “I apologize for overwhelming you. I was too forward.”
Mayoi shakes his head as well as he can when it’s fit snugly (Like a glove!) between Tatsumi’s thighs. “Aaaahhh, no, it’s fine, it’s fine, really, it’s my fault.”
“It’s not your fault at all. I know you, Mayoi-san, and with that knowledge, I promised myself I would be courteous to you, take it slow and be subtle, yet, I couldn’t help myself.”
“But it’s my fault for being so weak!! Also, how can you call putting my head on your lap taking it slow!?”
Tatsumi grins. “How rare of you to be so cheeky. I just thought, since you often look at me while Aira’s sleeping on my lap… Or, well, I guess you were looking at Aira. He is rather adorable when he sleeps.” The grin stays on his face, but his eyes drop, resigned. “Perhaps it was just wishful thinking on my part.”
Mayoi darts up, ignoring the wave of unsteadiness that washes over his brain as he goes from laying to sitting in a single second. “No! T– T– Tatsumi-san, you’re wrong!”
Hope alights in Tatsumi’s eyes as he tries to meet Mayoi’s gaze. He shrieks. “Please don’t make direct eye contact right at this moment!!”
He lowers his head, eyes down, returning his focus to Mayoi’s hands. He motions to grab one, and, tentatively, Mayoi lets him take it.
Mayoi doesn’t know how to feel about all of this. Tatsumi always talks about Mayoi like he’s his wife, calling him indispensable as a partner and confidant, saying he’s lovely (lovelylovelylovelylovelylovely), occasionally bringing him a flower, calling Hiiro and Aira the kids and our boys .
(Once, right after they had moved into Seisoukan proper, Mayoi was casing the ventilation system when he realized he was above Tatsumi’s room. Both him and his roommate were sleeping. Mayoi decided he’d hop down, check on Tatsumi, and try to begin paying him back for all the help he’d received the past month or so.
(And then the dog started barking. It began running in little, fat circles around where he’d landed, which was terrifying, Mayoi began hyperventilating, but Leon is also a really cute dog, corgis have those tiny little legs, stubby little tails, but their faces are still— Anyway, Tatsumi and his roommate both woke up, the roommate yelled at him a bit, and maybe growled? Which was as confusing to Mayoi as being both terrified and mollified by that guy’s dog. While half-asleep and escorting Mayoi back to his own dorm, Tatsumi had called him “my dear.” He had said, “Please, never do that again, my dear, I cannot afford to lose you to Leon’s wrath,” before bursting into drowsy giggles and starting to quote from Revelation .)
There is a lot of evidence that Tatsumi likes him. But Mayoi can’t ever seem to accept it. Never understand why . And without that first piece, that first step of admitting you have a problem (Not that Tatsumi has ever been a problem!! He’s amazing! Carried Mayoi in his arms even with his bad leg! Oh no, he carried Mayoi in his arms—Bridal Style! That was part of it!!), he can’t figure out what to do about it. Does Mayoi feel the same? Would he even want to go through all the stress of being– Of being–Mayoi can’t even admit to himself what it would be, as if even saying the word would invoke something awful, as if even thinking something so patently unattainable would cause him to be struck down on the spot, smote by Tatsumi’s God, or worse—have scored of plagues visited upon him, a hyper-localized apocalypse centered on him and him alone.
But Tatsumi wants it, he said as much, and Tatsumi is Good, so how could he be wrong? Why would he defy God and– and– that a walking Old Testament parable?
Mayoi tips over against Tatsumi, letting gravity do its bidding, letting his face be buried in the crook of Tatsumi’s neck, inhaling shakily before taking this leap of faith, vomiting his answer out as if it could kill him if it stayed lodged in his throat a second longer. “I’msorryifyougetstruckbylightningbecauseofmebutifyoureallywantitI’llbeyourwife!!”
Tatsumi’s hands go up and find Mayoi’s back, holding him steady, rubbing little circles between his shoulder blades. It’s nice. It feels very, very wrong, but it’s nice. “Hm? I’m a bit lost on the lightning part, but I would very much like you to be my wife, Mayoi.”
Mayoi screams, muffled by the warm wool of Tatsumi’s sweater.
Mayoi can’t see anything, and he would rather go blind than look at anything right now, least of all Tatsumi, but he hears footsteps come from behind the cafe counter.
“In the kitchen I heard what sounded like Mayo-chan’s muffled screaming? Should I call an ambulance or something?” It’s Niki.
“No,” answers Tatsumi, holding Mayoi a little tighter, a little more possessive. “He’s fine.” Tatsumi’s other hand starts carding through Mayoi’s hair.
Niki sounds unsure. “Okay, but no funny business, alright? I won’t hesitate to add a new rule to the board if you’re somehow torturing Mayo-chan.”
Mayoi’s gut reaction is to call this torture, being held like this, being courted so openly, being paid positive attention—it’s so nerve-wracking he wouldn’t be surprised if his entire nervous system burst out of him, unsheathing itself from his sinful flesh, following his heart in its escape. But he can’t let himself actually think that for real. Neither of them have been turned into pillars of salt yet, which is a good sign. And if Tatsumi’s very sure he wants such a horrible wife, then Mayoi doesn’t want to disappoint him. He’ll probably end up doing so anyway, and then Mayoi will be alone again, and order will return to the world.
But he’s an abomination anyway, existing in defiance of any righteous divine authority, so maybe he and Tatsumi can defy God together for a little while?
It doesn’t sound that bad.