Work Text:
Sometimes Yuuji thinks about fate.
He doesn't believe in it, he never did. For him, life is made of accidents, many little decisions that could have been taken otherwise. For every smallest event there are a lot of what-ifs, alternate options, many possibilities, good or bad, that could only be seen in retrospect.
But when he thinks about Junpei, he understands why some people choose to believe in fate. It would be easier to decide that it was not Junpei's time to die during the Satozakura High incident, that his survival was a sure thing, than to think about how fragile the probability of it was. A single step in a wrong direction, a single second wasted, and Junpei would have only remained a vague memory, a hopeless list of things that would never have been, a pile of clothes on the dirty floor for Yuuji to hug and weep into. When he thinks about it, it scares him: as if the reality where Junpei is here, safe—as safe as a jujutsu sorcerer can be—might shatter at any moment.
On the night after the incident, he sneaked into Junpei's bed. Nanami told him to have a good sleep which his body needed so much, but he knew he wouldn't be able to. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the danger they'd been a mere inch away from, the inevitable that they'd somehow managed to avoid, and under his eyelids, the worst case scenarios began to bloom, developing with the brightness of a colorful horror movie. The reality was suddenly unreal, and he needed a solid proof that the bad things were over and the worst hadn't happened at all.
He remembers each of his movements being cautious, exploratory—always ready to jump back at the slightest sign of Junpei's discomfort. He held his hand, gently, like it was made from ice that would melt if he squeezed too tight. He meant to give comfort, to soothe, but at the same time he was the one that needed reassurance that the morning would come and Junpei would still be here, alive and whole, even though not the same as yesterday. Junpei slept that night, his body too exhausted and eager to give in to at least a couple of hours of blankness; Yuuji watched.
He doesn't know when looking at Junpei stopped being simply about watching over him and started to be about watching him.
(In the same way, he doesn't know when holding his hands stopped being only about comfort and reassurance and started to be simply about touching, feeling the skin hardened by scratches, the thin fingers, the coolness against his warmth. Junpei's hands are always cold unless he holds them.)
There are dark days—Yuuji doesn't expect anything else. So he doesn't take it much to heart when he learns that, on the days like these, Junpei is very able to hurt him, to find just the right words to wound him where it hurts the most. Yuuji understands, but even though he's supposed to be immune to poison, this kind of poison does intoxicate him, and it takes him long to recover.
But every time, Junpei inevitably comes back to him, all his bitterness gone, leaving him dry and worn-out, small and talking so quietly as if he was merely breathing, apologizing so heart-wrenchingly that Yuuji doesn't think much before holding him—his hand over Junpei's head, like comforting a heart-broken child—and he thinks that, even if Junpei stabs him in the back right now, he'll forgive him, if it means that Junpei will feel better.
But as much as Junpei is full of darkness, he is also full of light, and this light shines from behind his eyes when he listens to Yuuji ramble about something, smiling at him with the gentleness that makes Yuuji act stupid on purpose to make this smile stay, or when he manages to make him laugh, always with his hand covering his mouth—but Yuuji doesn't mind, because he knows Junpei can't hide his loveliness despite his best efforts. But it's when he talks about something himself that he illuminates—when there's someone who's willing to listen to him, whether it's Yuuji or anyone else, and he talks, eagerly, passionately, glowing, his cheeks coloring, and Yuuji finds himself staring, forgetting to listen because the sight is too incredible. But it always ends too soon—there's a pause, or a stutter, something that breaks the flow, and all the anxieties and self-awareness that Junpei is carrying on his shoulders return to him, pull him back, and Yuuji doesn't know how to tell him how much this breaks his heart.
But slowly, it gets better. It does.
The first time Junpei lets him touch his hair is after they come home from the pouring rain. Yuuji borrows Kugisaki's hairdryer—borrows is a strong word, though, because she doesn't know about it yet—and comes to Junpei's room with it, saying something about not wanting him to catch a cold. He sits on the bed, with Junpei on the floor between his legs, and runs his fingers through his hair, untangling it, feeling as it dries in his hands. The air from the hairdryer scorches his hands, but he hopes it means that Junpei feels warm.
The first time they kiss is in the darkness of Yuuji's room, on his unmade bed. Junpei is just a shadow against the window, his cold fingers, the contour of his collarbone, the pulse beating in his neck are more real than anything else—and then his lips, soft and warm and uncertain. Yuuji holds his head, covering it with small kisses, and once again, somewhere at the back of his mind, he thinks he understands even better why some people believe in fate.
He doesn't know when healing starts. Maybe there is no correct answer.
But when Yuuji thinks about this, he always remembers the time when he noticed that Junpei's hair was starting to grow long—very soon it would be so long that it won't be able to hide the scars on his forehead. But when Yuuji tells him this, reaching out to tuck a strand behind Junpei's ear, the answer is a shrug, and then— "I don't care."