Work Text:
Un poco presto e con sentimento.
[somewhat quick, with sentiment]
Brahms, Violin Sonata No. 3 in D Minor, Op. 108: III
"Haruki, catch."
A couple of weeks into their new relationship, on a morning when they'd slept in, Akihiko unceremoniously lobbed something in his direction. This exchange took place at Haruki's kitchen table, where they were finishing up a late breakfast of toast with eggs Haruki had fried alongside coffee Akihiko had poured over.
Haruki obligingly caught the projectile: it was a key, hooked onto a chain ornamented with a small, caramel-colored electric bass reminiscent of his Fujigen NeoClassic. He peered quizzically at it, and then at its source.
"I made sure it was a jazz bass," Akihiko said proudly, pointing to the tiny parallel pickups on the toy.
"Uh, thanks? It's cute—what is it?"
"It's for you."
"Yes, but what's it for, though?"
"My apartment," Akihiko said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Come over whenever you want."
Haruki gawked. "Apartment?"
"Is this so hard to understand?" Akihiko furrowed his brow. "Or am I doing something weird? It's been a while since I tried to date—"
"It's not weird at all!" Haruki hastily reassured him. "But I, um, didn't expect this. Not so soon, anyway?"
"Just hoping to make up for lost time," Akihiko said dryly. "Don't worry about giving me a key to here, by the way. That's not what this is about."
Haruki cocked his head. "What's it about, then?"
Akihiko coughed, bashfulness tinting his expression.
"It's the first apartment I've ever had, and…I want to make sure you're the first person who shares it with me. Er, not that anyone else is going to. And also...there isn't much else I can give you, even though I owe you more than I'll ever be able to repay. That's all."
Oh, Haruki thought with wonder. He really means it.
A lump came into his throat as he regarded his new possession. Where had Akihiko even found a keychain like this? It was out of the blue, like so many milestones in their acquaintance; it was a gesture of trust, an understated acknowledgement of a past transgression, and an effort to make amends, all rolled into one.
Not for the first time, he marveled at this reformed Akihiko. Or maybe he was witnessing what Akihiko had always been like under all the dubious tendencies he'd flaunted. As Uenoyama had once pointed out, Akihiko only looked like trouble. For all his rough edges, he wielded a keen sense of how to care, and he was capable of expressing, in words and deeds and sound, a sensitivity that people who never got past his piercings and apparent aloofness didn't expect from him.
It occurred to him that he'd never quite worked out what else he liked about Akihiko, beyond the primal aspects of his handsomeness and his musical gifts; this realization accompanied the sense that there was, in fact, a lot more to discover on that front.
He put the key down and headed to the top drawer of the entryway cupboard, where he retrieved the spare key he'd loaned his uninvited former housemate not so very long ago. Back at the table, he reached over to Akihiko and took his hand, putting this key in his palm and closing his fingers around it.
"Here you go. Sorry I didn't think to get you a keychain, I'll try to find a nice one."
"I said, I don't need this."
"Yeah." Haruki smiled back at the frown he'd received, keeping his hand atop Akihiko's. "But I'd still like you to have it. It's different now, right?"
"…Different?"
He passed over the leading question, which had been asked in the particular drawl he knew Akihiko knew stirred a pleasantly shivery sensation in his gut.
"Just saying, it'll be more convenient this way."
"What, for me to occupy your space again?"
"Sure, as long as you're also paying the rent."
He returned Akihiko's stare evenly. After several seconds, they both dissolved into snorts.
"I'll make better use of it this time," Akihiko said, when they'd sobered up. He slipped the key into his wallet and threaded their fingers together, bringing Haruki's hand to his lips.
*
As the spring days gradually dampened into the overcast skies of the rainy season and commenced lengthening towards the summer, their meetups eventually settled into a rough routine. This varied, aside from the infrequent studio sessions they squeezed in with Uenoyama and Mafuyu, with extra shifts at Haruki's workplace, Akihiko's violin rehearsals, Haruki's support gigs, and the other exigencies of their lives—makeup classes, an exam the next day, or, in Haruki's case, an older sibling who urgently needed babysitting help every now and then. Aside from such rogue occurrences, they generally followed this scheme: at least once a week, if Akihiko ended his day earlier, he would let himself into Haruki's place first, and vice versa. When possible, they spent the night with each other, barring any early-morning commitments.
On most days, Haruki felt like everything was too good to be true. Akihiko in relationship mode put him in mind of a large puppy who'd been starved for affection and attention, both of which he excelled at providing as demanded. For his part, he found the remnants of his former heartache being constantly salved by a myriad of communications, from LINE sticker check-ins to back hugs to a range of intimate techniques that he'd decided he didn't need to know exactly how Akihiko had acquired.
Occasionally they stayed on in the studio following a Given practice, ignoring the serene approval and brooding resignation on Mafuyu's and Uenoyama's respective faces, or they booked the rare treat of a couple's session. At such times he almost believed, riffing basslines while Akihiko bashed out polyrhythmic drum patterns with a beatific face, or spluttering as he attempted Akihiko's ideas for chord progressions that would have turned Uenoyama's hair white, that they couldn't possibly get any closer than they already were.
This didn't mean it was all smooth sailing. They soon learned, for instance, that it was best for Haruki not to stay with Akihiko when Akihiko wanted to concentrate on his music, especially since doing so drastically reduced his capacity for keeping himself or his place presentable. On Haruki's part, he also wanted space to recharge or to practice on his bass alone. But they smoothed out their minor frictions through various peace offerings, including canned beers and fastidiously fried rice; in all, he suspected he'd never been happier, and he had the sense that Akihiko felt similarly.
And yet.
At some point he started noticing that Akihiko, right after the end of a violin practice, remained in another headspace. It took him a while to go beyond monosyllabic responses, and to focus on their conversation, as if he was still miles away in that strange land of the music which, though beautiful in its own way, struck Haruki as abstruse and vaguely forbidding. Each time he marked this, it twisted his heart for a split second.
He was hard-pressed to deny that he was beginning to feel ever so slightly shut out, especially as Akihiko's rehearsal schedule gained intensity. It was a feeling that surprised him, and which he detested: he didn't see himself as possessive. But it refused to go away, as obdurate as Akihiko himself could be. It reared its ugly head after a couple of weeks where they'd failed to meet, due to Akihiko's joint rehearsals with the orchestral players he was collaborating with for his next competition.
Sometimes he wondered: Does Akihiko ever miss being with someone who gets that part of him?
Which now and then devolved into: Do they still talk?
Or, when he caved into full-blown moodiness: He actually prefers brunettes, doesn't he?
He intended never to voice any of these uncertainties. He didn't want Akihiko to think that he didn't trust him, or that he wasn't being supportive of his solo endeavors. And he had his own pride: the former disparity of their respective affections made him especially determined not to seem like he was being needy. Akihiko, he told himself, was pursuing his original passion, which could only be approved of. He seemed fully committed to the everyday discipline his violin required, above and beyond what they managed with their band, and that, along with the humility induced by the classical works he was challenging himself to play, was impossible not to admire.
Akihiko, moreover, had the right to stay in touch with whoever he wanted. As for himself, wasn't he still open to supporting other bands when invited, including his own ex-girlfriend's? Wasn't it true, too, that whoever Akihiko had dated before, and whatever they had done together, he was with him now, and that was all that mattered?
He'd noticed he wasn't sleeping well lately, but his daily life was otherwise unaffected, and this convinced him that he should simply attend to his own slate of commitments. His current concerns about Akihiko seemed so frivolous, compared to everything else he'd previously endured. He was all right. Sometimes he just had to remind himself.
*
"So how's it going with Kaji," Yatake asked him. They were catching up over yakitori, at a place they frequented that was next to the university, and they were both pleasantly buzzed after a few rounds of drinks and skewers.
"Good?"
"Is that a statement or a question?"
"Both?" He essayed an aura of cheerfulness, polishing off the last of the chicken meatballs.
Yatake raised a brow. "What's the questionable part?"
"It's not a big deal." He took a gulp of his lemon sour, and Yatake threw him another long-suffering glance.
"You're a lousy liar, you know. Is anything else keeping you so distracted you're forgetting to charge your phone?"
"My bad, sorry I didn't get your messages earlier, but everything's fine, seriously."
"Then stop looking like you did when you asked me to cut your hair."
Haruki straightened in consternation. "What? Do I really—"
"Nah," Yatake said, grinning at Haruki's pout as he dropped a used skewer into the bamboo holder. His phone dinged out a sudden notification, and he checked the message that had arrived; glanced at Haruki, who was absorbed in chewing his grilled shiitake, sighed to himself, and tapped out a reply before shoving the phone back into his pocket.
"Is Kaji acting up again? I probably stand zero chance in a fight, but if it's just yelling at him, since you probably won't—"
"Don't," Haruki laughed. "That'd be too much work, even for you…" He paused, smiling. "Thanks."
"What's eating you, then?"
"Oh, for—" Haruki drained the rest of his sour, thunking the glass down, and raked a hand through his hair.
"…Sometimes I just wonder if he misses his ex, OK?"
"What's that ass doing to make you think so?"
"Nothing, honestly. He just plays his violin all the time. Like he's probably doing right now. I mean, he also does the other stuff he has to, so that's not a problem. Except—I mentioned who he last dated, right?"
"Right. That big shot violinist. Well…do you wish you also played classical music?"
Haruki gave him a wry smile. "No? But maybe that's not too far off. Anyway, not a big deal, right?"
"Whether or not it's a big deal, I can't say," Yatake shrugged. The final plate of the skewers they'd ordered was deposited on the countertop above their seats, and he reached up to retrieve it, bobbing his thanks to the cook as he did so. "Some people do need partners who live in the exact same world as them. Kaji doesn't strike me as that type, though."
"He's not," Haruki agreed. "I just worry…about...keeping his attention, I guess? Sometimes it still feels unreal that we're actually going out. Ugh, I sound so, so..."
"Lovesick."
"Take-chan, you're not helping."
"I have told you to dump him, which I still think would solve all your problems, but it's not like you've ever listened to my opinions on Kaji." Yatake glanced sideways at him while finishing a stick of quail eggs, which he washed down with the last of his highball. "As much as I hate to admit it, though, he does seem like he's made some progress. Why not talk to him if you're worried?"
"I can't," Haruki wailed. "How uncool would that make me look?"
"Compared to him leading you on for years and mooching off of you for months? Hardly."
Haruki buried his face in his hands, mumbling incoherently, and Yatake sighed again, slinging an arm around his shoulders.
"Want another drink?"
He broke off as the restaurant's doorbell jingled, precipitating a chorus of welcomes from the staff that drowned out Haruki's noncommittal moan.
"…Cheer up, Haruki."
"Nrgh."
"You like to think yourself into corners, that's the problem. Don't compare yourself to someone you've never even met."
"Mmf."
"Recently my girlfriend's been huffy about my jam sessions, too, but it's kind of cute when your significant other gets a bit jealous of your hobby. Isn't it, Kaji?"
Haruki blinked as he registered the last two syllables. Then he jerked bolt upright, dislodging Yatake's arm. Akihiko, violin case slung over his back, was gazing down at them with an unreadable expression.
Yatake adjusted his glasses, placed a few bills on the table, and stood up.
"I'll be off, then," he announced, giving Haruki's shoulder a parting pat. "Kaji, help yourself to the rest of the food."
"Much obliged," Akihiko said, his tone channeling a different set of sentiments.
*
Today he'd hit a snag with the present movement of the current piece he was preparing—a roadblock he'd laid for himself, his professor had unhelpfully pointed out, given how he'd opted to perform a Beethoven sonata whose difficulty lay just beyond what his current technique could execute. Amid his frustration, he'd heard Ugetsu in his mind, saying, as he'd done in their distant past, always so impatient, shaking his head and laughing. Aki, you already know it doesn't happen overnight.
It was a measure of progress, he thought, that these memories now stirred only the faintest of twinges. There was no proof that Ugetsu had meant to be disparaging, was there? That was simply how he'd chosen to hear him. He didn't have to give up, as he'd previously believed. He just had to keep getting better.
When he felt like snapping his bow in half, he settled for hurling the score across the room, after which he made himself take deep breaths and remember how Haruki had held out the drumsticks he'd dropped before they'd gone on stage: go on, pull yourself together.
Sometimes, he'd learned, that included knowing when to stop. So he'd called it a day, and as this had occurred earlier than he'd anticipated, he'd messaged Haruki to see if he was free. Uncharacteristically and worryingly, given that Haruki usually replied within minutes, there had been no response, as well as no Read marking next to his texts.
On a hunch, he'd reluctantly turned to messaging Yatake, just in case, which had yielded the following news: Haruki's phone died. At the yakitori place. Come if you want to meet him, we'll be done soon.
Now he'd arrived at said place, where he'd ordered extra food. Yatake, like a textbook sempai, had left more money than necessary, and he was hungry enough not to be above using it. He wasn't above wanting to see Haruki squirm a little longer either—who'd asked him not to charge his phone?—patently torn between embarrassment about Akihiko having overheard the tail-end of a conversation that had clearly involved him and not wanting to admit as much, at least not in public.
In truth, he was also deeply and irrationally irked that Yatake had, indeed, not only known where Haruki was but had also been with him. It was equally trying to sit in the chair Yatake had just vacated, and even more so the memory of Yatake's arm wrapped around Haruki's shoulders—which, he warned himself, was a perfectly normal thing for an old friend to do, even if they had maybe been ever slightly too close for his personal comfort. An old and a best friend, moreover, who he intuited was in on the circumstances prior to Haruki dating him. Haruki had never said where he'd gone to get his hair cut in the wake of their first terrible night together, but it was clear that the salon where his stylist buddy worked hadn't been open before dawn.
After he'd cornered Haruki into providing him with an interim refuge, Yatake's attitude towards him, never enthusiastic to begin with, had iced into a curt reservedness when they'd bumped into each other. It was as if he'd kept tight rein on saying things to him they both knew would have been true, justified, and also pointless, given Haruki's insistence on acting as if nothing was wrong. That decorum had jarred him: Yatake's refusal to lash out, he knew, had been entirely for Haruki's sake, and it had been yet another demonstration of how someone who was Haruki's equal in goodness behaved.
As if all that wasn't bad enough, he knew it behooved him to be grateful to Yatake. Not only for being the core of Haruki's emotional support, but also for having been the first supporter and prime enabler of their band: the real big brother, in fact, with his social connections and the other resources of an adult who'd landed a full-time job. They'd needed him to get their start, and they'd probably still depend on his being there in future.
None of that made him feel any better about someone knowing Haruki in a way he never would, and their having Haruki's trust to a degree he knew he hadn't yet earned, as much as he was trying to.
"Do you want to order anything else?" Haruki asked, meekly. "I'll wait."
"No," he said, tossing the last of his skewers into the holder. "Let's go."
*
He brought them back on his motorcycle to his penthouse, which remained the technical term for the concrete box he lived in atop an apartment building. In a stroke of fortune, he'd been moved to tidy up last night, after a long hunt for one of his piercings that had eventually turned up underneath a pile of old scores: that, at least, he'd done right.
Having locked the door and divested himself of his violin case, he went straight to Haruki and yanked him into a hug so crushing that Haruki squeaked in protest.
"Akihiko, let up…I can't breathe!"
"Promise me, then."
"Wh-what?"
"That from next time onwards you'll come to me before Take-san if something's bugging you!"
"Fine," Haruki gasped, and he loosened his grip. "I'm sorry! I'm not hiding anything—"
"Like I'm going to believe that? What's this about being jealous of my hobby? Or comparing yourself? He meant the violin, didn't he? And with whom, anyway, if you've never met them? No, don't tell me—Ugetsu? Is that it?"
"Hold up," Haruki pleaded, gently but firmly pushing him away. "Can we sit down first?"
Keeping hold of Haruki's hand, he dragged them to the low table, where he seated Haruki on his one chair and plonked to the floor on the other side, grimly noting Haruki's studiously averted gaze.
"Tell me what I need to fix," he said, when the silence had passed ten beats. "Otherwise I won't know what to apologize for."
Haruki exuded a mashup of a sigh and a groan.
"Nothing. You're not doing anything wrong."
"Then tell me what you're worrying about. Do you really think I haven't noticed something's on your mind? I've just been waiting for you to bring it up."
He watched Haruki mentally cycle through options for what to say, uncertainty shadowing his face, and thought, yet again, how easy it was for people to miss this side of him. At first he seemed all sunshine and sweetness, but the closer you got the more you saw how easily his horizon gathered clouds of self-deprecation and anxiety. He had every kindness that endeared him to others, but his social energy tank drained fast, and he tended to fade under the spotlight. On stage he opted to facilitate everyone else's showiness, which was why he had no shortage of other musicians seeking his services as a bassist. And that was a good thing, Akihiko had to remind himself, no matter how complicated it personally made him feel.
It wasn't that Haruki lacked confidence, exactly, but he tended to swing between brightness and melancholy, in the manner of a melodic minor scale. When the shadows darkened without apparent cause, it made him want to grab Haruki by the shoulders and holler: snap out of it, when will you get how fucking amazing you are? But he knew, aside from affirmations, that there was only so much anyone else could do.
As Haruki's hesitation persisted, he decided to try something else. An idea had just come to him, and there didn't seem any reason not to run with it. If Haruki didn't want to talk, or didn't know how, then he could be given a way to respond.
He got to his feet and went to retrieve his violin, leaving its bow behind. Haruki observed him in astonishment.
"Are you going to play something?"
"Nope," he said, holding the instrument out to him. "Here, hold it."
"Wha—huh?"
"Take a look. You've never seen it up close, have you?"
Haruki's brow remained deeply furrowed, but he refrained from questioning Akihiko's sanity. He gingerly took the violin by its neck with his left hand, supporting its base with his right, and brought it onto his lap, running his fingertips over its glossy contours with reluctant curiosity.
Akihiko, looking at him, caught his breath. He hadn't anticipated that letting Haruki do this would give him butterflies, but it did. It felt like a part of him that, long-suppressed and recently revived, had grown extra sensitive to being touched. This violin, after all, was an extension of him in a way that the drums or the other instruments he knew would never be.
"See how it sounds," he suggested.
Haruki aimed a Look at him that said when will this end, but he complied, plucking the strings from left to right so each note twanged out softly.
"Good, it's still tuned," he said cheerfully. "You hear how it goes G-D-A-E, right? The reverse of a bass. Violins don't have frets, obviously, so they're pretty different from basses, plus they're tuned in fifths, not fourths, but I've always liked how your Fujigen shows its wood grain, and—"
"That's all great, but I'd really like some help with understanding what we're trying to do here?"
He exhaled, gripping Haruki's shoulders.
"Pretty much every time I play this thing you're holding," he said, tamping down on the shyness assailing him, "I think of you."
Haruki stared in disbelief.
"You're lying."
"I'm not."
"W-why, though?" Haruki stuttered, pink rising in his cheeks. "It's your ex—I mean, I'm not involved—"
"Ahem," he cut in, clearing his throat with ferocity. "Did you forget what I said when I asked you to date me?"
"Er, ah…what?"
He sighed. "About why I decided to change my life? Including why I'm being serious about the violin again."
Haruki slowly released a small, befuddled sound, his eyes widening. It was, Akihiko thought, unreasonably cute, in the unwitting way that only Haruki could pull off. Probably he would have put his face in his hands if they hadn't been full.
He reached down and gently took his violin back.
"I've never let Ugetsu touch this," he began, cradling the instrument as he sat cross-legged at Haruki's feet. "He's never tried to, either, just like I've never touched his. Well, once he did ask me if I wanted to try playing his, which incidentally costs some tens of thousands of dollars for the violin alone, but I said no. He trusted me that much—he was just trying to get closer. But I couldn't do it. At the time I was even mad that he offered, because I thought he was mocking me. I knew I'd never sound anything like him, no matter how I tried, and it just killed me. Made me a total mess. Made him a pain I couldn't quit. That's how badly I idolized his music. But I thought, at least if I quit pursuing the violin, I'd solve the problem…"
Haruki nodded, though he still looked stunned, and put a quiet hand on his shoulder. He smiled up at him, absently picking out a short pizzicato riff.
"That didn't work, obviously. And if you hadn't found me, if I hadn't fallen for you, I might never have seen daylight. Haru, can you imagine how incredible that is to me? You freed me from the prison I was letting myself rot in. Or maybe it's more that you made me want to tear it down…look, I don't play my violin the way I used to, because I've become a different person. In the first place, I started playing it long before I ever met Ugetsu. Trust me, we don't even like the same composers. My being able to love this part of me again, now? Being able to forgive Ugetsu, and myself, for how we hurt each other? None of that's got anything to do with him. But you—it's got everything to do with you."
He took the hand on his shoulder, nuzzling his face into the firm, broad warmth of its palm.
"I think about that all the time…you have no idea how grateful I am."
He'd heard his voice crack, and he shut his eyes to clear the mist blooming on them. At length he registered that he was being drawn, along with his violin, into a careful embrace, where Haruki's lips brushed across his forehead, his eyelids, and the piercings on his left ear. He found himself tremoring, along with the light, low voice so dear to him, as it murmured a string of syllables that sounded exactly like I love you, Aki.
It's true, he thought. He'd already known that, of course; it wasn't as if Haruki had ever been able to hide his feelings. But he now understood all that those words implied, and how much more he wanted to give in return. Hearing them expressed aloud, like a passage of notes being sounded for the first time, made him keep his eyes closed as he sat very still, savoring their echo with a heart threatening to spill over.
"Let me get my bow," he said on recovering himself, and pressed a kiss to Haruki's cheek. "I do want to play something, actually. It's a piece I'm composing for you."
*
It hadn't taken him long to adapt to living amid the wind tunnels and the rumble of highway traffic that surrounded this standalone apartment, which diminished just enough to permit sleeping at night. The place, which could easily have served as a storeroom, had nothing in common with Ugetsu's plush cavern of a basement other than the luxury of uninhibited sound-making. But he found the distant roar of heavy vehicles oddly comforting, particularly at this moment.
He hadn't expected to be doing this, like his inadvertent confession earlier this spring, and in much the same way, he was running on sheer momentum. So he applied rosin to his bow and hit his tuning fork against his elbow to check his strings, though his violin currently required neither operation. When he'd exhausted his options for stalling, he glanced up at Haruki, now perched on the side of the bed that doubled as a makeshift sofa, and tentatively returned the soft, expectant smile he received.
Taking one long breath, followed by another, he positioned his fingers on the strings and lifted his bow.
Every detail of that hike home to your place, etched fast and brilliant on my mind —
Do you remember?
Autumn's knocking on the door, going by the calendar, but the weather isn't listening. We trek through the tender night into the edge of another burning day, you complaining about your shirt sticking to your back under your instrument case. Yet you're smiling, like an invitation for me to keep my eyes on you. Our efforts are compensated with other pleasures; we're alone, with the orange and coral illuminations in the sky, the fat vermillion dragonflies flitting over our path, the fridge-cold foam bubbling out of the canned beers we make a detour to buy. It's magic. Just for the two of us.
We talk about anything and nothing at all, as if our flow from the past hours of jamming together has resolved, at least for now, the discord of our recent interactions; as if we're weaving counterpoints in perfect sync. I'm still looking at you, at how the light reflected by the river shines off your hair. At one juncture, I succeed in making you laugh so hard you toss your head back, the ripples of your amusement high and clear and sweet. For a moment the sheer loveliness of it all pins my feet to the earth.
If only, if only, if only —
I want us to keep walking forever, and I silently curse every stretch that brings us closer to our destination. But it's after we return to the shelter you've granted me, where the morning sun falls golden across the sweat on your brow and the stretch of your throat, that everything coalesces into clarity. I'm alive. I'm living, in a way I didn't know I could. Because you're here. Because you're beautiful, in a way I don't have words to describe. And I need you, I need you, in the way I do air, or water, or music itself.
It's that simple. It daunts me. It's terrifying, and it makes me hope.
He drew his bow down to its tip across the strings of the last chord he'd improvised, and slowly lowered it, battling the sense of being utterly exposed by what he'd just tried. Admittedly, he was a novice at composition, and this first, short piece had so much room for refinement. He felt, nonetheless, like its basic form and intent had been secured. Fantasia for springtime in summer, he was thinking of calling it; something that pointed towards rebirth and ripening days, waiting in all their latent promise.
But maybe this was another thing he'd rushed. It was entirely possible that it was still far too rough, and nowhere in the vicinity of a listener, even this most vital one, being able to hear any of the emotions animating it, especially with the acoustics of this place—
"You're too much," Haruki choked out, his voice further muffled by his sleeves. "Do you always have to make me cry?"
He chuckled through a wave of relief, embarrassed and pleased at once. Then he placed his violin and bow on the table and went to sit beside Haruki, wrapping an arm around him and snuggling his head onto his shoulder as he waited for him to stop sniffling.
"It's just a draft, you know," he said, twirling a lock of Haruki's hair around his finger. "I'm still working on it. Brace yourself for the real thing, whenever it's done."
Haruki blew his nose and shifted to gaze up at him, in a way that suggested they'd be awake for a good part of the remaining night.
"…I'm staying over, OK?"
"Duh," he said, tightening his grip on Haruki's waist. "As if I'd let you go anywhere."
Zart und mit Ausdruck.
[tender and with expression]
R. Schumann, "Fantasiestücke," Op. 73: I