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Kiyoi yawns, looking around the room. It’s still dark out, only street lights sending their artificial glow in through the windows, and he takes stock to figure out what woke him. He doesn’t need to pee. No pins and needles anywhere, so he didn’t sleep in an uncomfortable position. He didn’t have a nightmare, he’s pretty sure. And Hira —
Ah. There it is. Hira’s side of the bed is empty. The sheets are warm to the touch, though, so he can’t have been gone for long. Yawning again, Kiyoi blinks a few times to get used to the low light, then looks around the room, but he doesn’t see Hira.
He frowns. Hira must have gone somewhere else in the house, then. Kiyoi has a hard time falling asleep without him, and so he’ll have to go get up and conduct a search. It’s annoying, but ever since the incident with Anna’s stalker, Kiyoi much prefers knowing about Hira’s whereabouts at all times. Part of it is some stupid leftover fear and the fact that he feels safest if Hira’s near, the other is concern something might happen to Hira. He never wants to land in a situation again that leaves him holding vigil over an unconscious Hira in a hospital room. Fear of loss and PTSD, the counselor the studio assigned him had said. Kiyoi doesn’t care what it’s called.
The fact remains: Hira’s not in his line of sight, and so Kiyoi’s got to find him.
He throws the blanket aside and gets up, shuffling towards the hallway in too-old, squeaky house slippers. They used to be Hira’s, but Kiyoi took ownership of them.
He’s headed for the kitchen — Hira sometimes cooks or bakes when he's nervous — but a light from the front hallway leads him astray.
And sure enough, there’s Hira, sitting cross-legged on the floor and staring at the door.
Kiyoi gently says his name. Hira flinches anyway, but he recovers quickly and turns around to smile at Kiyoi. It looks a little unhinged, even by Hira’s standards. Plus, from this angle, Kiyoi can see the large meat tenderizer laying in Hira’s lap, one of Hira’s hands white-knuckling the handle.
“What are you doing?” Kiyoi asks. He indicates the hallway at large, then nods towards the kitchen tool in Hira’s grip in particular. “It’s…” He squints at the clock above the door. “Gosh, it’s 3:15 AM.”
Hira averts his eyes, face half-turned, his gaze trained to the floor. “I’m making sure no one gets into the house.”
Brain not yet firing on all cylinders, mere minutes after waking up, Kiyoi finds himself utterly confused by that answer. “Why? Is the lock broken?”
Hira slowly turns back to him. “The lock is fine,” he says, his tone more fitting for a conversation in a life-or-death situation.
He looks a bit haunted, too, and a bit haggard. He hasn’t eaten much since he got out of the hospital, which Kiyoi blamed on him still feeling under the weather, but now the puzzle pieces fall into place. “Hira,” he says, mentally kicking himself for being a bit slow on the uptake. “We’re safe here. Nothing will happen to us, I promise.”
Hira looks unconvinced. “I’ve got to make sure you’re safe,” he insists. “No one can hurt Kiyoi.”
“The house is registered under your parent’s names,” Kiyoi argues.”No one but our friends and family even know that we live here together.”
“No one can hurt Kiyoi,” Hira repeats. His voice breaks on Kiyoi’s name. His eyes are watery.
Sensing that logic won’t get the job done, Kiyoi changes tactics. “Please, Hira,” he pleads. “Come back to bed with me.”
The way Hira purses his lips, fingernails scraping the wooden handle of the tenderizer in thought, tells Kiyoi he’s on the right track.
“I can’t fall asleep without you there to protect me,” he says, looking up at Hira from under his lashes. “Please.”
It’s not technically a lie, hardly even an exaggeration, though he will admit that the delivery is a tad on the dramatic side. But that’s fine; Hira needs unambiguous cues. And it’s working: his lips wobble, and he sends a final worried glance towards the door, but Hira sets the tenderizer aside and pushes himself to his feet.
Kiyoi gets up as well, taking the kitchen tool into his custody as he rises, just in case. He’ll hide it on their way to the bedroom somewhere and put it back in the morning.
He walks back to the bedroom behind Hira, one hand hovering over the small of Hira’s back, but never settling. Hira climbs back into bed first and holds the blanket up for him. They lay side by side initially, but it’s not enough, not tonight, and so Kiyoi turns around and burrows into Hira’s arms. He hides in the warmth Hira gives him, the physical assurance that they’re together. And he still wants more; he lifts his head and noses at Hira’s arm until the latter understands and leans down.
They kiss. It’s slow, not geared towards sex. Kiyoi just wants the added closeness of tasting Hira, breathing together, here in their bed, a small bubble of safety and happiness that’s only for the two of them.
When they part, Kiyoi is pleasantly out of breath. He smiles up at Hira, and Hira smiles back.
But there’s still something gnawing at him. Kiyoi is not a man of many words — if he was, things between him and Hira would be easier — but now there’s something he needs to say out loud.
Kiyoi wraps his arm around Hira’s neck to keep him from escaping in embarrassment and takes a deep breath. “I need you to tell me when you get afraid,” he says, quickly, so he can’t think twice about it. “Just wake me up next time, yeah?”
“I can’t burden Kiyoi with — “ he starts, predictably, but Kiyoi shakes his head with vigor and stares him down until he frowns and nods, signaling that won’t interrupt again. .
“As I said,” Kiyoi continues. “Please, Hira, tell me when you’re afraid. Let me help.” He pauses, for emphasis, to really let it sink in, before he closes with, “I worry about you, too, you know.”
Hira’s lips curve up into that shy yet beaming little smile he does whenever he’s met with the undeniable fact that Kiyoi loves him back. It’s adorable and a little annoying, mostly because it doesn’t happen often enough.
Kiyoi presses a quick peck to Hira’s cheek and then turns in his arms, getting comfortable for the rest of the night.