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“Mori-san,” you whined teasingly, leaning into his warm hold as he struggles to pull you up the stairs.
His touch is scorching, even in the chill of the late summer night. All you want to do is peel yourself from him, to not rely on him so much and stand on your own. But it’s easier said than done because you’re stumbling over your own feet and words, trying to make sense of the placement of both as your ex boyfriend tries to stand you up again.
You’re drunker than you should be, you know this.
However, you also know that he isn’t supposed to be here with you now. He's supposed to be at some formal volleyball event. invite-only and black tie, with his new girlfriend on his arm like the hometown success he is.
Just thinking of his absence there makes a guilty sort of giddiness rise in your chest. He had picked you over them. You had made him pick you over them and here he was, proving that you were more important than whatever stupid event he’d been preparing to go to for god knows how long.
“You’re a mess,” he sighs, unzipping your bag to get to your keys. He finds them immediately; third pocket along the front-side lining. you’d always been a creature of habit.
“I'm fine, I’m fine,” you say waving him off, but making no actual effort to pull away from him.
Against the laws of puberty and maybe even god, he’d grown a bit taller since high school. He was even broader too; the result of countless hours of training on the court and in the gym. He’d even mentioned a nutritionist for fuck’s sake. It was leaps and bounds from where you’d ended up; living alone and working a dead-end job that wasn’t nearly related to the degree you’d poured so much time and money into.
“Why did you come for me?” you mumble as you feel yourself sinking into the familiar softness of your comforter. Cheap cotton scratches against your cheeks but it almost feels like nothing, especially when his arm is still braced against your back.
He sighs before he answers. “Who else was going to come get you?”
His question hits much harder than the soft tone he uses to deliver it. You open your eyes to come face to face with him; he looks tired.
“I don't know,” you reply truthfully. There’s no room for pretence in your present state and it’s not like you could ever hide anything from him. “Maybe no one.”
“Yeah,” he mumbles before standing up and disappearing from sight.
Something in your stomach drops, which is physically impossible because you’re lying down but you’re upset about it anyway. “ Wait ,” you call out into your apartment. “Don’t leave me here,” you blubber, tears welling at the corner of your eyes and you curse yourself for being unable to control it. This frustration combines with the shame at the absurdity of the situation, making the stoppage of tears even more difficult.
You sniffle and let drop after drop slide down the side of your face like a poor impression of Niagara Falls.
“What are you crying for?” is the exasperated groan; music to your ears as Yaku settles at the edge of your bed once more. He reaches out to touch your face but all you can feel is the cool touch of wet cloth, the smell of artificial cucumber. It's a makeup wipe from your own bathroom.
“Don’t leave me,” you whimper tearfully as he runs the wipe across your eyebrows.
You feel his hand cradle your cheek as he turns your face to get the makeup there too.
“I don't think I could,” he sighs. “Even if I wanted to.”