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You come to learn, gradually, that Karamatsu is most genuine when the sun goes down.
Not in physical ways--not in physically intimate ways, at least. Neither of you has mustered up the courage to do more than exchange quick goodbye hugs at the end of the day. But in small ways. That's how he cares for you.
Like when you catch him eyeing your plate not because he wants your food, but because he wants to make sure you're eating enough. Or when he takes his sunglasses off long enough for you to see the pink that dusts the tops of his cheeks. Or when he nudges you (almost subtly) to walk along the inner part of the sidewalk--in case of traffic, or puddles, he tells you with his usual semi-confident grin plastered on his face. Or when he keeps playing the same three songs on his guitar, over and over—not because they’re the only ones he knows, but because he knows they’re your favorites.
Or when he reminds you, every night before you part ways, that his phone will always be at full volume when he goes to sleep that night. In case you need him at odd hours. You know he's telling the truth because he takes your hand in both of his and rubs his thumbs between your knuckles, as if to busy himself away from the vulnerability.
You think it's endearing that he wants to be needed. You just hope he knows that he is.
Not that you've ever really needed him in the middle of the night. But it's the thought that counts. It's always the thought that counts.
That's why, on the one night you really can't sleep, the one night your mind won't stop running like ticker tape and your fists clench and unclench to ward off mental image you can't quite pin down, you count your thoughts. You count how many of them are of him. You glance with tired eyes toward your phone, silent and charging on your nightstand table.
What could it hurt? Or rather, what do you have left to lose when you're too tired to be awake and too wired to be asleep?
A few taps on the touch screen, and the phone is ringing softly in your hand as you teeter on the edge of your bed, free fingers coiled in the fabric of your comforter. For a brief, confusing moment between rings, you hope that maybe this is the one night he forgot to turn the volume up. And then, for a briefer, more confusing moment, you hope—really, really hope—that he didn't.
Before you can hang up and text an apology (and then hide your face in your pillow while you pretend this never happened), the line clicks. Something rustles on the other end—maybe blankets, maybe clothes—but it's punctuated with a grunt, half-asleep complaints in the background, and a soft, "Hello...?"
This is how you like him. Stripped of all pretense, with only enough space to come to you as he is.
"Hey," you mumble, only half apologetic as you jam your free hand in your lap. "Did I wake you?"
The tense pause before he speaks tells you that he wants to say no. He doesn't, probably because he knows you'll call his bluff. It's how he let you in to begin with, isn't it? "It's really all right." The more wakeful he becomes, the more you can practically feel him trying to put his persona back on. Even around you. Maybe especially around you. Like either he doesn't know who he is without it, or like he's afraid you'll leave if he keeps it off for too long. "What's the matter, sweet—"
"Can't sleep." You're fidgeting now, contemplating on whether you should just get up and pace or tuck yourself back under the covers. Anything would be better than counting the erratic beats of your heart during the awkward silences. (You swear it's anxiety from talking on the phone. You swear.) "I didn't think you'd actually pick up."
Karamatsu hums thoughtfully; even at this distance, you can feel it, warm and reassuring, in the pit of your stomach. "I meant what I said, didn't I?"
Now you're the one to hum, in between yawns, as you resign yourself to your bed; you wonder if he can feel it, too. "Yeah. You did."
More rustling. He's probably lying back on the futon with an arm tucked under his head. Maybe he's got one of his dumb smiles on his face, too, the kind he gives you when you think you're talking for too long and he wants to reassure you that he really doesn't mind. Something about dialogues hiding in monologues, he said once; you kind of wondered if he was saying it just to sound cool or smart, or to justify the way he tried to wax poetic at length, or if he was making a subtle point of words unspoken.
"Talk to me, my love," he says.
Your stomach lurches. He's only ever called you that in the middle of the night, when you're both huddled on the floor and searching each other, or walking the streets hand-in-hand and pretending they belong only to you. He's never said it without stuttering before.
So you rattle off your thoughts, your worries, only half-thinking of the words before you speak them, because if your brain couldn't stop running, then how in the world could your mouth? You tell him about the shake in your hands when it gets too late for a good night's sleep, the big projects you have coming up, the terrible movie you wasted a couple of thousand yen on this past weekend, the changes you're not really ready for, even though you thought you'd convinced yourself you were. It takes a few minutes for you to to really stop and realize that he's still listening. He didn't fall asleep. He didn't hang up.
Your fingers brush the mouthpiece, lingering before they slip back to the comforter. "You're still there."
"Yes." Karamatsu sighs, and you think maybe you can hear a smile in it. "I'm still here."
You grip the phone a little tighter. "I'm glad."
You think he might have choked a little, but he recomposes himself (as he does) and laughs under his breath. "Just as I expected from an angel, hm?" He probably didn't expect it at all, but it's a good cover for three in the morning. "Would you do me a favor?"
"What's that?"
"Lie down. I'll tell you a story."
You can't help but snort and smile and do as he asks, because he sounds too real to brush off. The blankets feel a little heavier on you now—not as though there's a weight to the empty space beside you (though you're half-wishing there were), but as though they're really meant to soothe you now. "What an honor."
"Isn't it?" He laughs a little louder now, though not enough to wake up his brothers again. Is it weird that you wish you could hear it in person instead of crackling over network and static? You hope not.
It's almost picture-perfect. Almost. Huddled under the blankets, your phone wedged between your ear and just the right number of pillows, your knees tucked in toward your chest. You sigh, and it sounds a little longing, and maybe he's longing for you too. Just a little. Just enough. "Tell me a story, Karamatsu."
The next morning, you can barely remember a word of what he told you, or even when you fell asleep, but you wake up with the phone still pressed to your cheek and vibrating with a few new text messages.
Silly, you passed out before I could get to the best part.
That's more than all right. Every part with you is the best part. Even the silence. Has anyone told you how comfortable that is? How comfortable you are, sweetheart?
Let me know when you're awake and if you slept well. And, of course, call me if you can't sleep again. I have many, many more stories where that came from.
Well.
That's it, then.
Good night, my love.
The phone is solid in your grasp, and your eyes nearly glaze over as you reread every message down to the character. Silence. Comfortable. Stories. Sleep. Love.
You tap the screen with your thumb until you dial his number, sure that he's already put on his airs along with his leather jacket and ridiculous sequined pants.
"Come over," you hum when the line clicks again and your bedroom carpet is plush under your bare feet. You don't even give him a chance to speak. You don't want to just yet. You still want him stripped. "I'll make breakfast for two."