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For all of Toru’s faults, his worst one was always being late. Never terribly late, by any means, fashionably, elegantly late you could even say. Just late enough to make Ryota want it, want him even more than he already did, like that was physically possible without ripping through his chest. Which it did. Ryota already had laid out Toru’s favorite drink- a hint of whiskey in mineral water on the rocks- along with a fresh pack of craft cigarettes and an ashtray, changed his day outfit into a loose button up and his black briefs, and sat on the couch to wait anxiously- all of that that since a quarter to six, just in case Toru would make it a little earlier this week.
Two past six. As if.
Ryota leaned his head on the armrest, watching the cool whiskey tumbler sweat as the ice melted, feeling as if his own sweat trickling down his neck and sticking his long hair to his nape was also freezing cold, at least contrasted to his burning body. Both want and anxiety simmered under his skin, his fingertips tracing over his watch that he hadn’t taken off- there was always something intimate about Toru undoing the buckle and giving a chaste kiss to his inner wrist. Ryota tried to evoke that memory as the ticking hands stared back at him.
Four past six.
It’s not the fact that he had to wait. Ryota had done nothing but wait for Toru his whole life, and he’d made him wait his own fair share too. In any other situation, the wait would add to the excitement of their encounters: the anticipation would be delicious, the imagining and reminiscing of previous meetings a tasteful appetizer to what would come after. But all that plagued Ryota’s mind was the fear that Toru wouldn’t come. Just as he’d been afraid the week before, and the week before that one, and each week since their affair had started. And every time, Ryota both chastised himself and hated Toru for doing this to him, for having his nerves on edge at the mere lack of his promised presence. But all genuine anger he could feel was sunk deep under the surface by the crushing weight of guilt.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, swallowing hard, trying to think of pleasant, harmless things. His hands fiddled the way they did over his Leica, attempting to push his thoughts in the direction of work, to busy himself. The collection he’d just sent in for the architecture firm he’d been doing freelance from, and the exhibition he would be a part of next month that Toru had so fervently promised he’d attend the inauguration for-
Was it really always gonna be this way? Every part of his life tainted by Toru’s touch, his presence inescapable in every corner he turned. The same way he’d crashed unceremoniously into his life, made himself a space in it without asking for permission. His eyes were still too big for his face back then, he had a stupid sly little smirk on his lips, and at fifteen he was already smoking the way an old man who had been through war would. Always sat behind Ryota, always watching him with an amused gaze since their youth, always dragging him along to places and trying to bring him out of his shell. Ryota, in turn, was his quiet place, where Toru would run to rest his head on his friend’s shoulder and open up. Between puffs of smoke and laughter, Ryota got his first kiss. It was playful and sweet and came on just strong enough not to feel like a friendly favor. Like that was even a thing...
Seven past six. They never spoke about it, but Ryota thought about it for years.
Ryota turned over, as his eyes landed on the picture of him and Toru on his coffee table- taken by someone else on Toru’s wedding day- Ryota still fixating a bit on how out of place he looked in the suit, but smiling next to his best friend . The last time they’d be together for years, before Ryota would run off trying to leave his heart behind, to forget the guilt of what had happened between them the night right before the wedding, an acid that dripped down his chest throughout the whole ceremony. As he hid his face and looked at Toru through his camera lens, capturing the newlyweds, he asked himself the burning question of whether Toru was thinking of their lips a hair's breadth away the moment white hot pleasure seared through them, as he was pronounced someone else’s husband.
Ten past six.
Ryota had only returned home when he thought he couldn’t do any harm, when he thought he himself was safe. In those two years he’d traveled and studied, grown into himself in a way that made him feel much more comfortable in his own skin, evened out his youthful edges in favor of a more mature outlook that hadn’t lost its alternative core. He felt he was steady on his feet now, that meeting him again wouldn’t mean leaning back on him, that he’d learned how to talk and flirt and laugh at the right time and had made himself more friends than he ever thought, so he could step back whenever things got too real. He’d overestimated not only his endurance but his friend’s moral backbone- in reality, he always had a bit of a blind spot to Toru’s faults.
Twelve past six, and the minutes clogged up his throat more and more as they passed-
“What were they feeding you in France? You look skinnier” Toru joked, sitting on his haunches by Ryota.
“Lots of wine” his own voice was amused, fishing a lighter out of his pocket. Toru stole it from him casually, their fingers brushing past each other. A gesture that should be casual among friends, yet after such a long time, it felt so deliberate.
“I’m glad you’re back home. It’s been a little boring without you here. No one to talk to.”
“Is married life that bad?” Ryota couldn’t help but say, sounding a little more acidic than he meant to.
“It’s not about that” the blond man sighed, running a hand through his straight, smooth strands. “You’re the only one I can talk to. Like, really, really talk to” he emphasized the word with a hard roll of the ‘r’ that reverberated deep, sending a small shiver down Ryota’s spine.
“Not even-”
“Don’t start. You know what I mean” Toru cut, an edge of reserve to his witty smile.
Ryota knew, no matter how much he’d been trying to ignore that fact. Merely acknowledging it already felt like cheating, and Toru had put the ball in his court to take that step. Ryota simply blocked the serve back to him.
“How’s work? You seem to be doing well for yourself.”
“Nothing as exciting as what you’re doing.”
“Hey, don’t-”
“Take the compliment, okay?” Toru insisted, butting his cigarette on the ground and crushing it under his sneaker. “Always knew you had it in you to live this way. As it is, right now you’re the most exciting thing in my life.”
“Well, I just returned. I might leave anytime again, y’know?” Ryota also finished his cigarette, a bit nervous.
“You think I’ll let you?” Toru looked at him through matted bangs, before pulling them both up by his wrist. Ryota wished he could say he’d forgotten how strong his friend was, but his muscle memory was as sharp as ever.
“Stop, okay? This isn’t-”
“Yeah, it isn’t right. But if you leave again, I would have to chase you to New York or Prague or wherever you’re going off next. But I can’t, and staying behind might kill me.”
“You should’ve-”
“Let me speak!” Toru’s voice had risen in volume, but instead of his anger being scary, it betrayed his own fear, and that was slowly undoing Ryota’s resolve, built up over two years and crumbling in seconds. “Yes, I should’ve thought of that before being married. But I can’t- I can’t undo the fact that I was a coward for too long, and that now we’re here in this situation. And you deserve better but I can’t- I can’t-”
Ryota was the one to cut him off this time, lips on lips as he swallowed his own tears along with his best friend ’s nicotine breath, well aware that he’d taken the bait and been the one to break trust, break tradition, break his own morals, everything because nothing pierced through his soul like the sound of Toru’s voice close to breaking- even if he couldn’t finish the phrase, ‘I can’t be without you’ was spoken loud and clear in the way Toru pulled him closer with his hands on his back.
Fourteen past six, he was counting down the seconds to fifteen so he could text Toru and justify his outburst a little-
The door opens with a soft sound, and even though Toru has had the code to his apartment for months now, he’s shocked with relief. His body relaxes immediately at the sight of him, and once the door is shut and his shoes are forgotten by the door, he immediately wraps his arms around him, as if still afraid he could disappear. But Toru is at last close enough to soothe his heart, always arriving just before Ryota can muster up the courage to actually get angry at him, his nimble hands wandering under his long hair and tugging at his scalp until his concerns are washed away by the fever rising to his head.
Three to nine.
Toru is staring at the corkboard in Ryota’s room, hand flicking his cigarette over an ashtray purchased at the Musée d'Orsay.
“Was there ever anyone in France?” he asks, voice trying to sound casual, but his eyes don’t dare meet Ryota’s.
“No one that mattered” he shrugs, hands still brushing through his completely wrecked hair. Toru seems satisfied by the answer, sitting back on bed next to him and cupping his face, thumb brushing over his facial hair to push his lips slightly open.
“Shouldn’t you be going?” Ryota isn’t much better at keeping a nonchalant voice.
“Said it was an office dinner. You know those things usually stretch for much longer” he replies, though the guilt manages to creep a bit into his face as he averts his gaze. Still, it fazes him how easily Toru can lie.
Nine o’clock. For now, Ryota chooses to be selfish.