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somnolent

Tobi rolls around in bed for the nth time that night. He stretches his left arm until it reaches the sleeping form of Ryuuko at the other end of the bed, and sighs deeply when the girl does not stir at his lethargic action. 

“I wouldn’t have thought his absence would bother you so much,” Baku snickers, and Tobi resists the urge to kick the talking bag out of bed. He has always been a great annoyance to Tobi, but now, particularly, is the worst time to be an asshole. Damn menace, he thinks. 

“Shut up,” he mutters instead. He turns around and covers his face with the blanket. 

It has been seven hours since he has last seen Sunao, and every second that goes by without his beloved pierces him, tangibly, like an arrow of exponential poison to his heart. Its insipid treatment to his body has been causing him to falter in his own confidence; his usual retorts towards Baku, even on a sick day or when gravely injured in a fight, are not even half as lacklustre. 

That is because there is a problem: there is a cold, empty, and overall desolate spot in his bed that he wishes had human placement. He yearns to touch, and hold, and whisper sweet nothings to one person and one person only… but all these desires are impossible presently. In this yearning, the brunet turns his head to nuzzle into the dark-haired-boy’s unofficially assigned pillow, trying to catch a whiff of his scent. 

To explicitly state that he misses Sunao—well, that would be weak of him. It would admit to all his flaws, the thoughts within himself that he doesn’t want to face, everything wrong with him in a social aspect. (Though, there has always been something wrong with Tobi Otogiri, hasn’t there?) 

It’s all a rather strange ordeal. There is, after all, a modicum of truth to Baku’s statement, and he knows this as intimately as the scars on his lover’s skin. He hadn’t thought that this would bother himself so much. It’s inane. Stupid. The idea of Sunao’s absence actively feeds anxious thoughts into his head—thoughts like, is he getting the treatment he needs? and is he sleeping okay without me? 

Of course, these feelings are absolutely foolish and invalid. He wouldn’t be at that place if Tobi did not know for certain that Sunao would, in fact, be getting the treatment he required—and perhaps it is true that he is not sleeping well, but in all honesty it’s completely expected of him. Insomnia is simply a facet of Sunao Fuchi. Tobi always does and always will worry, but it shouldn’t be at the forefront of his mind at the current moment. 

This is dumb, he thinks to himself. 

It’s complete and utter folly. He thought he was over the feeling of “pining” when they got together. 

And yet… 

Tobi pulls the pillow closer to himself, tucking the top of it under his chin and wrapping his arms tightly around its soft middle. He shifts his legs up, and his knees press into both sides of the cover. He maneuvers his body, locking his limbs, so that it appears as if there is a tangling of legs. 

Perhaps it isn’t actually him, but it smells like him. This will have to do as a cheap substitute until his boyfriend returns. 

The situation of the matter is that Sunao is out of their apartment for the night. His therapist, Maeda-sensei, had suggested that Sunao do a polysomnography—that is, he would partake in a sleep study to monitor his sleeping patterns and brain activity. It isn’t as if this would be particularly detrimental to his state of mind, so both Tobi and Sunao had figured that they could part for just one night. 

Unfortunately for Tobi, it appears as if this logical reassurance is not enough to placate his ill thoughts. He had hoped this wouldn’t happen; and now, he cannot do anything about his feelings, for they have grown as thick and invasive as constricting vines, restricting his rationality. It’s idiotic. He should be much better than this. 

Alone in bed, the quiet boy attempts to fall into the familiar drag of sleep. Its heaviness pulls at his skull, weighting down on him like the pressure of a body of water. The silence, too, screams at him. A high-pitched ringing sounds out from every corner of Tobi’s head, as if the quietude itself wants him to stay awake. It seems his body is more focused in trying to cope with Sunao’s absence. 

He lays there and he tries to shut it out. He wants to avoid it as much as possible… but ultimately the realization that he’s just a little more attached than he thought he was—something that he doesn’t want to confront, something that he cannot confront if he wants to stay sturdy and steady and safe—pulls at his skin, as if it is lifting his dermal layers to reveal the tender, weak flesh underneath. (Because at the end of all things, he really is just a sack of meat. What is a person? Is he even human? What constitutes that of “humanity”?)

“You’re horribly besotted with that guy,” Baku speaks into the silence, as if to interrupt Tobi’s internal train of thought. “I can see it in the tenseness of your frame. Jeez. He’s gonna be okay.” 

He wants to throttle the damned bag. Thanks for speaking the obvious, oh great Baku-sama, he’d like to sneer, but the zingai would probably take the honorific as a compliment regardless of the insult attached. Instead, he chooses to not offer any bait. What could he even respond with to defend himself? He knows Sunao will be okay, he knows the other boy needs to have this check up, he knows that it’s not going to be the end of the world just because he can’t sleep with him for a night. His fears are stupid. 

And yet. 

Tobi stares up at the ceiling. It’s dark in the room, and he absently wonders if it’s dark wherever Sunao is. 

Perhaps if he were a bit more open and honest, he would tell Baku something like: “I just wish he were here.” It’s the truth—he’s gotten so used to having his boyfriend’s warm body next to him when laying down to sleep, that now the bed feels strange when he isn’t there. It reminds him of before, when he’d wake up in the early hours of the morning; chest constricted by the poison ivy of fear, hyperventilating in the afterimage of a nightmare with blurry eyes and an active hammer for a heart. He would wonder if everything he had seen was a dream—if he really had saved Sunao that day, and would call the other boy before he had even realized he picked up the phone. This used to be a regular occurrence; happening about as regular as how pissed off he’d be upon realizing his own reaction post-call. Of course, to add onto the all-consuming and unconfronted fear, he’d unfortunately get mad at Sunao, too, because who is Tobi Otogiri without his anger? Anger was all he knew—or, at least, what he thought he knew until he saw that ominous photo on Sunao’s SNS. 

It doesn’t come as any surprise—to anyone at all—that he doesn't understand his own emotions. What’s even less surprising is the fact that Sunao is the one to make him feel like a puny prey animal watched by a mighty predator. Sunao makes him feel charged, excitable, free in a way he isn’t when he is alone. Tobi is inherently flawed, but with another flawed boy those faults become less unpleasant and more acceptable. (Truly, if he were to look within himself, he would be able to comprehend that he is weak, but only when he is with Sunao. That weakness feels more pleasant and intoxicating, while the negative emotions become obsolete—even if they really should not, and should never be laid bare to any organism like so.) 

Tobi supposes it makes sense, in a way. After all, they are each other’s opposites. Sunao is hot whereas Tobi is cold; Sunao is the boy with the bright smile and the quick laugh, and Tobi is the boy with the expressionless line and the quiet grumbling. They’re two sides of the same coin—but overall still the same piece, in the end, and made of the same materials. They are both horribly avoidant, though it could be argued that Tobi is moreso; they’re both new to this strange, alien feeling of closeness and connection, yearned for in their youths, however Tobi most certainly has more practice with his current friendships; they are both unsure of their places in the world, neither having felt the touch of family in what feels like millenia. 

Tobi and Sunao connect, yet contrast. They’re like a negative charge and a positive charge, strangely bound to one another; and people have always said that opposites attract, haven’t they? Like a cation to an anion, it is as if they fill each other up in the empty spaces of their valence shells. They complete each other. 

Perhaps that is why Tobi cannot sleep tonight. He’s missing his other half; and he can’t keep an eye on him, make sure he’s still alive and okay, if Tobi isn't in the same room as him. Cause and effect: he is worried about his boyfriend, and as a result it is harder for him to placate his own anxiety. 

He just wants to keep Sunao safe. 

…

Is that too strange? 

… 

He’s worried… 

… 

But he shouldn’t be, really… 

… 

It’s irrational. 

.

.

.

.

.

…this must be what it means to love someone, he concludes. 

And what can Tobi Otogiri make of that? Other than Ryuuko, he has not allowed himself to love another person in a very long time—so long, the last time might have been when Seki was still around. It was only after everything that he had faced for Ryuuko’s sake, resulting in numerous injuries and being forced to face his own loneliness, when he came to realize that she was more than just a spoiled brat to him. 

It’s been many years since Seki disappeared, but the effects of his absence still grip him like stinging nettle and barbed wire. Tobi was an ignorant child, and did as he was told. He hid away, like a spineless coward, and then that was that. He returned to concrete stained with mysterious blood, and from then on it was bye-bye to Onii-chan. Forever. 

(But it can’t be forever, can it? He has to be out there, he can’t actually be…) 

…

…

…

…maybe his unconquered anxieties have something to do with why he’s so paranoid about this. 

Tobi continues to stare up at the ceiling. The only idea in his head is that it looks rather interesting tonight, what with the amorphous shadow that is his center fan and familiar darkness that usually accompanies his sleeps. 

“I hate feelings,” he mumbles childishly. It comes out unbidden; automatic and unwanted, but he cannot be bothered to take his words back. There is no point. The person to comfort him—the person who he needs to hide those feelings from—is not here. Baku may make fun of him for this decision, but at the moment he simply does not care. 

He does not say anything more until the Sun begins rising in the sky. 

* * *

Hours later after his unfortunate nighttime ruminations, Tobi is stepping out of a subway train with a sleepy Ryuuko in tow. He has only one goal in mind: to retrieve Sunao Fuchi from the clinic. 

It’s a fairly dreary day outside—the skies are overcast, the Sun having long since retreated behind the ominous clouds of the mid-morning; and the low, wailing winds coming in from the north tell of a violent storm to come. Tobi can feel it in his bones similar to the way he feels hunger. It is light and heavy; immaterial and spacious; yet, all the same, it is unmistakable in its presence and inevitability. He knows that it is coming. 

This knowledge, of course, does not stop him from tightening the scarf around his neck and stalking ever-forward, though he knows it won’t help much in the end. He has a person to collect, and he’d be damned if some poor weather caused him to back down. 

“Can we get food afterwards?” Ryuuko suddenly asks, trailing behind Tobi as they walk past the entrance of the train station. She is in a simple cream coat and plaid scarf, and wears her little Santa hat despite it not being December. 

Tobi huffs into the quiet air, hands in his pockets, and glances around at the shopfronts to his left and right. He didn’t feel very hungry this morning, which was a first. Normally, he eats enough for two people. 

He looks up at the sky. The clouds are vastly threatening, and he thinks it would be pretty unfortunate if they got caught up in the rain. Perhaps they should take shelter before that happens… 

“Sure,” he sighs. It’s not like they’ll have much else to do after they pick Sunao up, anyways. 

Tobi had actually made breakfast for her before they’d left the house, but he finds it unsurprising that she’s already gotten hungry again. That’s typical of her; and, typical of himself, he’s also starting to feel the metaphorical teeth of his own stomach, gnawing at his insides and demanding nourishment. Maybe it would do him good to eat something, too. Food might take his current worries off his mind. 

He tugs the girl behind him as he continues down the sidewalk, stepping over intricately placed bricks and neatly-trimmed bushes. 

Yes, a meal would do him well. After he drags Sunao out of that sterile little building—the one that reeks of lethargy and impassivity—the three of them will order something at the nearest fast food place. Perhaps they will go to that Burger King a few blocks away, or the Wendy’s… maybe even McDonald’s, if Ryuuko wanted to walk that far. 

They will purchase food and Tobi will get Sunao to eat something. He will, no matter what. He isn’t sure what those people are feeding him; and, as true as it is that Sunao prefers a hospital diet, it simply isn’t a way to live. Perhaps the other boy will only accept a few pieces of fried chicken or a handful of fries, but that is okay. As long as he is eating, Tobi will be satisfied. 

He nods to himself, and contemplates what, exactly, he will get for himself and his boyfriend depending on whichever place Ryuuko chooses. He’s not much of a talker—that is Sunao’s thing—and strangely, it seems like Ryuuko isn’t too energetic this early in the morning, so Tobi passes the time with this consideration of food choice. 

Lost in thought, he doesn’t notice that he’s about to walk by the entrance of the clinic until Ryuuko tugs on his sleeve for his attention. “Tobi,” she starts, and he grunts in a questioning manner before turning to look at her. 

“Tobi, isn’t this where Buchi is?” the dragon girl asks. She looks questioningly at the structure on his right. 

Baku, who strangely hasn’t said much since his taunting earlier in the night, flicks his tongue at the door of the building and confirms her statement. 

Within a few seconds of observation, Tobi can quite plainly see the clinic. “Plainly” is literal. 

It has a rather dull exterior. All solid, monotone colors, other than hints of blue in the windows and the fake plant he can see behind the glass. There is nothing too special about the building that could differentiate it from most other stores down the block. 

It has a facade of grey brick, and its blue-tinted windows stretch from the first floor to the rooftop. Along with this, a set of pristine doors with white lettering that tell of the company’s name. He skims over its moniker; he does not care for this place other than what it can do for his lover, so it really is of no importance to him. 

He notes that there appear to be a few papers taped on the surface from the inside. Tobi moves closer to read them, but they only tell him the business hours of the clinic and an open position. 

All in all, there is little need for further investigation. It’s an easily forgettable experience. He has seen all that needs to be seen. 

“Hopefully their treatment is much more pleasant than their abysmal aesthetics,” he grumbles to himself, pulling Ryuuko inside the building with him. 

Not only is the exterior fairly generic, the interior also boasts a lack of creativity. Light grey walls, fake plants, a darker grey carpet floor, black chairs, and brown side-tables. It looks like any normal waiting room to him; drab and soulless, with worthless paintings on the walls in a cheap attempt of vibrancy. Tobi sighs at the sight of this and strolls to the counter. 

He confirms his identity and states the purpose of his visit, moving to sit in one of the cushioned chairs by the far door when the receptionist waves him off. Ryuuko plops down next to him and snatches a dated newspaper from a side table, skimming through it. Baku, whom he places in the chair on his left, curls up and attempts to sleep. Tobi wonders if this is for show—either way, it seems that the cylindrical zingai did not get much rest either. 

Tobi does not like this place. If it weren’t for Sunao’s sake, he’d have never stepped foot here. The very ground he walks on seems weary and dead beat, and isn’t meant for his company. He isn’t supposed to be here. There are many other places he would rather be. Namely, being at home and catching up on his lack of sleep. Unfortunately, he knows that if he does not accompany his boyfriend on his venture home, he will accomplish nothing while he lays in his bed and waits. It is inevitable he’ll suffer from paranoia, wondering if Sunao will be coming home or be on his way to the beach once more. 

He doesn’t want a repeat of that night. Watching Sunao wave goodbye from behind the train’s window, fully convinced that he would go home and try (and fail, of course, though he could be optimistic) to get some rest. Waiting for the other boy to send him a text wishing him goodnight, staring at his phone until the light blinds him in the darkness of his room. Wondering why there was a new photo posted on Sunao’s account, and opening it up to see… 

…

…

…

Tobi tastes salt on his lips, and wipes at his mouth. For some reason, his finger comes back wet. He scowls. 

(He tries not to think about why he can feel a pressure building up behind his eyes.) 

He pushes the idea from his mind. Tobi reclines in his chair, albeit stiffly, and pulls out his phone. It’s not like he has much else to do here other than think. And he doesn’t want to think if it sets him on that particular train of thought again. 

Tobi scrolls mindlessly on Twitter for several minutes until he loses interest in his phone, and glances around the boring waiting room once more. He sighs deeply and stares at a painting of an elephant on the wall. 

Though he has heard the treatment here is good, the environment is decidedly lacking and seems to make one even more enervated than the building itself. Perhaps that’s why it’s a clinic that researches sleep. It seems to advertise its own business with little effort, its motivations in its very walls. Even the elephant looks sleepy by its painted waterhole. 

Tobi sighs again, and glances down to see what Ryuuko is reading. He doesn’t want to be here for any longer than he has to, so he chooses this interaction as a way to pass the time. 

The minutes stretch like hours, passing by as slowly as loose drops of water from a tap. 

Water… 

He licks his lips. He had water before he left the apartment, and now he is wishing he brought something to quench his thirst. 

He eyes the vending machine in the farthest corner, sitting by the entrance. He thinks of a hot coffee, a cold soda, a bottle of water… 

Tap water… 

The clock above the receptionist’s head ticks on in a careful manner. 

Time and water. Tap water. Faucets. Tobi allows any topic to cross his mind, in the hopes that he can occupy himself in this stilted quietude. 

If it were literal, Tobi thinks the metaphysical faucet of time would go drip, drip, drip, like a never ending background element. Both quiet and nonexistent, yet so very loud… it would take up so much space in his mind. The time does, in fact, feel rather like that; slowly dripping by, slowly becoming louder. It occupies the empty, still air with a heavyweight presence. Almost damning; malignant, in the way it takes up space and swallows everything. It’s so very deafening… yet, the waiting room is as silent as ever. It is as if the silence, and the seconds, drag on like the erosion of a shoreline. A boisterous shoreline, teeming with people and fish and crackling seafoam… 

Drip, drip, drip… 

Is he hearing it? The water? It passes by his auditory organs, and he thinks it is real; but there is no faucet in this room, and the time has been passing as it always has. In 1 second, 1/60th of a minute, 1/3600th of an hour… 

It’s too quiet here. Tobi sighs and rubs his hands together, just to hear and feel something; to ground himself in anything amidst the silence, and the steady temporal dripping. 

He thinks he’s becoming crazier the longer he sits in this chair. Evidently, there is no faucet, no shoreline. Just him in this waiting room; with Baku, and Ryuuko, and the receptionist, and the sleepy elephant… 

Tobi glances around the room. 

He looks at Baku, sighing at the bag’s expression. The zingai’s tongue is out while he sleeps. 

He looks at Ryuuko, and squints his eyes at her magazine. She is mesmerized by the model’s beautiful hair. 

He looks at the receptionist, examining the bags under her eyes and the stray hairs that frame her face. The woman looks tired, like she would rather be anywhere else. 

He looks at the elephant, quietly noting that it is alone and has no herd. It may be a colorful painting, but there’s a sense of melancholy in the absence of its family. 

He looks down at his trembling fingers, wishing he could have his boyfriend’s hand to hold… He has changed so much, hasn’t he? To have become so used to the body heat of his lover that now he feels unfathomably cold without him. To actively stray away from those days where it was only himself and Baku… 

He wants to see Sunao. He wants to lay beside him, feel him, hug him and bask in his presence… Baku has been oddly quiet, and Ryuuko is obsessed with her reading. 

He feels… lonely… 

Stop thinking about that, he tells himself. He quickly tries to shut himself down, stopping his train of thought. 

Tobi looks away from his hands and stares at the fluorescent white lights on the ceiling, mind blanking. 

After all, those are childish wants. He isn’t that sad little kid anymore, wandering the streets for a brother long gone. 

(…and yet, a part of him can’t help but yearn anyway.) 

art by renstarv4 on twitter... aka riku_starv4 on ao3... 

* * *

After what seems like hours of prolonged silence (but is really only ten minutes or so), Tobi begins to feel that the lack of noise is shattering his ears. He clears his throat in the silence; the lights are starting to get to him, the noise—or lack thereof—seems incomprehensibly deafening, and he has absolutely nothing to do other than wait. 

He knew that he had come early. He was so anxious about seeing Sunao that he figured he wouldn’t mind waiting for the other boy as long as it meant he could see him as soon as possible. However, everything in this waiting room looks too bright, too loud, too much. It is as if his eyes are burning inside his skull. He almost regrets coming here. 

His thoughts are excruciatingly torturous—but Tobi’s misery is rewarded when he hears the creaking of the door on his right. 

The brunet takes a glance at the sterile white door, and sees a flash of curly black hair. In a rather immediate action, his stolen breath returns to his lungs; and before the tall boy has even crossed the threshold of the waiting room, Tobi is already up on his feet to reach his lover. 

“Tobi—” 

“Are you alright?” Tobi accidentally interrupts the other boy, moving to take the older’s scarred palms in his. Sunao looks at him with widened eyes, joined hands stationary between their chests. 

“H—huh?” 

“I asked if you were alright. You were here overnight, after all…” 

It is with this statement, as he trails off into silence, that he notices that he intertwined his and Sunao’s fingers without having put thought into it. Tobi’s face goes a little pink. 

Behind Sunao, a doctor looks at the pair with an unidentifiable expression, right eye twitching, before shallowly bowing and closing the door shut behind them. Though it doesn’t matter what that stranger thinks about the pair of them, Tobi finds it aggravating. He looks down at the ground, face red, but does not let the other boy go. He huffs to himself. 

“Did they treat you okay?” 

“I’m fine, Tobi,” Sunao mumbles, lowering their hands to their sides, “umm. But… what about you?” 

The brunet blinks at the tiled floor for a moment or two before looking up at his boyfriend. 

“What?” 

“Tobi…”

The taller boy unclasps his left hand. He hesitates, biting his lip, before pressing it to Tobi’s cheek. He rubs his thumb under the brunet’s eye, caressing the skin, before going, “it looks like you didn’t get much rest…” 

“Eh…?” Tobi stares at him, cheeks turning a pale shade of pink under the attention of his boyfriend. “…I’m fine, Sunao. There’s nothing you need to worry about.” He dismisses the other boy’s concern with a balanced tone and hardy eyes; nevertheless, he casts his gaze to the ground once more as he leans into the touch, ears embarrassingly red. 

“If you say so, Tobi… 

Sunao goes silent for a moment, before some kind of odd spark lights up in his eyes. He opens his mouth to speak, but before he can— 

“Buchi!” 

…Ryuuko rushes up from her chair and runs over to greet the taller boy. 

Seeing the little girl lavish him with attention like a cat brings a smile to Tobi’s face, though a part of himself can’t help but feel a little disappointed that he didn’t get the opportunity to hear what Sunao was going to say. Would he have brought up what the doctors did to him? Would he have shared something new about his insomnia? Would he have asked to get something to eat? (The latter one is so unlikely, Tobi feels stupid for even considering it.) 

He supposes he can always ask later. For now, though, his main concern is getting out of this horrible building and taking Sunao home… 

* * *

Kachunk… kachunk… kachunk… 

The steady rumbling of the train and the intermittent clamoring of metal are the main sounds that fill the air presently. Clatter, clatter, clatter, go the loose plastic straps attached to the passenger carriage’s ceiling. The train car is oddly silent for the time of day that Tobi and his group are boarding, its occupants focused on their devices or some other pressing handheld thing. The brunet doesn’t mind; he prefers this short reprieve from the chaos of the train station, though it does make things a tad awkward when Sunao opens his mouth to speak. 

“Were you waiting long?” the taller boy asks, leaning down to face Tobi. His voice is low and his question comes out as a self-conscious murmur, but in the peculiar quietude, it sounds more like a bullet. That is the one downside—if they speak, their voices will be projected loudly in the silence. Ryuuko sits in front of them on the train’s booth, playing some game on Tobi’s phone, thankfully with no sound. 

Tobi extends his hand from his pocket and he takes that of the other boy’s, rubbing his thumb over Sunao’s digits soothingly. He presses the pad of his thumb into his lover’s knuckles softly and caresses Sunao’s fingers for several moments before he responds. “Long enough,” is what he goes with, and the dark-haired boy lets out a short hum at his answer. 

Tobi is afraid the other boy will lead in with something else; that Sunao will pick and pry at his own ambiguous answer, and he will be forced to answer with the foundation of his heart. He does not want to be cut open, raw and bleeding, seen straight through to his core. He does not want to admit exactly how much his lover’s absence haunted him in the night. So Tobi stands there, holding Sunao’s hand, and… 

… 

… 

… 

Sunao looks over at him. 

Tobi isn’t quite sure what he sees. 

Perhaps he isn’t seeing anything at all—or maybe his eyes are looking over the expanse of Tobi’s skin as if through an x-ray, piercing him through that facade of apathy. His eyes, crawling, like an insectoid over the expanse of skin; taking advantage of Tobi’s vulnerability and stripping him virtually naked and new, looking at him as if there is no barrier between him and Tobi’s internal consciousness. Tobi’s skin feels as if it shrivels, decomposing right there on the spot. It is losing tangibility. It is nonexistent. There is no border between that of the psychological self and the physical self. 

What does he see? 

What Tobi is sure of—what he fears, and what he would not be able to make clear; even days, and weeks, and months from now on—is that Sunao must find something in Tobi’s aloof exterior. Much as he tries to hide; much as he tries to deflect and turn from sight. And Sunao… 

… 

… 

…

Sunao smiles and looks away. 

Tobi wonders what he saw. 

Can he see through my skin? Can he see who I am? Can he see what I feel? Can he see the emptiness inside, the rot and the rain? The longing, the devotion, the discord? 

Can he see my love? 

Can he see my infirmity? 

Neither of the two comment on that awkward moment of perception. 

Only the occasional shuffle of clothing pierces the heavy atmosphere of nothingness. 

For that, Tobi is grateful. He fears he could not stand a conversation in this ear-piercing calm. 

His only complaint is that his heart beats in an unwelcome manner—going thump, thump thump—like that of the train’s clamor across the subway tracks. 

He supposes that is because Sunao has always been the one to make him feel weak in the knees, much as he doesn’t want to admit it. 

(Can’t, won’t, shouldn’t, mustn’t; because if he does admit this, then it will reveal the idealistic, weak little boy trapped underneath his skin. 

He absolutely cannot allow that to happen—however, there’s a particular twitch in his fingers, the one that tells him to take a chance against all logic. The twitch that he should ignore, really, but… 

…

…

…

Eventually, Tobi removes his eyes from staring at Sunao, and instead he glances at his shoes, unblinking and unthinking. 

He hates the fact that he knows what he needs to do.) 

* * *

The first thing that Tobi decides to do upon returning to his apartment is to messily drop Baku to the floor, uncaring of where the bag lands. 

The second thing that Tobi decides to do upon returning to his apartment is to reach around the tall boy behind him and lock the door. 

The third and final thing that Tobi decides to do upon returning to his apartment is to embrace his lover in a hug. 

“Wah—?” 

“Shut up,” Tobi grits out. His face flushes red and he forces a frown to manifest on his face as a means of attempting to stabilize his thump, thump, thump. There is nothing more that he hates than vulnerability; but the cowardice of his heart and spinelessness of his soul tell him to carve a cavity for himself in Sunao’s chest, so he can curl up inside and rest there until he sleeps. Of course, such a thing is physically impossible (that is, without violently injuring his lover), so nuzzling into his boyfriend is as close as he can get to experiencing unadulterated harmony other than via a sexual act (which they still haven’t done, but isn’t really at the forefront of his mind anyhow). Furthermore, the brunet huffs in faux anger and presses his face further into the fabric of Sunao’s jacket as the taller boy stiffens up, surprised at Tobi’s uncharacteristic action. 

It is a known fact that Tobi isn’t the verbal type. He doesn’t like being honest, he doesn’t like being vulnerable. Sunao is the one out of the two of them that talks. Nevertheless, Tobi hopes that his actions can speak for him; that when he sighs and leans up, his breath on Sunao’s neck comes out as—

“I see you. I feel you.” 

—because he knows he could never voice those notions aloud. Those are words that will never be weighted on the wisps of air, at least in the near future. He will keep those two statements to himself, hidden within that minute action that he prays gets the conveyed meaning across. Though, that’s an exaggeration. He’s not one to pray, really; if anything, his lover is the main deity that he willingly worships. 

It’s all the same, though. He hopes the raised hairs upon his neck, like the soft strands of his hair washed in the morning, are at least somewhat telling of his attachment to his lover. Stray hairs tend to float about, finding a way into every crevice available, just like how Tobi fits himself into the low valleys and mountains that arise or depress along the plains of Sunao’s pale skin. Baku mutters something about public displays of affection, being ever the annoyance, but Tobi does not pay him any mind for once. He forgets Ryuuko, who has removed herself from the entrance and stands elsewhere, hosting a peculiar knowledgeable (and somehow jaded) light that shines within her eyes. Instead, Tobi thinks—

“You’re here with me. This is where we belong.” 

—because a sense of familiarity and comfort is all he has ever wanted. He wants to belong somewhere, he wants to be himself, and he wants to stay whole rather than alone; most of all, he wants to be wanted, needed, loved. He wants. He wants—and that’s it, really. He wants. What he wants is vague and limitless, and yet he’s sure that if Sunao looks hard enough, he might one day crack himself open and spill out his soft insides, all at the other boy’s soft touch or careful voice. Not now, but one day. He wants that, too. (And he hates that he wants it. He hates that weakness, that naivety, that optimism; but he’s human, and at the end of the day, all humans are flawed. He is flawed. His way of thinking is flawed. What he wants, what he needs—those notions are flawed, too. He doesn’t know what he requires to be sustained on this Earth because he has survived for so long, ignoring basic necessities like human connection. He fears that he doesn’t know anything about himself, like an outsider living underneath his own skin. And yet, he knows everything. Everything and nothing, more or less. He also still wonders, and will always wonder, what constitutes that of “humanity”.) 

He tightens his arms around Sunao’s back; not roughly or in a restraining sort of way, but almost protective, certainly loving, and indeed distinctly trusting. Tobi does not want Sunao to take this lightly. He wants Sunao to understand with this impressive display of affection, which means so many things in one action—

“I missed you.”

—because he cannot move his tongue for the life of him. He is a child. He is stupid. He is warm and weak and soft and new, like some sort of embryo, of which can be as easily snuffed as life can be given to it. He is open, for once. He is raw. He is allowing himself to bleed out over that of his lover’s form, ichor and hemolymph leaking from his presented wounds and mixing into something more befitting of homo sapiens. 

The brunet shifts his face just a little bit more. He presses a kiss to the skin he can reach, right where Sunao’s neck meets his jaw; then he shifts again to leave another lower on his lover’s neck, a little over midway to the collarbone. Sunao shivers, which is predictable, and Tobi enunciates this movement with yet another peck distributed to the dark-haired boy’s shoulder, where the skin’s pale day and the scar’s dark night meet. Sunao makes a movement that would be imperceptible to anyone other than Tobi, which is the brush of his chapped lips against the metal of the younger’s double helix piercings. It tells him— 

“I love you.” 

—which is an impression that is simple to decipher. 

Tobi has never been good when it comes to talking about how he feels. That is a given, what with how abnormal his upbringing was. Though… maybe he doesn’t necessarily need to talk. Maybe he can express his unadulterated devotion with touches and careful caresses. Maybe he can confess everything he feels for his one and only with just a peck of the lips. Maybe he can turn the unconventional into the ordinary; make the mechanical, or otherwise that which seems automatic and unfeeling, turn uterine in its naturality; translate the unspoken into long poems that act as declarations of love. 

Perhaps it is stupid that even after dating Sunao for as many months as he has, Tobi still struggles with that distinct verbal aspect that comes with relationships. Speaking of his affection is hard, and sometimes he wonders if the truth is just that simple: that Tobi Otogiri was never meant to care for, or be cared about by, another person. 

Despite that, he can’t help but cling onto hope. With the way Sunao sweetly nuzzles his cheek into Tobi’s hair and places a kiss to his head; silent and shy, yet truly no less quiet about his own love, Tobi gets the inkling that maybe he doesn’t have to speak. It appears that Tobi’s mannerisms are just inherently understood by his lover. It is as if they really were made for each other—Tobi was destined to act, and Sunao was destined to speak. They are the soldier and the poet, who both drink from the same wine of love. 

This entire thought process occurs in only a few moments; and when Baku goes quiet in serious contemplation, and wise little Ryuuko turns away for privacy, Tobi mumbles a quiet statement into Sunao’s jacket. 

“Let’s go lay down.” 

Tobi will not say that he missed Sunao. Not with the other two so close by, not with the bloody war that goes on in his heart. None of the people in this apartment should see his weakness; his embarrassing frailty, the truth of his existence hidden underneath the stoic stare. (Other than Sunao—though even of that, he is fearful. Letting someone in means letting yourself be weak for them.) 

However… 

Tobi, once more, tightens his hold around Sunao's waist and kisses the dark-haired boy’s neck where his mole resides. He inhales deeply—shaky, fragile—and exhales his own hot air onto his boyfriend’s skin. 

“The bed was colder without you,” is what he adds. 

Sunao’s hands twitch, and he moves his head to lay it on top of Tobi’s with a soft motion. He understands the real message—the one that Tobi would not allow himself to make evident. 

The shorter boy hides a small smile in the dark-haired boy’s neck. 

It is unseen, but not unknown. 

Not with the way Sunao relaxes in his hold. 

* * *

Goosebumps roil over Tobi’s skin. Despite the warmth of the bed covers, the chill of winter wracks his frame as though undulating down his limbs like a serpent of ice. It latches onto him with its tail and constricts, tightly, as if meaning to turn him numb and remove his humerus seamlessly from his socket; but its cutting off of his body heat is quickly dismantled by the approach of another appendage—one that positions itself beneath Tobi’s arm and curls around his back. That appendage; that arm, so eager to free Tobi from his prison of ice, belongs to his lover. 

Sunao drags the brunet closer to his core, chasing away that pernicious snake. For once, Tobi is the one who allows himself to be smaller. The pair of them lay on their side, and Tobi’s head rests on his darling’s chest. The lower half of his face presses on the upper layer of Sunao’s thorax—approximately where the manubrium of the sternum would be. If Tobi were to shift and attempt to listen, he knows he would hear the sound of the insomniac’s heartbeat. It would go thump, thump, thump; like his own revolting heart, snitching on their likeminded passion. 

Tobi’s arms move up and down from where they are on Sunao’s chest. They grab and lightly clench at the fabric of his boyfriend’s thin sweatshirt. He wants to crawl inside. He wants to fill up the space between Sunao’s ribs; he wants to become that aforementioned sternum, as close to Sunao as he can be—

No, he wants to be the very pericardium surrounding that of his beloved’s heart. He wants to be a membrane and enclose Sunao in his embrace, permanently, unable to be removed, physically and metaphorically wrapping his dearest in his own protection and affection. He wants to be within Sunao. Not in any dirty way—in a way of togetherness. In a way of wholeness. In a way that would hopefully be pictured eternity later, painted by great artists of the future, as the most unadulterated depiction of love. He wants it in a way that is impossible. 

Sunao rubs his chin atop Tobi’s head, and exhales out into a soft sigh. His legs tangle with Tobi’s—together, whole, eternal—and chase any doubts of heat in their amalgamated form. Within himself, Tobi feels a sonata of happiness emanating from his soul, filling him with a child-like bubbly feeling that dominates his stomach and encapsulates him in a feeling of bliss. 

Is this what love is? He is a poor soul; he emerged from that alleyway so long ago as a child virtually bare, stripped of whatever sense of tenderness he might have had at that young age. Love—once viewed as an incomprehensible variable of life, an asinine human endeavour, a useless concept undeserving of taking up even an iota of space within his mind—has finally become tangible and understood. A part of himself had always yearned for it, which was a notion he could not admit to himself on even the most cold and calm of nights. Even the eye of the moon, with her beautiful pale light and her shadows that protected him for so long, did not hear so much as a whimper from him. He would not allow himself to cry or reminisce. He wanted to be stronger than that. He wanted to be better than that. Nevertheless—here, someway, somehow—he has found a way to break the song of joy out of his chest, like the first tune of a bird after a desolate darkness. 

Still, Tobi is weak. 

If he were a proper man, he would whisper, “I missed you.” 

If he were a proper man, he would whisper, “I love you.” 

If he were a proper man, he would whisper, “you are the light of my life.” 

“You are my one and only.” 

“You are someone I live for.” 

“You are worth fighting for.” 

“You are…” 

Beautiful, yet strangely ephemeral. 

Ordinary, yet somehow godly. 

I would worship you if you were a kami. I would go to your shrine every night and lay offerings in your name. I would devote myself to you fully. I would be yours. You would be the one guiding light in my life. You would be mine. We would belong to each other. I wouldn’t let anyone else commit themselves to you. 

All unarticulated convictions, and most certainly amorphous convictions he would trip over if he were to voice them. He isn’t eloquent and he won’t ever pretend like he is. Those are thoughts for pen and paper, not the tongue and the lungs. But hopefully, he can find a similar sort of strength with time. 

For now, the brunet allows himself to silently be here with his boyfriend, coexisting in their bed with somnolent bodies and scarred, yet eager hearts. Their arms and legs are wrapped and joined as one; their chests lift and lower with their breaths, moving in tandem; their thoughts are not mixed, as that is unfortunately an illogical feat, but somehow Tobi knows his love is shared and understood, even if all they offer for one another is little more than a twitch of fingers or a quirk of the mouth. 

Even though he does not need to, Tobi presses a kiss to his darling’s skin and allows a short sentiment to fall from his lips: 

“Welcome home, Sunao.” 

~ fin