Work Text:
care
“Do you regret meeting me?”
Tobi does not startle at the voice that manifests behind him. He is not a fool. He heard the footsteps; felt the air shift around him; smelled shampoo on the wind; and was reminded of the taste of chocolate kisses, chaste and sweet, when the intruder opened and closed the sliding apartment door behind him. It isn’t a subtle sound, nor is the other boy particularly skilled at stifling his presence. His abilities are not to the same degree of Tobi’s stealth—he was forced to learn, and learn well until he was perfect, because perfection was necessary to survive.
The brunet takes a long, slow drag of his cigarette. Baku is sleeping, which means he has ample time to make use of this box. When he is done with it, he will discard it in a trashcan on the floor below him. Baku does not need to know about it, after all. He wouldn’t dare attempt this in the daytime, all too aware that his zingai would steal it from him in a heartbeat.
Any average calendar would say that it is the fifteenth of February. Today is the day after Valentine’s Day; albeit, only a few hours past midnight. It is too early for the sane workers getting up in the mornings, too late for the desperate schoolchildren finishing their projects. This isn’t a time of night for casual talk, and they both are aware of that. A part of Tobi—resigned, yet vaguely fond in an alien way he has never felt for anyone before—supposes it is exactly like Sunao to show up when he is most lonely. They understand each other best, regardless of whether they choose to acknowledge such a fact. Tobi should have expected him. He knows all too well the habits that come with his lover’s insomnia. Sunao knows all too well the habits that come with Tobi’s silence.
“What do you mean?” Tobi asks.
He is aware of exactly what Sunao means. Sunao is aware of the fact that Tobi is trying to avoid the question.
His voice comes out low, and a white mist rolls out from his mouth at his words. Several minutes have passed since the other’s question was asked, though neither of them truly mind such a trivial thing. His gaze is fixed on the dark silhouettes of tall city buildings against the backdrop of night blue. There are vertically-rising squares of light watching the steady trail and rumble of cars, and the air is cold enough to seep through Tobi’s jacket as if he were making his way into the ocean and inhaling icy water. But he knows what that feels like, doesn’t he? And this isn’t it.
(The pain of nearly losing someone he deluded himself into believing he could save, all that time ago, still pierces him more violently than any cold wind. There isn’t any “saving” Sunao Fuchi, not if he isn’t willing to be saved. At least now, he tries putting in an effort to improve, even if Tobi can tell that said effort can be lacklustre and unmotivated at times. Slow recovery is better than nothing, though. Perhaps that in and of itself speaks for Sunao’s appreciation for Tobi more than anything else. Being victim to Sunao’s love and effort is a privilege Tobi did not have back then, and is a privilege he feared he might never experience before the other boy vanished from this world.)
…he has never been one to ruminate. That is odd. Love has the tendency to do all sorts of things to someone; so maybe that’s why, for the first time in a long time, Tobi actually looks at the stars and examines them. Perhaps he wants to find something to occupy himself in the stifling silence. He doesn’t want to look at the boy behind him, because he knows Sunao would be looking at him too.
What he notices is that the night sky’s stars are dead. They feel dead and look dead. What a morbid observation. Alas, Tobi knows that this city was not made for them to live amongst bright lights and towering apartments.
Absently, he wonders where the two of them would be if they hadn’t been so messed up in their youths and grew into the shoes of the scarred young men that they are. Would they have moved to another country together? Would they have chosen to end their lives together? Would they have even met at all?
Sunao inhales behind him. Right. Tobi forgot about that one pressing issue—Sunao asked him a question, and he responded with a neglectful question of his own. That’s hardly an answer, and neither is his silence, much as he wants to play pretend that everything is fine and he is a normal boy. Of course, a normal boy uses his words properly instead of going quiet. A normal boy learns that sometimes he should talk with his mouth instead of his fists. A normal boy gets a normal high school job before going to pursue a higher education—equally normal is for that boy to go into a specialized trade. A normal boy does not fall in love with another boy.
Good thing neither of them are normal, then. Tobi very much likes this other abnormal boy, after all.
“Do you?”
“No,” he says, and despite all his hesitation from the start, he knows that it is true. He would never regret meeting Sunao Fuchi, even if it meant his life turned out for the better. Not when staring into his dark eyes makes him feel like he’s a kid again, able to do anything as long as he sets his mind to it. (But they are still kids in some way, aren’t they? What happened to all that time lost?)
At his admission, he hears, rather than sees, a body sidle up next to him. Sunao takes hold of the balcony railing and in Tobi’s mind’s eye, he can guess that he grips the metal so tight his pale skin turns even whiter with the effort. He doesn’t like that. The railing is already cold enough as it is, and now he is putting added stress on his body.
Without speaking a word, and without turning to face the other boy, Tobi slowly removes his fingerless gloves and offers them to the air on his left. They probably won’t do much to warm Sunao up, but it’s all he can think of without giving in to his weaker desires and collapsing into the other’s chest in a hug. He truly wants to be intimate, believe him; but intimacy has never been his forte, and if he wants to shower his boyfriend with all the love he deserves, he first needs to accept how he feels and allow himself to love freely. Allowing himself things has never come easy, especially when he had so little to his name while fighting for Ryuuko.
One too many moments pass in silence before Sunao hesitantly accepts the gloves. Tobi feels the echoes of warmth on his lover’s finger pads, beaten back by the cold. They brush over Tobi’s icy knuckles with ghostlike tenderness, but do not retreat; rather, they stay there, as if in a poor attempt at a hand-hold. It’s shockingly pleasant, and a part of him hates that it feels good. It is already a struggle to not steal Sunao’s hands every time they walk together in public, surrounded by judging people. It would be weak of him to become dependent on that touch, much as he yearns for it.
What is also pleasantly-unpleasant is the realization that if his face weren’t already colored by the cold temperature, he knows he would have turned red in the name of adoration. He isn’t immune to childish, immobilizing love—case in point, offering these gloves when he is aware they won’t help in any way. Instead of commenting on how his own body reflexively stills, his mouth remains stubbornly shut.
It is always a straight line of faux apathy and detachedness these days. He doesn’t know what he will do if he allows himself to open his mouth. What would inevitably come is the unfortunate spilling of pathetic and unbecoming statements, dripping with painful and earnest affection. Essentially, everything that he had hoped to hear as a child. Those words, which would have reverberated a million times over in the dusty cave of his lonely mind, would inevitably latch onto his partner like lovely parasites that have grown to be full of Tobi’s innocent reveries. He isn’t ready for such a reveal. He doesn’t want to acknowledge that part of himself. Not now. Not ever.
Eventually (and all too soon), Sunao takes his hands away. He just needed the gloves, after all. The strange jolt of feeling, pleasant yet unpleasant, has vanished now. Tobi supposes he shouldn’t complain. Gleaned from the familiar sound of rustling, he assumes the job has been accomplished. There is nothing more he needs to do. Still, he feels as if he has lost something.
He pushes it out of his mind. What he feels is unimportant. The only thing that matters is that he can rest easy having given the other his gloves, even though he knows any attempts at finding warmth in them will be futile. Intent on avoiding his boyfriend’s stare—which he feels as tangibly as a violent blow to the back of the head—he stubbornly continues to look upon the dark city skyline. Perhaps there is another world in which he is confident enough to meet Sunao’s gaze; a world in which he can take the other by his cheek, hold him close by his waist, and lean in for a passionate kiss. Perhaps there is another world in which he can allow himself to love freely, uninhibited, selfishly. Perhaps one day, he will find himself in that world.
He wants to be in that world now, but he knows that in order to pave his way to that existence, he must allow himself to be vulnerable—however, he fears that is something he cannot afford. The mere notion of it is sickening. With vulnerability comes risk. With risk comes reward, true, but also pain and regret. To avoid any ill scenarios, the most he can offer is the little love that he has, in subtle gestures of appreciation, no matter how small or insignificant those gestures may seem to himself. Sunao is the romantic one of the two. He probably understands the words that go unspoken.
The abject sincerity that Tobi projects in calculated glances across the living room couch, and the movies he buys on sale; the hidden intent found in food, where Tobi will always prepare something specialized for him even if the brunet knows Sunao may not finish his portion of dinner; the love that comes to be via careful strokes of the hand when they lay together in bed, and the warm tangling of their legs under the thick covers…
He hopes Sunao can see it all. Tobi feels as if his heart is bursting; full of unadulterated adoration that makes itself known through his actions, but not his words. He cares for Sunao and tries to provide for him as much as he possibly can, and prays that what he does is enough to make himself worthy of the obvious devotion that shines in Sunao’s eyes, brighter than any light. Tobi can see it, clear as day—he would have to be a fool not to see that affectionate glimmer… but he doesn’t know what he did to deserve that, even months before they officially got together.
What did Sunao see in him back then? What does Sunao see in him now? He is nothing more than a writhing newborn, fresh from the womb, every second wanting to cry out in self-imposed discomfort despite himself. He is too scared to act on unfamiliar feelings. He is too scared to explicitly admit his love. He is too scared to do what needs to be done.
…he feels something uncomfortable in his mouth. Withholding a sigh, Tobi looks down at the point of his nose, and narrows his eyes at the existence of the forgotten cigarette. Right. That was a thing.
“I don’t regret meeting you,” he says, removing the stick from mouth. He flicks it to the ground in one practiced motion, and before it can catch onto anything that may be flammable, he crushes it into a disgusting smear with the toe of his shoe. The brunet feels a little bad. He’ll have to take a broom out here to remove the litter, if only so he doesn’t upset Ryuuko (and risk Baku finding out the remains belonged to him).
“In fact, I’m glad I met you.”
“…really?”
The cityscape is very interesting tonight. Tobi focuses on a specific apartment building farther away, noting its distance from his current location and how long it would take for him to get there via rooftop. Unsurprisingly little time. The roofs and alleyways are his territory, after all. He wonders what his boyfriend would do if he were to climb over the railing and disappear into the shadows forever, chasing after that ghost he calls a brother.
“…you complete me,” he mumbles, and says nothing more even as he feels Sunao move closer to him, expectantly, in their shared space. His presence is both suffocating and very much welcome. Tobi still does not abduct his eyes, intent on staring at the bright lights of some faraway apartment.
In the heavy silence, Sunao sniffles. Tobi feels a little bad—it isn’t particularly warm out here, and it’s not like he has checked his phone to see how long he has been standing. Maybe he should usher the other inside, so he doesn’t suffer from a cold later. Sunao being sick wouldn’t just affect his state of being. It would also negatively affect Tobi’s state of being.
All the same, Tobi is also an idiot. As much as he knows he should look over at Sunao and get him inside the apartment, he also doesn’t want to look into said lover’s eyes; because for certain, his vulnerabilities and pathetic desires will come to light the moment he lays his dilated pupils over the other boy. Oxytocin and dopamine are snitches on his deceivingly innocent heart. He knows this, just as he knows that he is equally as foolish for his own avoidance.
But what if he looks over and doesn’t see that innocent heart of his reflected in his lover’s eyes? What if he sees hatred? Worst of all—what if he sees nothing?
At his core, with his full heart being considered: Sunao does not hate him, and perhaps never will. His love is too strong, too pure to despise the one he adores without damning reason. Tobi is aware of this.
At his core, with the full knowledge of who he is as a person: Tobi is an inexperienced, clueless boy, and perhaps always will be in the context of love. His love is too strong, and he is far too fearful of what tends to come with negative consequences. Tobi is aware of this, too.
He has always been feeble and stupid despite his violent grapple with life, with an equally feeble sense of mental strength. He projects his corporeal strength to hide that frailty, but now he must join the curtain call of this show of blasphemy and face his audience.
A childish part of him fears that perhaps Sunao will turn away when he realizes just how weak Tobi really is… after all, why would Sunao want to be cared for by a person who can’t even face his own problems? He needs someone to support him; someone who isn’t as unwell as Tobi is, someone who can be normal and help Sunao become normal, too. (But Tobi loves all of his boyfriend’s little quirks that make Sunao himself, and to see that go away… it would break his heart.)
Unfortunately, he doesn’t quite have a choice on whether he should be looking at Sunao or not—his heart makes the decision for him when the other boy sniffles once more. He can’t stand the notion of Sunao getting sick. With a resigned sigh that betrays far more concern that he intended to make evident, he forces himself to cut his losses and face the problem at hand. He can take Sunao inside, maybe try to feed him something warm, tuck him under the covers, and…
…
…
…
…and, well, he isn’t quite sure what else to think.
Those sniffles, he now realizes, were not as a result of the cold, though the temperature might have had some part in the production of the noises. No, the pathetic sounds were due to wet eyes and a runny nose—both of which are covered; the former by eyelids and the latter by a twitching, scarred hand.
Sunao is crying.
“Fuchi?”
In his right hand, the dark-haired boy caresses Tobi’s gloves, with a focused intensity that one could almost say is more like scratching. The material is being gripped with such strength that Tobi can see a tremor in his balled fist. He notices that the fist is also done incorrectly. His thumb is tucked inside, trapped under the other phalanges. If he were to punch Tobi, he could cause damage to his thumb, potentially breaking or dislocating his right pollex. He should fix his form.
At that, a suddenly-obvious fact strikes Tobi rather belatedly—the gloves are in his singular hand, not on his plural hands. The other boy must have been playing with the material of the gloves rather than putting them on, which makes sense considering the rustling sounds that he was hearing earlier. He had mistakenly believed that his boyfriend was trying to pull them over his fingers.
Sunao sniffles again, and he clenches his fingers harder on the hand that isn’t covering his nose. His short, chewed-down nails dig into the skin of his palm, yet avoid the material of the gloves as if he cares more about Tobi’s property than himself. Tobi worries that he will make himself bleed, even more than he already has with the rough treatment of his skin. By the lateral nailfold on three of his fingers, the epidermis has been pulled and stripped down the side, almost to the proximal fold. Even his hyponychium has fallen victim to his picking.
Not that Tobi is any better. Every time he sees the state of Sunao’s hands, he becomes self-conscious of his own scars and excoriation tendencies. He knows it’s harmful, yet still does it.
“Fuchi, did I say something wrong?” he asks, even though he isn’t sure that he truly did anything against the other’s expectations. Sunao had asked if Tobi regretted meeting him, and he responded to disprove that fear of his. What could have possibly set him off? Was it the fact that he hesitated?
Shit, that must be it. I should have answered him immediately. It must have looked like I was giving an untrue opinion because of how long I took. I’m a fucking idiot—
“N—no, you didn’t…” Sunao interrupts his train of thought and this time, the sound he lets out is a breathless laugh rather than a sniffle or a sob. He stares down at the ground with a strange smile on his face. His gaze looks glassy, evident of being deep in thought. It feels as if he is staring at something far away, even though the distance from his face to the ground really isn’t that remarkable.
“Then why—?” Then why are you upset? He doesn’t need to finish his sentence for his lover to understand what he means, thankfully. He hates that all he can do is choke on his own words like a fool, unable to elaborate even though speaking should be simple. (There it is once more—it should be simple, but then again, Tobi is not normal and never will be normal. He was not made for romance.)
The older boy swallows. For some reason, its sound seems to be exacerbated in the quiet of the night. Perhaps that is because Tobi is focusing on his boyfriend’s every moment with a near-anxious fixation—but that isn’t really different compared to the mornings or afternoons, now is it? He is always paying attention to this boy.
Sunao inhales, then exhales out in what might seem like a dismissive sigh to anyone else, but which Tobi understands is ultimately fond. “Your gloves. Tobi, you…”
He stops himself there. He squares his lips, as if deep in thought and considering how to proceed with his statement. Then, he blinks down at the material of the floor they are standing on, as if to take note of every stain and crack on its surface.
He doesn’t say anything for quite a while. Tobi looks down at the ground, too, in hopes of seeing what he sees; but there is nothing there, just the material of the building’s balcony that is the same as every other balcony that all the other tenants on this floor have. It isn’t anything special, unlike the boy next to him.
So, he chooses to place his gaze somewhere else, somewhere more meaningful and deserving of his attention—
…only to realize that not only is he staring at Sunao, the boy is also now staring at him.
His eyes are what Tobi notices first. The smile on his boyfriend’s face tells a story in and of itself, but thanks to his sympathetic nervous system, his expanded pupils are the structures that truly betray his thoughts. In this moment, his eyes act far more traitorous than the curve of his mouth, because he knows there are chemicals at play. Oxytocin and dopamine, the “love chemicals” that he childishly feared were only felt by him. They play a part in the delightful way he looks at Tobi now, which is one that begets love and thoughtfulness. Surely, hidden within the lively spark of his normally-dead irises, lie even more affectionate musings that Tobi is far too much of an amateur to decode.
Tobi also notices that his smile is real; the telltale crinkling of skin, as well as his cheeks pushing up against his eyes, are all signs of a Duchenne smile. He feels as if he is undeserving of that gaze and this smile. Truly, what has he done for Sunao to love him in this way? Why does he think that Tobi is actually worth anything in this world? All he does is destroy.
He doesn’t understand it at all; therefore, when Sunao breathes out shakily, and asks:
“Tobi, why do you like me?”
…well, he just can’t come up with a response.
Hard to do that when you wonder the exact same thing, but vice versa—with the addition of being socially inept.
There isn’t a simple “yes” or “no” answer to this question. An additional damning truth is the fact that Tobi is not and never will be a wordsmith, so even if he could answer an affirmative or a negative, he would be incapable of elaborating on what he meant. He cannot pretend to be well-spoken here. Sunao would catch a verbal fumble as easily as Tobi catches the bugs in their apartment that Sunao is too scared to reach for. Which is to say, pretty easily.
He doesn’t know what to tell his boyfriend without sounding like a fool. Because, being the love amateur that he is, how does he put into words his affection?
There are syllables stored within his chest, thumping with every beat of his heart. They tell him to be honest; to tell Sunao exactly how he feels, to pull that organ out from the rest of his blood vessels, and offer his vulnerabilities up on a silver platter. Really, Tobi knows that one notion is obvious: if he were to dig his nails into his fascia—or squeeze his heart in the palm of his hand, with intent to burst—he would remain assured that Sunao would take those hands of his away before he could commit such an atrocity unto himself. That is the extent of his love. He would never allow Tobi to do that to himself. Neither would Tobi allow his lover to feel any pain if he had a choice in that sort of matter. But why is the real question, not what.
Tobi is an idiot. He doesn’t have any semblance of an understanding of how to talk about how he feels. Feelings are a weakness—but at the exact same time, they can be what gets one through an otherwise unbearable day of work, and the physical exertion that may come with his work. Tobi knows that well; one too many days have come and gone where, if it weren’t for Sunao, he thinks he might not have made it through the night in one piece. Just like words, he does know that actions can be powerful. Being embraced in a hug, or offering a chaste kiss, or even holding Tobi’s hand are all actions that Sunao has done, which ultimately made Tobi feel better even if it seemed impossible to improve in the moment.
If I can, somehow, use my body in some meaningful way, like he can do…
…he considers it, just for a moment. At the end of the day, would Sunao truly care that Tobi is an idiot or an amateur who struggles to speak affectionately? This is Sunao Fuchi; the boy who had pined for Tobi even when Tobi struggled to understand the concept of loving another human being in such a way. Doesn’t Sunao care for him the way he is, regardless of his flaws? Isn’t his love unconditional? Tobi’s very life force is in his hands, and yet he does not ravage it—he nourishes it.
Why else would Sunao be here, if he didn’t love Tobi with all his heart?
Is it possible for me to just… show him? he wonders.
It is a very simple concept. So simple that it’s almost funny; so simple that it’s stupid, but also so simple that it has a chance to work.
Maybe he can use his hands—something tangible, something he can control, something that makes sense to him—in order to explain why he cares for this strange, lovely boy. He knows his hands more than he knows his heart.
Tobi swallows his spit and then clears his throat, staring into Sunao’s eyes. That hopeful and expectant spark of light pulls him in, like a moth to a brilliant flame—but this flame does not weaken and consume, it melts that which is frozen and heals. That fire, which might’ve been yellow in some faraway timeline, compels him to confess all that he holds locked up inside. Tobi is a man of contempt divulging his sins at a confession booth, and he will entrust Sunao with his damning weakness, just this once. (And perhaps, one day, he will be able to trust himself to love every day, strongly and unadulteratedly.)
Why do I like Fuchi?
There are too many reasons that he could respond with. I like you because your smile is beautiful, he could say. Your eyes are captivating when something excites you. I like how your body becomes less tense when we watch movies together, or when we lay down in bed and hold each other. I like you because you try to look after Ryuuko in your own way. Those compliments go on forever, because his love is as limitless as infinity. He can’t list them all, but he will try his best to explain his reasoning quite simply, if only so he can get this heavy feeling off his chest and see Sunao’s anxieties dissipate.
“I like you because…” He pauses. His breath is caught in his esophagus, curling around in that little tube and causing his stomach to feel uneasy.
Right. Stupid amateur.
Just say something.
Sunao’s smile remains as kind as ever, but with Tobi’s hesitation, it almost appears to grow a tad faint—even though his expression doesn’t seem to change much at all. A bright, powerful flame takes a lot more than a drop of water to be extinguished; but not only that, he is also very good at keeping up appearances. He has practice.
Tobi inhales, stalling for time like the pitiful creature he is, then sighs. He bites his lip and opens his mouth as if to speak; however he closes it soon after, and instead of going on and embarrassing himself once more with his verbal inadequacy, he takes Sunao’s left hand, which is now free. He doesn’t care that it might have traces of nasal fluid—he thinks it’s good that it isn’t covering his boyfriend’s face anymore. It is far too pretty to be hidden.
He presses the pad of his thumb over the scarred skin, absentmindedly rubbing the pollex in comforting circles as he moves to take Sunao’s other hand. His gloves are still trapped in the other’s clutches, but he pays those objects no mind.
“You’re thoughtful,” Tobi murmurs. He can almost physically feel Sunao’s eyes questioningly staring at him, beating him down; but he ignores that look and instead stares down between them. He adjusts his grip on their joined hands, so their palms are making contact and his own fingers curl around Sunao’s pinky. The gloves in Sunao’s right hand are caught in the space between their palms.
He runs his thumb over his boyfriend’s left hand in one long, even stroke. He doesn’t think about committing the motion at all—he simply does it, as if it comes to him as second nature. “You… you make me feel… warm, somehow. I don’t know…”
Stupid. ‘I don’t know’? You do know, but how do you explain it…?
Nevertheless, he continues on, ignoring the rattling thoughts in his head and instead focusing on the contact between his boyfriend’s hands and his own. He moves the thumb on his right hand back and forth, horizontally stroking the skin of Sunao’s left hand several times.
Then, he pauses, and shifts his index finger to swipe over the older boy’s wrist—one, two, three times—as he speaks.
“You see something in me, even when I can only perceive… well, nothing. I’m empty. Dark. Devoid.”
He looks at the small, thin line on Sunao’s right hand. It’s a paper cut from earlier, when he and Ryuuko were making origami hearts. He remembers how Sunao had blushed, quite bashful, as he gave Tobi a piece of red, heart-shaped paper. That blush deepened when Tobi returned his gesture with a chaste kiss on the hand.
The scarlet that blossomed over his face was a beautiful, rosy blush, like a freshly-picked flower from a well-kept garden. Tobi would say it was much more vibrant than the origami that he was gifted—at the very least, in his opinion it was more eye-catching. In the moment, however, all he could think about was how Sunao had hurt himself in the process of creating it. He appreciated the intent, but disliked the cost of yet another scar on his boyfriend’s skin—even if it was an unintentional, insubstantial mark.
He follows the unfortunate cut all the way to its happy end, and his eyes continue to wander over pale skin until he meets deep black, unlike the color of his lover’s scar tissue. He belatedly remembers that gloves exist, and that he has them. Or rather, he had them, and then gave them to his beloved.
He looks up at the other boy. “Why didn’t you put the gloves on?”
Sunao smiles, but this time it is a look that is almost pitiful.
“Tobi. My hands are too big for them.”
…right.
“…oh.”
Sunao does a weird thing, then: he giggles, and moves his face a little closer, perhaps in childlike glee. His eyes are alight, his flame burning ever bright and tempting his loyal moth to fly closer. His smile, too, is sweet; it’s so soft and obviously affectionate that its existence is almost unbearable. It’s pleasant, overly so. It makes Tobi uneasy because to let that smile live on forever is all that he wants. He wants to follow his insectile instincts, fly into the flame, be consumed and reborn and finally take what he has been yearning to feel for so long…
But he knows he should not. He is supposed to be that loner moth, not allowed to taint that glorious flame with his filthy body.
“But you gave them to me anyway,” Sunao continues. He lets out a short laugh, beautiful as a chime, which tears Tobi out of his embarrassing train of thought. He acts like an idealistic child, all for this boy.
“You didn’t think about the differences in our hands, and you gave your gloves to me immediately. Why was that?”
“Well, you seemed cold, so…” He trails off, suddenly unsure what to say. He didn’t want Sunao to get sick, yes, but that wasn’t all of it. He wanted to give a part of himself to the other boy so long as it could do something for him. Instead of acknowledging this verbally, he chooses to stare down at his hands.
If he wants to get out of this, he should try to escape. He makes a weak attempt to do so; but the moment he tenses his fingers, Sunao tightens his hold to prevent him from moving.
“Tobi, you… really do care, don’t you?”
Sunao is metaphorically holding him down. If he truly wanted to, he could easily break their handhold and make his way into the apartment once more, avoiding the inevitable and souring his relationship with the one he loves most.
Which is stupid.
Tobi can’t lie to himself, not really—and he doubts he could lie to Sunao any easier, as doing such would place immeasurable guilt upon his heart. All he can do here is suck it up and face the music, regardless of whether he wants to or not.
For all his talk about being some kind of detached loner, he really is putty when it comes to Sunao Fuchi, isn’t he?
“Yeah.”
He swallows with abject anxiety, slowly trailing his eyes from Sunao’s pale yet beautiful hands to his chest, covered by his usual letterman jacket, and then to his lover’s captivating, pretty face—scars and all, because they make his boyfriend that much more unique.
“I care about you a lot.”
When Tobi leans in, it’s unintentional. He knows that when Sunao does it, the motion is not a mistake. He wants to match what Tobi did.
They both know what the other wants. The real question is whether either of them are willing to act on those wants and finally cross the one boundary that they haven’t yet eliminated—a kiss on the mouth, avoided in all scenarios since they got together. After all, what is too much? They both fear it, yet are equally knowledgeable that it is impossible to overcome that fear without trial and error.
Tobi does fear it—he fears that he is overthinking things, seeing reciprocation that doesn’t actually exist. Maybe when they kiss, Sunao will come to the conclusion that he doesn’t actually desire the same thing. It would sting, but he would accept it. He wants to cater to any boundary he may set.
They both fear a negative consequence, but at the same time, Tobi doesn’t think he can last another day; let alone a week, or a month, or a year. He thinks he wants to fall into that world where he can meet Sunao’s loving gaze with confidence; where he can hold him tight and kiss him with everything he has. He wants to be in that world of free love now; because there really is no time like the present, and if Sunao is leaning in too, that must mean…
“Fuchi, I… I like you because…”
Tobi moves closer, breathes in the same air his darling does, and studies the way Sunao’s eyes go lidded. His lips part ever-so-slightly, as if in anticipation.
Doesn’t he want this too?
“…you’re perfection itself.”
Tobi removes his left hand from the dark-haired boy’s loosened grip, and his gloves fall to the ground, now worthless. The sound of the fabric is muted behind the heartbeat that pounds in his ears, because now his hand is cupping Sunao’s face and the other boy is pressing his cheek into the palm affectionately. The gloves aren’t important now. Only the couple’s fate is important.
Don’t do it. You can’t come back from this. If you do it, and it isn’t good, he’ll hate you forever and you will be alone again, just like before—
…
…
…
…but he wants to be foolish.
He wants to taste the flame.
“Can I—?”
“Yeah.”
When Tobi leans up on the tips of his toes and presses his lips to Sunao’s to initiate a kiss, there are no fireworks. There is no spark of lightning, no dramatic singing from the heavens, no atmospheric rain falling down around them like protagonists in a romantic movie. There is only the erratic beating of his heart, like a frantic animal in a cage; one that wants to break free, and do more despite its restrictions.
It isn’t wet. It’s a dry thing, with only the barest hint of saliva as their lips slide together. It isn’t particularly special, other than the fact that this is their first kiss. It is neither erotic nor thought-provoking. Not in the slightest. It’s a kiss shared by two people who have never kissed anyone else before. It’s inexperienced and anyone else would think of their kiss as downright laughable, and as Tobi pulls away to gaze into his boyfriend’s eyes, he thinks Sunao is the best thing he has ever had the opportunity to taste in his life.
They catch their breath for a few moments before Tobi speaks again.
“…that was… anticlimactic,” he goes. Sunao blinks confusedly, as if dazed by such a simple kiss. Maybe Tobi should do it more often, push him further, see what he will look like when Tobi actively tries to steal air for himself… Sunao blinks several more times in succession before his eyes widen and he blushes, as if he forgot his own embarrassment.
The older boy licks his lips. “Y—yeah.” His words are shaky, and Tobi is glad he is the reason for it—not because of self-hatred or fear.
“…”
“…”
Sunao shuffles on the ground, but never breaks eye contact.
This is awkward, Tobi thinks.
He does not look away, either.
“…”
“…”
Someone on the floor below opens their balcony door. The sound is horrifyingly loud in the quiet of the night, and Tobi would wince if he didn’t have other important things on his mind.
“…you wanna do it again?”
“Please.”
With little hesitation, Tobi presses closer; wrapping his arms around Sunao’s shoulder as he leans on the tips of his toes, and locking their lips once more. He only has the time to process one comprehensible thought before he gets swept up in the feeling of their second real kiss:
No, there will never be a universe where I regret meeting you.
~fin