Work Text:
dormant
Bright colors flash over Sunao’s face. Luminous white and somber blue, dusty orange and romantic pink—these are all colors that illuminate his pale skin, like sliding overlays upon a digital artwork. Static speaks to him in low tones, as if in an attempt to seduce him to sleep. The world of dreams patiently waits for him. Unfortunately for him, rest will always come as a rarity. His insomnia is an annoyance that robs him of the most natural of human behaviours.
The scenes wash over his skin in the darkness of the living room. Violent, bright, beating at his eyelids as he closes them. He allows himself to imagine for a short moment: if he were a poet, perhaps he would compare the television’s light to that of the sea; of salt water in the open ocean, crashing, loud and desperate, plotting to take him under and swallow him whole. The water would get into his eyes and ruin his vision further, poisoning his lungs and rendering him unable to take in gasps of oxygen. Freezing waves, enveloping him, strangling him with seaweed and stars, the cold seeping into his skin as if the round Moon herself had grown claws and scratched him all over…
Sunao, of course, is not a poet, nor is he feeling particularly inspired at this present time. Rather, he opens his eyes. The longer they are closed, the more detailed his daydreams become painted; and with that, the stronger the tides beat him.
He blinks slowly. This room is bathed in never-ending black, and to him the sliding pictures appear blinding. Despite this, he chooses to stare ahead at the screen blankly, staving away that uncomfortable sense of faux sleep. Regardless of what he does, he will not sleep. He knows he will not. The darkness always takes him, yet never soothes him. Those ghastly visions do not count as real rest.
He has little interest in the show before him. He has seen this particular episode perhaps four times in the past week, and he is not thrilled to see it a fifth time. On the screen, the main character opens his mouth and makes a dry joke, with a can of beer in his hand. His girlfriend laughs. One of his buddies pats him on the back.
The man, and the woman, and the man’s friends bore Sunao to no end. No matter how he looks at it, there is nothing entertaining to be found in this late-night program. To stay would only be evident of sunk cost fallacy. Instead of forcing himself to put up with this episode, he decides he should take the time to make his life slightly less horrible and change what is on screen.
He slips his hands underneath his blanket—a rather thin one, but it has started to get warmer recently and he does not want to die of heatstroke of all things—and searches for the television remote. The pads of his fingers feel around the fabric, blindly searching for the familiar bumps of the buttons. The soft material of his blanket soothes him, just a little bit, but he isn’t in the mood to lay down and pretend to sleep.
He continues searching underneath the blanket, occasionally running his hands along its divots and the rougher texture of the couch. This is a rather useless pursuit. He does not discover anything. He cannot find the hard material of the remote, nor its soft buttons; and at some point, he hooks the nail on his left ring finger around the seamline of one of the couch cushions, simply moving his finger back and forth passively as he continues searching with his right hand. This is a motion born from boredom. Ultimately, he gives himself about five seconds more of grace before he sighs and gives up. He bites his lip and closes his eyes in dismay for several moments. Then, he removes his hands from the blanket’s cage and covers his face with them.
Between the gaps of his fingers, he sees that the girlfriend on screen giggles. Her laugh sounds shrill and fake, grating on his ears as uncomfortably as if she had screamed instead, and Sunao just wants to change the channel. He’ll do anything to find the remote at this rate; and if that endeavour ends up utterly fruitless, he might be forced to pull the plug and turn the television off entirely, just so he can wait for the next program to air.
Click.
It is a faint sound. Sunao hears it nevertheless—it means that a door has opened somewhere past the kitchen. Considering the direction from which the sound came, as well as the soft padding of feet that he has come to recognize during late nights like these, the person walking towards the couch has to be Tobi.
He isn’t quite sure what the two of them are. Certainly, they aren’t anything romantic, much as Sunao pines for the other boy. He isn’t sure if it would work anyhow. He has too many misgivings concerning the notion, because knows that there is something wrong with him. He is too neurotic, too broken, too caught up in his own delusions at the best and worst of times.
He is a leech. He can’t get a job—no sane person would hire him, not with his track record—which means he can’t contribute anything meaningful to the household. He can’t buy food, nor pay any bills, and he is so weak that he can barely do basic chores.
He has nothing left to give, nothing worthwhile to delude himself into thinking he can offer. He wouldn’t bring anything to the table in a romantic relationship.
Tobi would be better off without him, so there isn’t any point in daydreaming about an impossible situation.
The other boy breaks the silence with the production of a low sound in his throat. Not a “hello”, nor a “why are you up?” Not even a “go kill yourself, you waste of space”. Tobi must be too tired to form proper words, and Sunao begrudgingly opens his eyes so he can meet Tobi’s gaze.
Sunao is aware that he should be sleeping, or trying to sleep, in Tobi’s large bed with him, Ryuuko, and Baku. That was the arrangement that had been made, because for some reason Tobi did not want him sleeping on the couch. (The thought that Tobi might actually care for his health is a… well, an interesting one. He doesn’t really know what to think of that, so he discards the idea as soon as it comes to his mind.)
Clearly, Sunao is neither in the bedroom nor is he sleeping. Tobi raises an eyebrow at this obvious transgression of their agreement but makes no comment. He seems rather unamused, actually, and Sunao suddenly gets the feeling that he should turn away—because he has a fear that Tobi is, perhaps, disappointed in him. He shoves his hands under the blanket in self-consciousness.
Tobi must have expected something more out of him, yes? All Sunao had to do was listen to what he had to say. It was a simple request. Not even an order. And yet, Sunao failed to do just that. He can’t even sleep like a normal person.
Here he is: Sunao and his pathetic self, unable to get up from a simple couch as if he were glued down to it. Watching a television show, of all things, in the darkness—alone, of course, like he was before Tobi took him in and alone like how he will probably be when he is kicked out. That feels inevitable, really; he is useless, because he does not cook, he does not clean, he does not do anything of worth. He is a burden on this wonderful boy, who somehow has not found the voice to get rid of him as he rightfully should. Sunao is a stain on his life.
So, why won’t Tobi just tell him to leave? He knows it is coming. It has to be. It will be better for everyone involved if he simply resolves this as soon as possible and removes himself from the other boy’s life. He is a failure in everything, after all. Maybe Tobi would be happy when he is gone.
If Sunao disappeared, Tobi wouldn’t feel obligated to feed and house a criminal bastard…
Tobi clears his throat. Sunao blinks himself into awareness and focuses on him again, questioning and confused. What an idiot, getting caught up in his thoughts like that around another person.
The brunet gestures towards the couch with a lazy hand. Perhaps he is asking something along the lines of “why are you here?” Maybe Sunao should interpret the motion as “get the fuck off of my couch”. He has no idea. Sunao isn’t actually sure of anything when Tobi Otogiri is involved―at least, he isn’t sure of anything other than how deep his longing and affection runs for the other boy.
When he spends time around Tobi, his chest feels full-to-bursting with warmth, as if the Sun were nestled between his lungs in that mediastinum, replacing his heart. This impossible warm feeling, reminiscent of a long-lived sunset during summer, always causes him to feel a fluttering deep inside and brings about an imperceptible trembling in his extremities. His hands twitch without meaning. His feet have the impulse to move about. His fingers, like extensions of the Sun’s rays, yearn to hold onto that warm ball of love—yearn to hold onto that image of what he desires, to hold onto Tobi, to take his hand and interlock their digits—no matter how pathetic that yearning may be.
Sunao cannot help it. What he feels seems inherent, like a law or fact of life as simple as one plus one being equal to two. That Sun in his chest loves to play with his heartstrings, knowing that the warmth of his body will never amount to anything as long as he is the pathetic man that he currently is. He will never have Tobi. In fact, he doesn’t even deserve to be in Tobi’s presence. There is no world where he should achieve what he wants, because he is scum, and whatever love he feels would surely only bring Tobi misery if he were to distribute it. The day that Tobi finally breaks and admits to how much he despises Sunao with all his soul will also be the day where the Sun tugs too harshly on those tendinous cords, and he collapses into a pile of worthless limbs—exactly what should be expected of him, for daring to dream and pine after something so precious.
Because Tobi is exactly that: precious. He is brighter than any star, a coveted shining light amid the laughable darkness that is Sunao’s existence. And who is Sunao—disgusting disgrace of a human being—to taint that precious boy? He should keep his hands to himself and spare everyone the trouble.
Unfortunately for him, Tobi doesn’t seem to get Sunao’s internal memo. Before the taller boy has the chance to question what Tobi meant by his languid gesturing, the brunet stalks his way ahead and places his own hands on the thin grey blanket… which just so happens to be a location directly on top of his own, just barely separated by the blanket’s fabric.
Tobi leans forward, pressing the pads of his fingers with slightly more force. Their faces are now fairly close together, enough so that if Sunao were to lean in too, maybe tilt his head a tad and close his eyes…
Sunao blushes at the intrusive thought. He wonders if the brunet can feel his bewildered heat creeping through the material.
One of Sunao’s fingers twitches, the only evidence of an excitement left stifled. Tobi narrows his eyes. He looks at Sunao with a strange expression, one that seems caught between annoyance and something else that he doesn’t think he can name. He doesn’t think he would want to, either, even if he were capable—because he is a coward, and he wants to stay hopeful that perhaps Tobi likes him more than he lets on.
Sunao opens his mouth to speak, but the other boy interrupts him by letting out a deep sigh and unceremoniously grabbing the blanket. Sunao barely has any time to react before Tobi lifts the fabric up, revealing the taller boy’s long black pants and his signature black sweatshirt with the white cat embroidery (both of which he wears in spite of summer for the sake of hiding his unruly scars). At once, he is embarrassed. Here he is, on full display for Tobi to judge…
Quickly, while Sunao is mentally incapacitated by the idea of why Tobi may possibly want to be in his presence, the brunet inches closer and moves the blanket to the side to clump around the dark-haired boy’s lap. Tobi slides in, slotting himself next to Sunao quietly, and dragging the blanket to rest over both of their forms.
Sunao blinks to himself, unable to come up with anything to say. His head has become a mess of overlapping thoughts, twisting and turning into tight knots like his stomach also seems to be doing. He doesn’t understand why Tobi is this close to him. Why is he sitting here? Why has he chosen to leave his warm, comfortable bed for this stiff couch? What is the point in being here?
There is no point—Sunao is a lonely, despicable mess of tangled feelings, emotions overflowing like the growth of thick vines upon dying trees. There isn’t anything meaningful about him. There is nothing he can offer.
So why, just why is Tobi scavenging around the couch cushions like Sunao had been doing earlier?
Without a word, the brunet manifests the television remote from the depths of the couch as if acquiring it was simply a walk in the park. Tobi offers Sunao a glance as he passes it over, and he is absolutely dumbfounded. He doesn’t know what to think about the fact that the other’s gaze is uncomfortably unreadable.
Why is Tobi doing this?
Sunao stares down at the remote for several moments, unable to fathom a motive behind Tobi’s current presence. Noticing his hesitation, the brunet slowly reaches his hand in the direction of the rectangular object—and Sunao expects him to take the remote back in annoyance, and choose a channel, only for the boy to rest his scarred fingers over Sunao’s longer ones.
Slowly, Sunao lifts his head.
Tobi looks into his eyes. Hard rubies, chiseled by years of violence and loneliness, voluntarily fly into the endless black abyss of the night. One may wonder why the ruby would bother. The night is full of horrid creatures; organisms that hurt others, regardless of the presence of malintent, yet the ruby embraces it nonetheless.
And the abyss, full of love…
…
…
…
…well, not all love has to be spoken into existence to be understood.
Sunao inhales slowly, like a man waiting on death row for his inevitable demise. He closes his eyes as he does so. It is a calm thing—because there is nothing more he can do, is there? He may as well accept things as they are, much as he doesn’t want to. He knows how Tobi is, and he supposes the other boy will not stop until he quells Sunao’s loneliness. It is three in the morning, and he no longer has the energy to fight with himself.
He swallows, and with an exhale, he opens his eyes and changes the channel. Even then, Tobi does not remove his fingers from Sunao’s hand. It remains an uninvasive, gentle touch upon his skin, reminding him of the other’s presence as an unlikely reflection of the headstrong gemstone that he is.
He knows that he is an abhorrent human being, but he will take advantage of this undeserved kindness nevertheless. Somehow, the object of his affections is willing to keep him around, remaining in his presence with feeling, but without words…
And Sunao is a selfish man in love.
~ fin