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Sugilite is not a weak man.
And yet, he finds it extraordinarily difficult to keep it that way when faced with your unconscious form. No matter where and when he is, there is minimal difference. No differentiating the subtle hitch in his breath that always comes with watching—witnessing—you in such a peaceful, idle state. It often feels like a sight not meant for him. He often chooses not to care; indulging in the steady rise and fall of your chest and the rhythmic beat-beat-beat of your heart’s function under his ear and imagining for a moment as he pulls you closer that you two were made from the same star. Even wondering if you could fill the empty space in his heart torn when the celestial body so messily split. It has ached for so long he has become willing to believe in miracles such as this.
Other times, he does (care, that is); watching yet keeping the distance held tight so as to not disturb, to not subject you to the whims of another cruel god. Or looking and looking on at that very thing before him, lazily draped across the cooled floor in a rare hour of peace. The vulnerability of the position is, for once, perfectly reasonable—your guard is dropped because there is no need for one. Sugilite thinks right then that for all your divinity, you don’t look very holy when you’re sleeping. You just look tired.
Despite having come for something, he lets the wind and time pass you by. The gold of his various accessories clinks just slightly as he comes to lean against a pillar while he waits. He sighs.
He shouldn’t care. And yet he does.
Very little of the softness he held in his palm then survives to morning. But it’s the memory that counts, isn’t it?
Just like this one—right now.
You look stupid, really. Your hair would probably wind up in his mouth if he left it open. Speaking of your hair, it’s messy bordering on raggedy, deprived of a much-needed trim to get rid of the split ends. He can’t even rearrange it himself, since both his hands have spent the better part of an hour being clasped in yours. Wrapped around your softer midsection, Sugilite’s arms remain dug well into the distinct warmth that radiates from you as his eyelids grow heavy, threatening to give in to the drowsiness that has already overtaken you. His breaths have long since slowed, anyway. You’ve always had that sort of effect on him; it’s a miracle he hasn’t fallen asleep first by now.
The hold is pleasant. Of that, he cannot lie. Whatever tension his body once held seems to bleed out of him with no effort, a flow pierced by the bite of your affections. It’s easier than he thought it would be to seep and sink into it, he thinks, tugging you a little closer to nuzzle a little further into the nape of your neck. Ah, he’s done it now, hasn’t he? Given himself even more of you to miss. He knows now that later, when he is to sleep by himself, the sheets will feel cold by mere virtue of being absent of you. He won’t be able to find a substitute. Another’s warmth will be second, always second to yours.
Still, he cannot get lost in pure sentiment forever. This is quite the show of trust on your part. No one in their right mind allows themselves to fall asleep atop Sugilite of all individuals, and you surely possess something else to lean on that feels more like home. Not that he believes such a thing is required for all sleep. But he assumes it would be for the uncharacteristically intimate position you take on now, being such a…rigid—for lack of a better term—person. He could swear you stopped breathing altogether the first time his fingers laced in yours, as if such a touch was foreign to you, even though he knows it isn’t. (Even though he knows you have spent your whole life pushing it away. How funny it is that the only pair of eyes or hands you have ever wanted are, in many ways, the least kind of all.) It surprises even him sometimes, how he ever winded up with someone so—reserved. Sometimes it truly is like you fear something only you can see, and it frustrates a part of him, how it makes you think there is any right or wrong in this when all he wants is the sensation. You so badly want to keep pristine a man already ruined that you fail to notice he is already unmistakably, internally tarnished. Unlike you. Unlike you.
(Of course, this is not true every time. You are both prone to some variation in that, at the very least. But there are many a lives in which Sugilite, a creature of want, would toss aside every gem and metal in the world for—one way or another—you.)
There is…a sort of safety in the absence of your gaze, at times. It does not come to the aid of his crumbling defenses, but it often helps him remain, in that aspect, steady.
For example, Sugilite has never particularly enjoyed public transport. It being before rush hours is the main reason he relented and chose today to take the train home. Or, more accurately, why he let you drag him there on an otherwise perfectly good afternoon. Despite being the typically slower one of the two of you, you covered much more ground tugging him along as you ran to catch the train’s last scheduled departure for another hour, huffing a sigh of relief once you both finally slipped through the sliding doors. The train isn’t crowded—in fact, it’s not even at a fourth of full capacity—but Sugilite takes a seat close enough to you that your shoulders just touch anyway (and you don’t bother pulling away). He watches from his peripheral as you set down your bag and flip open your phone to a turn-based game you tell him about at least twice a week, already tapping at the screen to complete your dailies. After a few moments of this, Sugilite averts his gaze and subsequently settles into a familiar, comfortably quiet routine by taking the moment to rest his eyes. As much as he enjoys the sound of his own voice, a long day of overlapping noise makes him want to hear the sound of either yours or none.
The next time he opens his eyes, it’s to confirm the new distribution of weight on his side. The sight he is greeted with acts as both a gift and a curse; your jaw pressing into his shoulder, upper and lower eyelashes gently pressed together into a curved line, phone lying abandoned by your hands to rest still running on your lap.
It is the first time Sugilite has seen you asleep, and it momentarily yanks the air out of his lungs.
He tries not to fixate on any one detail, tries to not forget (lose) himself, but you’re too striking to completely ignore. The midday sunlight does not help. It pierces the glass window and falls in an irregular pattern around your head and face, creating splashes of—his jaw tenses slightly as he recovers, attempting to gather distance from the moment that just occurred. Over the next few minutes, his chest relaxes, and he turns your phone off to preserve the battery. Air continues flowing, the sun resumes rising, your soft breathing remains slow. The only enduring change is Sugilite’s hand shifted deliberately to lean against yours.
He doesn’t smile just yet, but he can feel a bit of rare warmth already blooming in his chest.
You trust him.
With yourself, if nothing else.
Perhaps this has been key to all your tragedy.