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It’s been a week since you last replied to Tsukishima’s inquiring text, the dreaded: how are you doing?
Which finalized your suspicion that things had been spiralling horribly enough for the facade to melt off your face and mess up every word you thought you had all arranged and memorized in your brain.
Things weren’t going as smoothly enough that your stoic boyfriend Tsukishima, who isn’t much of a texter, was typing out the letters to such a question. You could hear the tone of his voice as he tried to approach carefully, awkwardly, tensed, but persistently.
Just remembering it happening once before after only a week of dating—really the most perfect time to have a prolonged breakdown—makes you cringe through the tears and snot.
It didn’t feel like a week had passed.
You went to all the classes.
Saw the sun in the face every morning and thought that it may save you. It probably was the only thing keeping you from going even further down the black tunnel of doubt and hopelessness.
Went home and pulled off all the articles of clothing because your limbs remembered how to get them off as easily as possible and fell into the bed that was not made for months.
Tsukishima would find it disgusting. So you never told him that you didn’t make the bed, or that you didn’t eat a few meals because you were staring at the ceiling, or that you didn’t see his texts or missed calls because your phone had been discarded somewhere in the room, blacked out, no battery for as long as the cloud in your mind would allow you to remember.
You stared at the weak light that filtered through a gap in your curtains.
It fell on the carpeted floor right where your phone lay facing up, black screen catching a little reflection.
The light moved in an arc, slowly crossing your room.
Then it disappeared.
Night fell.
There was a hunger somewhere. That too fell somewhere in the deep pit of your stomach. You finally blinked and decided to charge the phone.
Dropping onto your knees on the carpet. The rubbing of carpet on your exposed butt felt kind of nice, in a dog-running-its-butt-on-the-floor kind of way…
When did you last shower anyway?
The question faded just before the intention to do something about it could take place. You crawled to the bed and rummaged into the bedside drawer for a neatly tucked-in charger.
At least your room wasn’t a disaster.
There were empty bottles of Pocari Sweat that you had been drinking every time you felt hungry or thirsty—perhaps a mix of both. They were lined up all neatly on the window stool, pressing the curtains flat.
You leaned against the bed, stretching both arms out on the fluffy blanket. Still seated on the floor with only an oversized shirt and your underwear. Reading anything you could make out on the labels of the bottles, breathing heavier when your hungry, thirsty, everything-draining body chose sleep if nothing else was going to be granted.
You woke up thinking you were falling off a bike. It was a very instant, one-second, vivid dream. When you opened your eyes, inhaling sharply through your nose, there was soft lavender gently wrapping you up in his arms.
Oh.
“K-Kei.” You tried to push him. You were already in his arms and he was already carrying you out of your bedroom.
Everything had been quite literally so dark in there that when he brought you out of the shadow and into the living room, the brightness was so striking you turned your face away, squinting. Once again catching a whiff of his perfume you’d always loved.
You’d told him how much you loved it before.
He didn’t say anything until he sat you down on your own couch, reaching over for the throw blanket and pulling it on top of your lap.
“When did you come in here?”
He stood straight. Taller now that you were seated. His face was unreadable, but there was a hint of disappointment that left a pang in your chest. The same one on your older sister’s face when she found you bleeding, eyes empty, failing.
You looked away. Out to the window. It was still dark outside.
When Tsukishima finally moved away to your small kitchen, you looked to the clock on the wall.
It was three in the morning.
You moved to the other corner of the couch and curled up into a ball, facing out the window and looking at your own reflection.
The tears welled up easily.
You have failed again.
The people around you were disappointed again.
Crying in the quiet came effortlessly for you. So effortlessly that when Tsukishima came back and gripped your shoulders firmly enough to turn you around, even he broke the composure he was trying to put up for you.
There,
He didn’t know what to do with you.
“Have this.” He looked down. You caught his jaw clenching just before he sat down and brought up a plate of pancakes.
Pancakes.
At three in the morning.
You scoffed. It sounded like laughter.
He thought so too. His face molded back into his trademark bored Tsukishima look—that this wasn’t affecting him as much as it was.
That he didn’t lose sleep trying to get to you when none of the calls went through. That texts were left on delivered and he waited patiently after each one until every new attempt came quicker than the one before, until he took a taxi to your apartment.
That the utter darkness and quiet didn’t leave him almost giving in to his panic. Leaving the keys you’d copied for him on the outside of the door against his better judgment and skipping straight into your room in big urgent strides.
That he didn’t press a palm on your back, realize how small you felt and how much louder he wanted to hear your heartbeat.
That his hands didn’t shake when he held you in your sleep, thanking everything that you were there again with him before he wrapped you and lifted you.
He looked at you, looked at the pancakes as another silence fell.
Your eyes were red, puffy, hair pressed in an odd way from sleeping face-planted into the bed until a moment ago.
Tsukishima picked up the fork and cut up a big chunk. He thought it was normal—he would take a bite like that. It was normal. So then he practically pushed it into your mouth.
It wasn’t like you were fighting him against eating. But the piece was in fact not normal. Tsukishima just liked to take big bites out of things. And yet you really did try to take the entire bite.
His heart swelled at the sight. The whipped cream was smudging your cheek, but he had to make sure you got everything.
“Isn’t it good?” he asked just before you could even completely close your mouth. Before your lips could even meet.
When you tried to speak, it was incoherent mumbling. More tears falling silently.
“It is that good?” he sounded a little more confident this time, smirking knowingly, eyes warm. One hand cupping your cheek and catching a single tear from falling any further.
You nodded slowly, breaking the piece into manageable chewing in your mouth and staring at the neckline of his sweater.
“When did you co—”
“Have some more.” He shoved another smaller cut.
He kept doing that. When you thought you could really stop him, he sneaked in another bite. Took two bites in total himself, and the rest went into your empty stomach. The plate clean and discarded on the low table.
Tsukishima had settled deeper into the couch, grabbing your waist when you weren’t done chewing yet and hoisting you to sit on his lap.
You frowned, pushing lightly.
“What are you doing here at this hour?” you finally asked. No more crying, but blinking heavily at him.
“Feeding a relative.” He shrugged, hiding the hurt in his eyes with an asshole smile.
You rolled your eyes. He tightened his arm around you.
“Doesn’t update me for weeks, doesn’t read my messages—a relative.”
“Weeks…?”
He tensed at the genuine horror that came to your face, straightening up on the couch because he felt like you were going further away even right here in his arms.
“Felt like weeks,” he tried to say, knowing you wouldn’t fall for a crappy pick-up line, not any day, especially not on the worst day. “Hey.”
He held your face up. He swore he could see the moment your thoughts fought each other behind your eyes—they went away like you commanded them to.
“What are you thinking?” he tilted his head. To be honest, he was desperate. He would do anything. If he only knew what you needed, and if only you would tell him what you needed.
You shook your head and smiled. “I’m okay.”
“Don’t lie to me.” His face dropped. There was no use putting up anything else that was not how he was really feeling. He thought he was going to be the one who hid. Here you were doing it like breathing. “You can’t lie to me. I don’t know when you lie to me. So you can’t lie to me.”
Your lip twitched for a response, but your mind went blank, grappling for it. Tsukishima looked almost angry. As if you’d betrayed him.
“Don’t lie to me. Please.” He repeated, each word firmer. “I deserve to try too, don’t I? Won’t you let me try?”
“I don’t want you to see me like this.” You frowned, hating how logical he sounded, hated how he might just come up with a solution. Hated how you trusted him and feared his opinion of you at the same time.
“I don’t want you to see me like this either, and here we are.” He laughed bitterly, still not letting go.
“See you… making pancakes?” To be fair, your brain was fried.
“I don’t want you to see me losing my shit and going to your place at an ungodly hour to make pancakes—yeah, alright. Making pancakes.” Tsukishima leaned back, one hand leaving your waist to massage the bridge of his nose. He shook his head at the end of it. “You’re driving me insane.”
He saw the way your breath hitched and shoulders tensed.
“Don’t twist it in there.” He tapped onto your forehead gently. “You know what I mean.”
Tsukishima watched you bite your lip. He just knew you were going back to your thoughts anyway. So he took you closer and hugged you, pressing your stubborn face onto his shoulder.
“I want to watch movies with you,” he muttered into your hair. “I want to walk along the river.”
“We haven’t done that in a while.”
“I wonder why.”
He felt you laugh against his chest. It died down to small little sniffles. Tsukishima rested his hand on the back of your neck, stroking slowly, closing his eyes and relishing in the warmth of your body on his. Very real and very close.
The quiet wasn’t deafening anymore. You sobbed quietly into his shoulder. He was going to be there until one day you could be brave enough to cry loud and messily in front of him.
Until then…
“Be with me.”