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Mizuki lies away awake in the dark, propped on his side, fingers gently carding through Yoh’s hair. He gazes down at the younger man, peacefully sleeping, arms wrapped loosely around Mizuki’s waist. The corner of Mizuki’s lips rise in a small, affectionate smile. He bends down enough to kiss the top of his head.
Yoh sighs gently in his sleep, but doesn’t stir.
Lately, Yoh’s been doing this more often, curling around him in bed, face pressing into Mizuki’s chest. If he’s tired enough after sex, he’ll even shuffle up to him, half-asleep and seeking… him.
Mizuki never brings it up, won’t even tease him about it. He’s too worried to draw attention and lose it.
Ever since the typhoon, Yoh has been smiling more, greets him at the door with a ‘Welcome Home’ just like he’d asked.
But yesterday a technical error had disrupted their show and had forced him to stay back, getting home late. Yoh had met him at the door, taken his bag and even looked worried. Mizuki had tugged him into a kiss, indulging in that glimmer of concern before going to wash up.
When he’d returned to the kitchen, towel around his shoulders. He’d leant in close, a hand on the counter as he asked about dinner. Yoh had turned to him, answered, and then, seemingly filled with a burst of confidence, he’d pressed a small kiss to his cheek.
Mizuki had frozen, shocked and with his heart pounding. When he’d come back online, he’d pinned Yoh to the counter, kissing him and not caring if dinner burned.
Even now, his cheek still feels warm.
A caring, unprompted touch—as precious as a terrible curry.
Mizuki’s fingers trail through Yoh’s hair, skimming his forehead—a softer mimicry of when he’d tapped it in college.
This is mine.
“Does this mean you’re mine now, Yoh?” he asks his sleeping lover.
He doesn’t get a response, doesn’t expect one—wants one, with a fervent, gnawing need.
Mine. No one else’s. They can’t have you—can’t touch you.
He buries his face in Yoh’s hair, shutting his eyes to block out that man touching Yoh—to repress the bitter fear of someone catching Yoh’s attention and drawing him away.
Because he’s not kind.
He’s not able to say the words Yoh wrote for him in that manga. He’d tried just reading them, Yoh hadn’t understood. Yoh never understood.
When he’d said: draw me, take a look, I’m in front of you. He’d meant: Yoh would see the things no one else was welcome to witness. He’d let him, and only him, see inside.
When he’d made his proposal: live with me, I’ll provide for you, just do as I say. He’d meant: be mine, I love you, I want no one but you, let me show it to you.
He wants Yoh to want him, love him, need and crave him with the same burning, unceasing fire that Mizuki has blazing eternally in his chest. He stokes the sparks in Yoh’s heart, dragging him close, taking him on sunny days—being considerate in his own way with the rain, with a shirt and coaxing him through a bad day.
He even lets him talk to that woman and leave the house.
He compromises when all he wants is to dig in his fingers, possess and lock Yoh away—but a caged bird will never sing. He just has to trust Yoh to fly back to the nest he’s made for them, to choose it—him—over any other.
But he’s not kind, he’s not gentle. But, Yoh seems to like that, at least a little.
(You like being bullied.
I… think I like it.)
But, only sometimes...
(I hate you. I’ll leave this.)
Mizuki tightens his grip instinctively and Yoh makes a small noise of protest, stirring. Mizuki lets go with a jerk, staring down at Yoh with a spike of apprehension. Yoh’s eyes slit open.
“Mizuki?”
He hides any emotion from his face or voice. “Eh? Go to sleep.”
Yoh blinks tiredly—as innocent and adorable as a kitten.
“Mm.”
His eyes close again and Mizuki expects him to roll away, turn his back on any vulnerability. Mizuki’s prepared to stop it, to yank him back, but Yoh surprises him, he wiggles closer, pushing against Mizuki until he’s on his back and Yoh can splay on top of him.
Mizuki’s breath catches and he stares down at Yoh in shock as his lover snuggles up against him, head on his chest—not drunk and clingy like on the couch, sleep-drunk, maybe, but still vaguely coherent.
“Yoh,” he whispers, voice wavering uncharacteristically.
“Mm,” Yoh hums again, only to sigh, softly and happily, “Mizuki.”
Mizuki swallows around a lump. His hand comes back to Yoh’s hair, patting it tenderly. Yoh drifts back to sleep and Mizuki shuts his eyes, overwhelmed with a warmth that feels too damn hopeful.
A bad curry.
A kiss on the cheek.
A body seeking him, half-asleep, in the night.
“You can’t leave, Yoh,” he says into the darkness, voice rough. “You’re mine, forever.” He almost tightens his grip again, but catches himself in time. He opens his eyes, but doesn’t look at the man in his arms, simply grunting out, “Just love me, already.”
But what he means is: please don’t go, please don’t leave. Love me, only me. I can’t breathe without you. I’ll never survive if you walk out my door.
There is only silence to greet him, so Mizuki shuts his eyes, trying to get some rest—to push down the panic and desperation never far from his heart. But tonight, Yoh is in his arms, rather than just beside him.
So perhaps the winds of change are already blowing clearer weather their way?