Chapter Text
Hirose is not going to let the month slip by.
He refuses to let the month slip by.
He’s sitting at his desk, banging his head against it out of sheer, raw frustration, as if punishing himself because his sharp but limited creativity can’t come up with anything to undermine his dilemma, or as if trying to shake loose the light of insight by striking himself in hopes of extracting it from some deserted crevice.
Is it too much to ask for a measly kiss from his boyfriend? His. Boyfriend?
Well, although he should understand the psychology of who he got involved with. With Nakamura, he learned that he must exercise a thorough grasp of patience.
At first, he had convinced himself that Nakamura abhorred physical displays of affection. Hirose couldn’t quite wrap his head around it, because he was inexperienced in areas like love and how to properly nurture, care for, and cultivate a relationship; so, in his view, being in a relationship was the equivalent of being plastered to each other like two pieces of gum most of the time. Hirose, of course, didn’t mind, because there was a reason he’d wanted to declare himself Nakamura’s boyfriend. In fact, he did want to cling to the slanting branches of Nakamura’s ribs like a koala, twenty-four hours a day. It was a need that hadn't been fostered by anyone else: with others, he'd be seized by that feeling of craving a portion of solitude, of isolating himself and taking a break from their "camaraderie," but with Nakamura, that feeling never came over him.
It was a great surprise to suppose that Nakamura, perhaps, didn't want the same. Why did he reach that conclusion? Because when Hirose tentatively approached him, making his move with an undisguised shift as he awkwardly slid—or almost dragged—his butt to brush against his shoulders or press his knee against the other’s, what would that set off? That Nakamura would become impossibly rigid, contracting as if a malevolent spell had taken effect and transformed him into a knot of muscles that abandoned their elasticity as they were buried in the cruelty of the harsh cold, a cold counterfeited and replicated by that curse. That, obviously, would frighten him and make him establish a prudent distance, because he didn't want to make Nakamura uncomfortable, or dare to impose his whims when Nakamura felt nothing but aversion or weariness towards them.
How could he not be convinced that Nakamura was annoyed or disliked physical contact if he reacted like that? Like when you stroke a cat's belly and it swishes its tail from side to side to proclaim its anger. Okay, that's a somewhat exaggerated comparison since Nakamura never actually made a face; he just tightened his lips as if they had become a taut guitar string and expanded his eyes until the narrow, deep black circle became a piercing dot amid the predominantly whitish sea of the sclera, maintaining, without movement, without wavering, the static vigilance of whatever panorama lay before him, as if his unyielding pupils, barely distinguishable as they blended with the innate darkness of his eye color, were the sight of the weapon he aimed so that his enigmatic—and likely imaginary—target would not retreat without being brought down.
That’s what was known as a tense expression, and usually, when someone became tense, it was because something was bothering them or they didn’t feel entirely comfortable with some action directed toward them.
So he kept his distance, or satisfied his thirst for closeness with mere fleeting touches; something that wouldn't disturb him. But even so, Nakamura grew tense, and Hirose understood it less and less. It wasn’t until he talked it over with his sister that he gained a partial understanding of the issue.
Everyone has their own way of loving. That doesn't mean they don't love you, it just means they love you according to their own concept of loving. Not everyone shows love in the same ways, nor does everyone feel loved in the same ways.
His sister introduced him to a term he had never heard before in his life: the love languages. In addition to that enlightening, illuminating explanation, she pointed out that, just as different parts of the world had their own languages for communicating, the same was true of love. Love was like a language; each individual had their own language, and to understand one another, they had to learn its structure, grammatical rules, spelling, and handwriting—in short, everything that comprised a language. If he wanted to understand someone's way of loving, how he could make them feel loved, or how he can avoid disrupting their comfort with his own way of loving, he had to know, study, or discover which ways they preferred to have love expressed, and which ones they didn’t particularly care for it.
Hirose had suspected that maybe Nakamura didn't feel loved when someone showed him affection through physical touch, that maybe he was one of those guys who got irritated by people who were too clingy, and it wasn't at all far-fetched to come to that conclusion because, in fact, Nakamura gave that impression by being so reserved and, sometimes, standoffish with people. He gave the impression that he didn't want anyone within a meter of him.
And he thought that would change once they became a couple. How wrong, naive, self-servingly deluded, and inconsiderate he was.
Even so, out of sheer curiosity and an unavoidable pang of longing for certainty, he asked his sister if there was a quicker way to find out. His sister hummed and thought for a moment, shooting him a suspicious look, before grabbing her phone, scrolling through the browser, and sending a link to his LINE.
It was a test to find out your love languages.
Before sending it to Okuto, he did it himself.
To no one's surprise, not even his own, his highest love language was physical touch... and also quality time.
When he was done, and after ten solid minutes of anxiety and uncertainty, he mustered up his courage and sent the link to Okuto, asking him to please take the test and show him a screenshot of the result, using the reliable excuse: “a friend told me to try it, and I was curious to see what yours would be.”
Nakamura saw the message right away and sent him an OK sticker featuring a cheerful octopus waving its tentacles.
At first, he felt bad about burdening him with that responsibility on a whim, since the test didn't just have ten questions, but thirty. Even so, when he saw his boyfriend's result, he knew it was worth it.
His greatest love language was quality time, which didn't surprise him, because Nakamura had shown him on several occasions that he enjoyed being with him even if they weren't doing anything. In fact, his love languages were as balanced as his own, neither being less than the other: their languages were quite diverse and evenly matched, with only slight margins between each one, so it seemed that neither of them had any trouble being provided with love in any form; they would feel loved no matter what. However, what was a great—and pleasant—surprise was discovering that his second greatest love language, alongside gifts, was physical touch. It surprised him greatly, because he thought that would be his weakest love language: it wasn't; instead, it was acts of service, which is a fairly tiny percentage.
Which… according to the language definition, made sense, since Nakamura also seemed to be the type who had no problem taking on responsibilities and handling them on his own. Someone who… didn’t want to be a burden to others, so he saw being helped as weighing someone else down.
And, in a way, he understood… although Hirose couldn't say much, because even though he didn't like burdening others with his responsibilities either, he did appreciate the selfless assistance of a lending hand. That's why acts of service were his third language—on par with gifts.
Another point that surprised him was how highly Nakamura rated words of affirmation; he, too, had expected that language to rank low. Words of affirmation were the lowest-scoring category for him—not because he didn’t like being praised, far from it—but because he apparently preferred to have love shown to him in other ways. Furthermore, he felt great embarrassment when he received praise, so much so that he would either avoid it or downplay it by claiming it was nothing, just as when he gave gifts to his boyfriend and his face lit up with the sweetest smile, one that hoisted the corners of his mouth with such grace that the most delicate curve was traced on his lips, his eyes welcoming the sparkle as he zealously gazed the details and expressing his gratitude with staggering vehemence—and it wasn't as if he didn’t like the reaction. Precisely because he liked it, the praise had such an effect on him. However, Okuto was a different story.
He liked being praised; the test was irrefutable proof. And Hirose found himself delighted to have learned that about him.
It also made sense that it was one of his languages, because Nakamura did so much for him. Nakamura was the epitome of attentiveness; he made sure he ate well, his hand never hesitated when it came to pulling out his wallet to satisfy a craving—which, more often than not, was for potato chips. Hirose swore he wasn’t taking advantage of his boyfriend’s generosity; those were just things he said offhand, but Nakamura took them as if they were a matter of life and death—as if he’d die otherwise. Every time he bought a sweet or a snack, it was so that Hirose would hold it and eat it; whenever he could, he’d bring a little gift of something Hirose had mentioned in passing—that was actually insignificant—but which Nakamura had quietly committed to memory, only to turn it into gestures like those and make him feel special.
His boyfriend was the best, how could he not deserve praise? How could he not want his effort to be appreciated?
Knowing that made him smile, a warmth spreading through him as he was enveloped in tenderness.
He promised himself he would acknowledge his efforts even more after appreciating what was revealed by the test.
Also, while he was still analyzing his results, Nakamura had texted him again after fifteen minutes, asking him—all too politely—to send him his screenshot since he was curious as well.
Swallowing nervously, Hirose accepted radiantly and sent it to him.
However, he instantly regretted his thoughtless approval upon recalling a certain brazen declaration: his winning love language, physical touch. So, he spent the next few minutes biting his nails as he stared at the chat, his anxiety coupled with whatever was churning in his stomach, awaiting some sign from Okuto other than that perpetual “seen.” What would his boyfriend think of him knowing that his favored way of loving and being loved was through bear hugs, like some immature, childish guy? That's what was running through his mind, unable to dismantle the cross that was taking root to threaten his peace.
There was no sign of Nakamura for at least ten more minutes, until there was, but it was only the animation of the dots indicating that he was typing, which disappeared within seconds.
That's it, I scared him off, that's what he'd resolved in that instant, condemning himself. Though the condemnation didn’t last long, since Nakamura had replied—albeit only with another one of his octopus stickers from his unlimited collection. That octopus was waving two of its tentacles upwards, forming a heart, in addition to the succession of hearts that protruded from the sweet creature.
His anxiety had dissipated as if it had never existed, replaced by a monumental wave of affection that swept through his heart and settled with uninterrupted warmth.
Hirose sent him one of his dog stickers with hearts all over it.
So that was how, believing in the legitimacy of his boyfriend's test results and relying on the trustworthy certainty that Nakamura perhaps wasn’t averse to physical contact as much as he'd thought, despite any somatic signs that might suggest otherwise, he ventured to broach the subject. It was one of those days when they were marching to the rooftop—both wanting a moment to themselves, alone with each other—that Hirose asked him if he didn’t like it when he touched him, adding that it was fine if, for the time being, he’d prefer him to keep his distance; he didn’t want to pressure him or do anything that would make him uncomfortable. His body’s reaction to his attempts was an inexcusable warning that what he was doing didn’t sit well with Okuto, so much so that his skin seemed to harden into a substance more resistant than an unbreakable element. So, carrying on with the idea of moving forward with physical affection while his boyfriend wasn’t happy with it didn’t sit well with him either. He didn't want to do anything that would cause discomfort to Nakamura; he couldn’t disregard the signs… but he also couldn’t take them for granted when he caught a glimpse, through a glorious crack, that his ominous rigidity might be due to something less hopeless.
The answer Nakamura gave him was like being drenched in pleasantly refreshing water after enduring the fury of an afternoon when the sun blazed overhead, determined to pour every last bit of its radiance onto the world. Nakamura assured him it wasn't true, that he didn't mind their physical closeness in the least, and that if he’d sensed the opposite, it was his own fault for reacting based on his fears instead of how a guy was supposed to react with his partner. Hirose told him he was a fool for saying that, that he shouldn't be so hard on himself because this was his first time in a relationship, so how could he have known? He emphasized that he wouldn't pressure him into anything, even if he wasn't playing what he thought was the proper boyfriend role, because they were just starting out, and they'd have plenty of time to figure it out together.
We're learning to love each other, Okuto, why should we rush it? That's what he wanted to say, but the words didn't leave his mouth; instead, they remained engraved in his heart.
Nakamura's eyes had glowed as if a slippery, flickering light had caught them; as if they were covered by something that turned them into a shimmering reflection. He nodded, offering no further comment.
Thanks to that conversation, Hirose finally managed to hold his hand on the way to school, on the way back from school, and during their dates.
He waged a tough battle against his boyfriend’s anxiety, and he emerged victorious.
Also, thanks to that conversation, he realized that he not only had to be patient with Okuto, but also had to adapt to his pace. Which was a challenge, because he wasn't the most patient person, nor one to move slowly if he could afford to hurry. But, if it was for Okuto, he was willing to take it on.
How did he know this? Because he gathered his evidence: Nakamura's test, physical touch being the second love language, Nakamura's statement, "I don't dislike your closeness, but my alarm bells are going off," and the unfortunate contradiction that was the physical tension reigning over his entire being, as if he'd been smeared in a stream of hypothermic water. And so, like a resourceful detective, he realized that Nakamura wasn’t like a surly cat that would swipe its tail in annoyance every time its owner approached to pet it, but rather like a cat with frayed nerves that would bristle not as a symptom of aversion to its owner's advances, but as a response to the lingering fear of not being accustomed to the affection they wished to bestow upon it.
So, what should the owner do? Exactly, approach stealthily, be tolerant of frustration, be patient with each attempt, act cautiously so as not to scare the cat away with their unprecedented proximity, and get the cat used to receiving the affection it rightfully deserves.
And that's exactly what Hirose Aiki will do.
Fast forward to the present, he’s sitting at his desk, devising a foolproof plan to achieve what he's longed for since the very first second he became Nakamura's boyfriend: to kiss him. Has he succeeded? No. Is he close? Of course not. Has he tried? Absolutely, countless times. Yet, he's exerted "less pressure," suggesting it more subtly than when he'd brush his fingers against Nakamura's hand—a hand swaying enticingly in sync with his leisurely walk, or when he’d stretch out his arm in order to hug Nakamura during lunch breaks. He couldn’t do something like that when his lips were conquered by the itch of a restricted desire to pursue those distant lips and intertwine them with his own, slipping between the moisture and absorbing it to savor for himself the softness, the taste of that long-yearned-for kiss that would drive them to possess each other once more.
Okay, pause there.
Getting back to the point, what he would do was lean in, linger in the same spot for a moment after bidding farewell, as if innocently implying that he was waiting for something that hadn't been given to him, so he wouldn't leave until it was, or he would rock his body... more specifically, his head, to get a little closer to Nakamura's face so he would pick up on the hint.
Does he? Obviously not. He has even gone so far as to move away, believing that he was the one invading the other's space when it was Hirose himself who was closing in on him.
He was certain that if he decided to do something like getting too close… positioning himself right in his face until their noses brush against each other, Nakamura would instinctively flinch and back away as if Hirose were a fiery sphere, so any further proximity would trigger his disintegration. And, well, even though he was dying to kiss him, he didn't want to be rejected so abruptly, even if that wasn't Okuto's intention, because it was his instincts taking over.
He could also just steal a kiss; It’s not as though he hasn’t been tempted, especially when they were close to each other and Nakamura wasn't disturbed, but calm. He’d thought about how easy it would be to grab him without his weapons, without him being prepared for the assault his lips would launch, sticking them with an indefinite speed that would not allow him to savor the sensation of those lips imposed on his, would only allow him to blush until his pallor had been eradicated. There was an irrationally bestial part of him that cried out that he should just hold Nakamura's face without warning and coercively proclaim his desires, giving him no chance to choose no, and thrust his lips against Nakamura's until he got rid of his cumbersome inhibition and the tension in his muscles drained away to dissolve into the sedation of pleasure from their overlapping lips, slipping as they were tracking their need to meet, to entwine until the greedy submersion drew them further in.
But he couldn't do that; he wouldn't compel Okuto to bow to his devouring whim.
He had mulled over other alternatives before landing on the ultimate plan: like persisting in waiting and letting things just… flow, which was NOT an option for him because Hirose was NOT going to let the month slip by—he wasn’t willing to, and it wasn’t up for negotiation—or like directly asking for his consent for the kiss… which was a good option if it weren't for… first, if he were to just come right out and put his boyfriend on the spot like that, his boyfriend would probably pass out, and second, Hirose wasn't bold enough to build up the courage and utter his absurd desire, he couldn't even manage to rehearse it in a mock scenario without his face growing as hot as a pressure cooker.
So, after exhaustive consideration, he has devised a masterful plan consisting of eight meticulous steps. Hirose holds up his notebook, proudly reading the fruit of his musings:
1. Kiss on the head.
2. Kiss on the hand.
3. Kiss on the forehead / temple.
4. Kiss on the nose.
5. Kiss on the eyelid.
6. Kiss on the cheek.
7. Quick kiss on the lips. (Demo.)
8. KISS! (Our first kiss!!!)
Before they share their first kiss, Hirose must accustom him to kissing, so that when the kiss does happen, it won't surprise or frighten him… just because it happens. It's like gradually increasing the dose so that, when it's fully administered, the effect won't be so devastating. It's a slow, unhurried, and undemanding course, respectful of Nakamura's pace: these are steps that serve to pound down the road, to lay a groundwork that won’t leave his boyfriend adrift in the imminent uncertainty of a kiss. You can't throw a chick out without first training it to fly, right? That's precisely the logic he's applying: Nakamura won't fall; he's guiding him so he can flap his wings, soar into the sky, and enjoy flying instead of succumbing to the fear of plummeting. It’s the most sensible thing he’s come up with; he’s proud of his resolve, so he observes the sheet with a visceral willingness, his eyes steeped in the strength of an enduring glow, dwelling in the adjoining pupil like a companion who refuses to desert by appropriating the poise of his gaze.
It’ll be a piece of cake: like progressing through each level of a videogame to obtain the necessary power to deal with the final boss.
He has two weeks to achieve this before they’ve been dating for three months.
They’ll share their first kiss before the third month—that’s a promise. To Okuto, and to himself.
He’s going to go for that kiss.