Work Text
maybe my condition isn’t the best it could be, maybe i could stand a little more happiness, a little more security.
Monday, 6:45AM
The courtyard is empty, quiet.
Not that he minds it, ’cause this early, the stillness surrounding him as he waits outside of the arts building on his favorite bench that wobbles the slightest bit—it’s what he prefers. It’s cold, and the wind blows, burns, but he doesn’t mind that either, ’cause even if it’s not much, there’s still some warmth to be found in the sweater he’s wearing that’s been long stolen, not borrowed. The coffee cup between his hands has lost its warmth, and the coffee cup next to him has to be even colder; but maybe that’s for the best.
Lukewarm coffee gives him an excuse to keep himself busy with too-sweet sips as he stares down at the book draped across his lap. To anyone passing, he’s reading, waiting for classes to start. Maybe he is, in a way, just… not for the reasons people would assume. There are more important things to be done besides reading, and he’s all too familiar with the words splashed across worn pages.
He doesn't have favorites, but Kafka could be categorized as one; but be that as it may: Kafka only comes off his bookshelf when self-sabotaging habits start to creep back in like winter’s chill. He’s more pensive lately, and while it’s good for his art, it’s nothing but detrimental to his mental health. Habits are hard to form and hard to break, so he takes it in stride and commits himself to re-learning all the tiny nuances of the text just so he can feel less alone in his obsessions and neurosis.
A gust of wind, and the pages of his book flap. His place is lost, and that’s annoying, but the slow sound of footsteps that follow is enough of a distraction that the irritation slips right off. Steady and sure, the footsteps get louder and he listens, counts as Nanami approaches.
Close, closer, before they slow; only then does he drag his eyes up to categorize all the new hues of Nanami for the week.
Today: Nanami is dipped monochrome.
Today: Nanami’s shoes are soaked in Payne’s Gray while his pants hang perfectly tailored in soft Mars Black. Knitted warm-white stretches across wide shoulders and a broad chest, and his eyes linger on the sweater. He wonders if it’s as soft as it looks, wonders if he’ll ever have the chance to steal it and tuck it away with all the other reminders of Nanami he’s kept by force and desperation.
Today: Nanami has brought the soft brown leather work bag, the one that smells like spilled spiced wine and black india ink. Even this early, Nanami is tense—he sees it in the way his right hand clutches at the worn and wrinkled bag handle, and the way his posture isn’t as straight as it could be. A look at Nanami’s face gives him a palette of peaches, pale yellows and smudged grays hiding behind thin wired glasses: there’s exhaustion, anxiety, the pressure of overtime that comes with dreams of obtaining tenure. It’s too early in the semester for fatigue to sit so heavy on top of Nanami’s shoulders, but the thing that always remains constant no matter how many semesters pass is the unnecessary burdens Nanami chooses to saddle himself with.
Nanami’s face says he’s tired, that it’s far too early. Nanami himself chooses to say nothing at all.
“Mornin’, Nanami-sensei,” he greets, polite, just for pretenses and Nanami’s sake. He never means it in earnest other than a not-so-subtle reminder of what they are, who they are, and what they’re doing.
Nanami's eyes drift and drop to the sweater that’s been stolen, not borrowed—still silent, still motionless. He bites down on the inside of his cheek ’til the taste of blood joins stale sugar and cream coating his teeth. He wonders about Shoko-sensei, if she’ll be able to tell or even cares enough about Nanami to catalog all the inconsequential facets of him when they interact.
Another push from the wind, and he shivers; though not all from the cold.
“Good morning,” Nanami says, eventually, reluctantly. “You’re early.”
"Well," he hums, hoping the tremor in his voice won't be heard above the wind. "You know me. I like to be a good student, and all."
He smiles, and Nanami tenses up even more, but those brown eyes never leave the sweater… or maybe, maybe Nanami just decides to focus on it instead—anything to avoid looking directly at him. And that’s funny, but it’s fine, ’cause today will be a good day, he’s sure, even as the blood seeping from the open wound in his cheek squeezes past his teeth to join the coffee and Levonorgestrel sitting in his stomach.
"Did you do anything fun this weekend?" he continues, managing to call up a smile he doesn't too much feel.
All the fine lines on Nanami's face get harsher, deeper, and Nanami turns just enough to look behind them, around them. There's no need for the paranoia—the courtyard's still empty and he's happy, ’cause that means all the stress laying on top of fine, fitted fabric and the rose-madder flush pushing up into Nanami's face is his to keep, even if Nanami ends up blaming it on the cold.
His question goes unanswered, though that's enough of an answer in itself. Nanami's hand looses, just a bit, though that could all very well be just his imagination, and that's just fine too.
"Class starts in fifteen minutes," Nanami says, bringing his left wrist up to look at his watch, then at the coffee cup still sitting on the bench, and still, not at him. "Please try to arrive on time today. We have a lot to do."
He thumbs the cardboard holder wrapped around his cup. His hands are shaking, shaking just enough that he can blame that on the cold just like Nanami can. The shades of avoidance aren't his favorite things to see painted on Nanami's face, not this early on in the week.
"Sure thing, sensei," he says, too onyx-colored even for him, and Nanami walks off as the last echoes of his voice get carried off by the wind.
There's only a few more minutes, seconds, and he stares at the barely-healed cut on his index finger from Choso's dulled c-gouge as it oozes venetian again. It paints his cup, drips and stains the fine-printed pages of his book, but he does nothing, does nothing but wait, count.
At the count of 1199, his phone alarm beeps deep in his backpack, and it's officially the start of his week. Into his bag goes the book, and he'll worry about the drying smears of crimson later, ’cause it won't do, will it, to be too late?
He leaves both cups on the bench, humming one of Suguru's old songs, one of the nice ones, ’cause today, they won't need false platitudes, ’cause today's gonna be good, it just has to be.
Monday, 7:14AM
There's a lot of things that come along with the Master's program that he wishes he would've known.
Undergrad was full of dreams, ideals and the urge to create, desecrate, and though he has no opinion one way or the other on the amount of work he gets handed, the one thing he knows is that all the changes, all the structure that's been beaten into him through failing grades and extra lab hours is worth the look Nanami gives him each Monday as he takes his time gathering the things necessary to co-lead Nanami's lectures.
There's worse things he could be doing with his life than studying, and artistic anatomy is fascinating. The human body holds endless possibilities, and being able to peel back all the layers and construct something beautiful from blood and guts, well, he likes it a lot.
It was never in his plans to study under Nanami, but he comes to like it more than he thought he would. His first impressions of Nanami weren't the best, that much he can admit, but Nanami's an endless source of inspiration and knowledge, and really, he'd be stupid to give that up.
The digital clock he keeps on his desk in Nanami's office lets him know there's only six more minutes ’til their first class starts. It's not like he wants Nanami to be angry, but he likes the attention, so maybe it is like that, after all.
He looks over his shoulder and smiles as the frown on Nanami's face gets deeper. Under the soft lights of the office, the smudged gray behind his glasses looks like forgotten charcoal, and he wants to drag his thumb across them, erase them the best he can and make Nanami all new again.
"You're late," Nanami says, flat, and he ducks his head, ’cause yeah, he is. "How are you late? You were sitting right outside."
"Don't gotta sound so baffled," he says, putting his staff lanyard away before reaching in his desk drawer for one of Suguru's hair ties. "You never get lost in your head before, sensei?"
He works on tying his hair up, ’cause it's hot in the building, and it won't do for his hair to get dirty so soon. There's no need to look up to know Nanami's eyes are on him; he feels the slow burn of his gaze trailing down his nape like a wildfire, and really, honest, it's not like he wants Nanami to be angry, but the attention sure is addictive.
Monday, 11:32AM
Most of his relationships, platonic and romantic, all play out like fine art locked away in a museum.He lives life in Impressionism, Romanticism, ’cause it's always easiest to let people stare, stretch and bend him into their ideal interpretations of who he is and who he should be according to their whims. It's a lesson he learns early on: most people only have interest in something old, faded and jaded ’til the novelty wanes, just ’til something more meaningful, more faded, jaded catches their eye. He lets the masses consume him, misconstrue him and violate him ’til they can't anymore, and when they prop him up on a pedestal to gawk and fabricate all the different half-truths they please, he lets them.
Over time, just like the missing context of art from centuries before, he learns to say very little and want even less.
If he had it his way, he'd disregard all the useless things society deems necessary. But living life goes hand in hand with art: the self can't exist without the perception of others. So the solitude, the falsities people paint him with, he'll take it all if it means he gets the chance to learn about himself, about others, even if he spends more time gathering dust than most.
Days like these, the cold days, the slow days, when he feels like taking his lunch in the pavilion under the tree that always seems to look as dead as he feels, that feeling increases tenfold. He feels shamelessly voyeuristic as he watches people around him engage in their own subtle forms of art.
To them, all these small pieces of humanity are normal, but to him, that connection, the effortlessness: it's foreign, it makes him curious.
Most of his learned intimacy comes from books, and maybe he's odd for not having no proper scale, but he feels his most human when he's alone with all his books, ’cause the books are easy to bend and stretch into what he thinks they should be. There's no hassle—it's effortless to absorb all the pain, loss, love, and happiness that comes through the words. It's effortless to ignore the amount of gray that occupies his world when he's able to live through all those colorful words, worlds and experiences.
The other half of his learned intimacy comes from Suguru, and maybe he's odd for that too, for only being in love with one person in all his twenty-four years of existence, but Suguru makes it easy to trust, to learn; 'least, he used to. There weren't many friends growing up, and even now, there's just Choso most days. Sometimes Suguru, if he has the time. And sometimes Nanami, too, but only sometimes, only on Sundays.
And today, today is Monday.
He looks down at his book, dragging his freshly bandaged finger over oxidized venetian, wondering just how it might feel to really want and be wanted.
No one sings as purely as those who inhabit the deepest of hell.
Today is Monday, and he has no one, and that's okay, ’cause he gets it, even if he doesn't really.
He has the half thought of digging through his backpack for a highlighter, just to commit all the words that make him feel more human to memory, this time for real, but he's not sure if one even sits in his backpack. He knows there's lesson plans, skeletonized graphite sticks and loose sketches, but there's never anything useful when he needs it.
Nanami has highlighters, though, a bunch of them, and he entertains that thought too, of going back upstairs and stealing some, stealing another little piece of Nanami when a laugh that feels like it's from lifetimes ago yanks at his attention.
Across the pavilion, draped in all his familiar grays and blacks, is Suguru. And he almost smiles, almost waves, almost calls out, `cept he looks closer, and Suguru's wearing a shirt he's never seen before, walking with people he's never heard of before. And the shirt, it's too… too fitted, too expensive looking to belong in his collection of baggy, slouchy clothes, and he looks too… too happy, maybe, surrounded by people that look brighter, happier than he himself could ever hope to be for Suguru.
In all the movies, these kinds of situations happen all the time. He knows how it goes: when the big secret gets revealed, time slows down as soft music plays and the world just seems to fall apart. But the reality is this—there is no slow motion, no sense of anticipation, no dread.
He just is.
The tallest guy in the group throws an arm around Suguru's shoulders, leaning too close as they all walk towards the music building. His hair is titanium, brilliant and fluorescent underneath the glare of the sun, and the look on Suguru's face is soft, soft like it used to be, like it was for him, before.
And he doesn't call out, he doesn't wave, smile. He stares, stares and stares and stares ’til they disappear from his sight and his eyes burn with the need to blink. He should be getting up, should be finishing up his pathetic excuse of a lunch and head back upstairs to find some kind of solace in a man who'll never love him like he needs to be loved and,
Between one steady breath and the next, his fingers find the fried ends of his hair. It's still trying to heal, and he should trim the ends, should maybe… find a hair salon, even, but as he rubs them, he can't help but wonder if blue isn't good enough after all.
Maybe it'd be better to be brighter, more pure, just in case that's what Suguru really wants.
Monday, 1:30PM
He spends the last year of his undergrad perfecting his eye in artistic anatomy.It's fun, seeing all the happenings inside of the human body and turning blood and bone into something pure. He's good at it, the best, even, but his projects never translated in the ways they needed to. Shoko-sensei pulls him aside after his studio hours during the tail end of his final semester while a tall man with stern eyes stands next to her in silence. She introduces him as Nanami, and they talk about him in that way that professors love to do, but it doesn't irritate him like it usually does, ’cause it gives him an opportunity to watch them.There's a familiarity there, one he doesn't recognize, 'least not ’til Nanami brings a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, and the familiarity makes sense: a plain gold ring sitting on his ring finger that matches the one Shoko keeps hanging around her neck.It's interesting. Nanami's interesting. But it's a fact he files away, ’cause it's of no concern to him at all, ’til summer creeps on in with all its humidity and heat and the love shared between him and Suguru starts to cool. And then, he finds Nanami interesting, too interesting to pretend otherwise. Halfway through the semester, Nanami's TA gets shuffled over to Higuruma-sensei, and that's the catalyst for it all.He doesn't regret it one bit, even if Nanami might, and it's fun, too fun maybe, all the games he plays.And this one might be his favorite.Every Monday and Wednesday, thanks to Shoko-sensei, he finds himself sitting through composition theory, ’cause even though he's gotten better, even though it's been a year since starting his Masters, he's still not perfect, still hasn't reached the perfect transformation and application of his wants and skills. And it's not as if he hates it, not really, just, it's tedious, especially since he doesn't qualify for credits anymore.But seeing the serious side to Nanami is a perk.Nanami treats him like a student, with no praise and no nonsense, and that's the part he loves, maybe, the way Nanami has to pretend like they don't do what they do. And for all of Nanami's complaining about class sizes and lesson planning, he's good at teaching, good at turning theoretical knowledge into practical.And the game he plays? It's nothing complicated.Every Monday and Wednesday, he makes sure to arrive early, just to pick out which easel he'll sit at for the day. There's never any rhyme or reason in the spot he picks, but the one thing he aims to be is hidden, tucked away behind the tall masts of the easels.Class trickles in, and he takes his time: first, his clipboard and sketchpad, then, choosing the graphite stick that feels best for the day. It doesn't take long, but ever so punctual, he doesn't even have time to get his headphones out of his backpack before the door clicks open.Nanami's gotten rid of his sweater, and he takes in the pale green that feels too bright for all of Nanami's moodiness. His glasses are on, his sleeves rolled up, and he likes this Nanami, the one that starts to destress before the day is over.
There's a smile on his face, he feels it twisting and tries to keep it subdued, subtle but as he peeks from around his clipboard, it's no use. As Nanami starts his typical pre-class rambling, Nanami's eyes drift, searching. And to anyone else, it'd seem as if he's taking a mental count, but he knows that look, knows that the only thing Nanami's searching for is him.
When Nanami's eyes finally land on him, he itches to pick up his graphite, to capture the slow easing of the tension around Nanami's eyes.
It's childish, but it's plenty of fun.
Monday, 2:19PM
There’s times when Nanami’s head gets so full of all his duties and lists that sometimes he forgets the most important things he needs for his lectures, meetings. It doesn’t happen, and it’s not his job to be a retriever for all of Nanami’s needs, but he won’t lie to himself and say it’s not a little satisfying being useful to Nanami.That little gift of warm gratitude Nanami sends his way during those times is addictive, addictive enough that Nanami forgetting things brings a smile to his face—though, he’ll blame it on Nanami’s hubris if he has to.Today: it’s Nanami’s phone. It’s early enough that the lecture hasn’t started yet, so it isn’t urgent, but late enough that there’s a slight flush of embarrassment on Nanami’s face as he fusses with setting up the day’s slideshow.The office still smells like brewed coffee and cologne, and it's tempting to linger, but he can't. As he digs through the mid-afternoon clutter that tends to grow on Nanami’s desk, he finds himself wishing for a quicker week, wishing for Sunday. He finds the phone, all wrapped in worn, Bismuth Yellow luxury leather and it’s a comfortable weight in his hand. It’s a little thrilling holding something so important to Nanami, even if only for a moment.It won’t do to be late, but as he slides things back to their rightful chaotic position, his eyes catch the glossy pages of an open book. He tilts his head and it’s,One of Goya’s Black Paintings—Saturn Devouring His Son.Cronus, king of the gods. Chronos, the personification of cycles, seasons—time. Cronus, the devourer. When it comes to art, he and Nanami often have clashing opinions, but one of the few common grounds they hold is Goya. For him, nothing feels as raw as the Black Paintings—the brush strokes, the dreary palette and the twisted grief and horror etched across each and every face within the series. He drags his fingers down the pages; Saturn’s grotesque face seems to leap from the page—haunted as he acts on impulse, fear and truth.The consumption: it’s selfishness, it’s insanity, and it’s,It’s all so terribly familiar.
Monday, 5:43PM
Like everyone, Higuruma-sensei has his lazy days, though, it's surely more than most.
The department recognizes him as Nanami's assistant, but there's days when his attention is split between the four of them. For Kusakabe-sensei, it's the organizational work, and it's fine, ’cause he doesn't mind giving homes to all the things that seem to drift around like him. There's not much time spent with Shoko-sensei, not if Nanami can help it, but sometimes they'll run into each other on the weekends when he sneaks in for studio time, and he'll help with cadaver prep, chemical storage.
Higuruma-sensei is typically self-sufficient in that low effort way of his, but there's times where he has no hesitation in foisting off a good chunk of his workload onto the other assistants at every opportunity, even if Ino's free. He's the one that has the easiest workload, so even if he's in the middle of something, Higuruma-sensei tends to steal him away from Nanami quick and sure, much to Nanami's displeasure. Most times, it's simple filing; other times, the prop set up for Higuruma-sensei's still life class. And then, sometimes it's this: going to the print shop to mass print all the supplemental information for his animal anatomy lectures.
There's only a couple more hours left in his day, so he does it with no complaint, ’cause it's easier to do the busy work of others than to be left alone with his thoughts. His arms are full of papers that are still warm to the touch, and it's more comforting than he should be, and he's half-entertaining the idea of asking Higuruma-sensei what else needs to be done when he hears voices. It doesn't register, not ’til he's turning the corner to enter the hallway with the professor offices; and even then, it takes him ’til he's close enough to hear the low timber of two voices he knows so well that he realizes it's Shoko-sensei and Nanami. And it's… too soon, maybe, seeing the way Nanami looks down at her with that half-smile he only gives to her while Shoko-sensei twists her hair around her finger in that way she does when she's talking about something dull.
It's too early, too soon in the week to deal with the hurt surrounding his heart, and there's other ways to get to Higuruma-sensei's office after all. He turns around, quiet as a mouse to slip through to the other hallway, and he tries to pretend that he's not wishing for Nanami's eyes to follow him.
Monday, 7:15PM
The silence of the apartment is the only thing that greets him.
He hates it, hates it more than just about anything else. It's tempting to slide the shoji door open and turn his CD player on loud, but there's a routine to be done, and good things never happen when he starts to stray.
His backpack slides off his shoulder onto the ground, then off come his shoes—it's easy to maneuver in the small entrance in the dark, though, it's not like he's left with much choice. He keeps forgetting to replace the bulb and Suguru's never home long enough to notice. It's six steps, that's all, to get up the genkan and down the short hall to the bathroom. He counts, walks, and doesn't stumble once even though it feels as if the thin, frayed string holding his body upright is close to snapping.
The apartment is silent, empty, and still, when he gets in the bathroom he twists the unreliable lock just to feel like he's a little less alone. The buzzing bulb in the bathroom hurts his eyes, but he forces himself to move through it, avoiding the mirror, avoiding looking down too much at his body and the still fading bruises around his hips and legs as he strips down to nothing.
The apartment is silent, empty, but there's nothing to be done about it now.His body feels like lead, and maybe it's the end result of a long day, or maybe just the weight of the mush of disorder occupying the space where his brain should be. He'd rather have a warm shower, a warm bath, but the water heater only works sometimes, and the bathtub nozzle still sits rusted and hanging off from grimy porcelain. So, he does the only thing he can do: he steps into the tub and braces himself as he twists the shower knob, forcing himself not to feel the cold.
Water slugs down the drain they can't ever seem to unclog, waiting for the water to warm, and it does, maybe, though he can feel the goosebumps popping up on his skin. He closes his eyes and leans into it, letting water wash over him, and he considers grabbing the soap bar on the window sill, but he can't stand to, 'least, not today, ’cause he wants more time with the bruises, just a little bit more.
The water goes back to frost after only a short while, but he stands there, pretending nothing exists outside of him, outside of the bathroom, ’til he's shaking, ’til his body finally feels numb and detached from the rest of him and only then does he reach out with a trembling hand to twist the shower off.
Monday, 7:30PM
It's a struggle to stop his hands from shaking long enough to squeeze out the last bit of toothpaste from the tube onto his toothbrush, but he manages well enough. One of his molars hurt, and as he drags his toothbrush over it, the pain gets sharper, deeper, like there's a cavity underneath all the fillings he got done at the group home. And that's funny, that something can still ache and fill with rot even after attempts at repair.
Harder and harder, he brushes ’til his arm warms and burns from the force of it, and when he spits, the foam is darker than yesterday. It's crimson, maybe phthalo, and he runs his tongue over sore gums as it slips down the rusted sink drain, wondering just what Suguru's doing.
Monday, 7:36PM
His eyes find the mirror without meaning to.
He drags a hand across all the jagged scars still on his face, down to the ones wrapped around his neck. He thinks of Nanami's soft smiles, he thinks about bright hair, he thinks of soft skin and lipstick.
He'll never be pretty, won't ever be, but maybe, just maybe, all of him like he is will be enough one day.i, who die of longing for you, here at my desk.
Tuesday, 6:30AM
Kusakabe-sensei never locks his classroom, a fact that Nanami always complains about, but he finds it's a trait of Nanami's that he's thankful for, especially on days like today.
Kusakabe-sensei doesn't like working, 'least, he doesn't like doing work that feels like work. Out of all the classrooms, his is the most relaxed. There's a modest stereo system wired up through to the classroom intercoms, couches in the shared art room across the hall that he teaches the other half of his lectures in, and outside of Nanami's office, Kusakabe-sensei's classrooms might be his favorite.
It's always a first-come-first-served when it comes to using the sound system, and Kusakabe-sensei never minds unless the music grates against his ears, which his tends to do. But he's alone today, early today, and Kusakabe-sensei doesn't have classes ’til the afternoon, so for now, it's his domain.
He's not the biggest fan of printmaking, but it's an easier outlet for all his frustrations when he can't bear to sit and paint. It's physical, demanding, and it takes him out of his mind long enough that it feels like a good way to start his day after a night spent tossing and turning.
He stands up from his crouch, brushing dried ink dust off his hands as music drowns out all his nasty thoughts from the night before. He's been digging through the cabinets for fifteen minutes, trying to find a specific container of jet black, but it's a mission that's becoming impossible. Kusakabe never keeps things organized like he should, not like Nanami, and it's a hassle each and every time he comes in. It hasn't been long since he organized it, but somehow, it's already a mess again.He stands there with his hands on his hips, looking around at all the unchecked cabinets. He's checked the bottom ones, he's checked behind Kusakabe's desk, the supply closet in the hall and even the storage room where all of Kusakabe's printmaking projects go to die. The last place to look is the overhead cabinets, ’cause somehow, despite no one ever using them, they're the messiest of all. But, if there's any place where the ink might be, it'd probably be there.He grabs the stepladder from behind the storage room's door, and drags it towards the cabinets over the sinks. It's the last place he knows to look, and knowing Kusakabe, it's exactly where they are even though they're not supposed to be. The song changes, and it's one he doesn't mind much, so he hums along to it while digging through the cabinet.
Halfway through the song, he gets hit by a dizzy spell. He tries to blink back the grey, but he feels it creeping in, and he loses his balance. There's the fearful swoop in his stomach as he starts to fall, but he doesn't, ’cause at the last minute there's hands around his waist, sturdy and dependable."Your music is far too loud," comes a familiar dry voice. He looks over his shoulder, and behind him, far too close, stands Nanami with a small frown. His hands are solid, warm, and that's,"And you're early," he says, wiggling enough to dislodge Nanami's hands on his hips. He doesn't need the help, and it's too early for this, for Nanami, and,When he turns around, he sees the can of ink he's been looking for. Small mercies. He closes the cabinet, and as he comes down from the step ladder, he ignores Nanami's arms that are still half-out like Nanami doesn't trust him to stay steady.He steps around the ladder, but that puts him far too close to Nanami and he can smell his aftershave, his toothpaste and the hair products he pretends not to use. Nanami's dressed casual, Modern and Contemporary, and he looks... soft, comfortable, obtainable."Sensei," Nanami reminds him, and there's silence. "Why are you so early? You look terrible.""What? 'm not pretty today?" he teases, but even he can hear his voice isn't in it.He looks up at Nanami, and Nanami's eyes are serious, clear, and it's hard to fake it, when Nanami looks at him like that. Makes him want to be all types of honest."Didn't get much sleep last night," he admits. "Thought I'd be early for a change, work on some unfinished projects before class starts.""I don't think you should be working with printmaking tools if you're tired," Nanami says, and there's truth in that. The cut on his finger aches, and he rubs at the bandaid, wondering if there's another excuse he can use to get from the intensity of Nanami's gaze."Yeah, well," and Nanami sighs."Save that for later, I'd like your help with something."And that's a lie, there's nothing Nanami needs his help for. But he's never been able to say no to Nanami, to time alone with Nanami."Mm, yeah, 'kay." he agrees, setting the can of ink down on the print station."And please, turn your music off. I can hear it in my office," Nanami says. "It's terrible."
Tuesday, 8:20AM
There's quite a few things he ignores when it comes to Nanami.Deadlines, changes in the studio hours, reminders to not forget the office keys in places where anyone could find them. It's a list he adds to whenever he gets the chance. One of those things is Nanami's insistence on keeping the amount of plants in the office to a bare minimum. Before he settled into his position as a TA, the office was bleak, boring; it felt right to bring in small off-shoots of Hanami's flowers—but he didn't stop at two, didn't stop at just those. Every corner of Nanami's office has a plant, from forgotten ones by trash disposals to the end of season sales at the flower shops. He takes time to water them throughout the day, especially the one on Nanami's desk, ’cause it gets the most sun.Today, Nanami watches him. He feels the eyes on his back like warm afternoon sun; but Nanami says nothing, 'least not until he rounds back over to his desk to water the small plant."You're never going to listen to me are you?" Nanami says, leaning back in his office chair. He looks up, and there's a small tick at the corners of Nanami's lips."Nope," he says. "Don't think I will. It was depressing in here, you know."At that, Nanami gives a huff of a laugh."Doesn't matter as long as you're happy, then, right?"He nods, and the plant seems to be flourishing here, next to Nanami; maybe Nanami just has that effect on people."Glad you're starting to get it."
Tuesday, 11:00AM
The clock strikes eleven, and he's stuck grading papers Nanami knows he'll never find impressive or inspiring.Bland, boring—he marks the paper in front of him as barely passing before it goes to join the pile of obscurity occupying the corner edge of his desk. Half his day has been lost to this, and he feels an itch of impatience lurking underneath his skin, settling comfortably alongside a chill he can't seem to shake. He pulls another paper in front of him, and he sighs.Usually, the smell of Nanami in their shared office fixes any lingering discomforts, but today, it feels as if it's making the ache inside of him worse. The afternoon sun tries in vain to bring in warmth through half-closed blinds, but he barely thaws; and even with Nanami's space heater humming away too close to his legs, the only comfort he finds is the itchy-tightness seeping through the fabric of his jeans.He only gets through two paragraphs before the loud buzz of his phone distracts him from underneath the mess on his desk. There's only one person it could really be, and his felt pen bleeds as he stalls.He knows who it could be, should be, and what the message more than likely says, should say, but he finds threads of avoidance and pushes it off into unimportance in the face of his useless task for Nanami.And so, he tries—to focus, to put the weight of it out of mind and be impartial with his grading, but the itch festers and burns like red-headed centipedes burrowing deep.He loses himself to the static inside of his head, and it's only thanks to the distant slamming of the hall doors that lead to the professor's offices that he finds himself and falls back into the present. A stabilizing breath, then two, and he looks down to find he's been careless: his pen's gone and stained his fingers and the paper Winsor Red, Scarlet Lake, and that just won't do. The paper can't be helped, and as he licks his fingers to wipe them against his jeans, his phone buzzes again twice before silencing.That's not like him. Not really.But then again, it's hard to know what goes on his Suguru's head most days.He waits, just in case another message comes through, counts, ’cause he'll answer for sure then, maybe, but nothing happens, nothing worth hearing other than the muted mumbling of voices creeping closer. And it's only when Nanami's low voice sits right outside the office door that he slides his hand across his desk for his phone.Suguru's been gone for almost a week, and as he stares at their message thread, he adds another day to his count. It's only two months and some change into the new semester, so it can't be workload, not really, but still, he bites his lip, pleased, maybe, ’cause it's just another excuse to spend more time with Nanami. He drags his thumb over the cracked glass across Suguru's name, letting all the tiny shards embed themselves in his skin. He presses them deeper, deeper ’til they disappear, and only then does he place his phone back down, face down.There's nothing he'd like less than going back alone to their tiny apartment, but there's also nothing to be done about it now. He picks his pen back up and calls back his focus—there's still grading to do.His thoughts wander as he writes down sparse notes in the margin of the current paper—does Suguru remember what he looks like, sounds like? Sometimes he finds himself forgetting Suguru, forgetting himself in relation to Suguru. Would Suguru look around for glimpses of him, wait for him at the arts building hours after his day ends, if he chose to act on all his silly whims like Suguru always seems to do?The door clicks open, and there's really no more time to focus on Suguru, not really, ’cause there's Nanami, tired and creased, and he smiles as Nanami walks over to the mini fridge tucked between his desk and Nanami's bookshelf to turn on the electric kettle for his late afternoon coffee.Nanami feels his eyes, and looks over. It's only Tuesday, but through his glasses, he sees there's already Davy's gray smudged underneath Nanami's eyes."Want me to make it for you?" he asks. Nanami blinks at him, sleepy, slow. "You look tired.""I am tired," Nanami says, sighs, leaning against the bookshelf before pulling off his glasses to rub his eyes. "Would you mind?"And he doesn't, ’cause if he thinks about it, the concept of home doesn't mean much. Home can mean many things, it could mean nothing. Home could be right here, in a too cold, too bright office as Nanami sits behind his desk to decompress.As he stands to grab Nanami's preferred instant espresso from above his desk, he takes comfort in the fact that he's unwanted, forgettable. There's no comfort in the home he's tried to build with Suguru, but here, in this office, with the smell of Nanami's expensive cologne wrapping around him, he finds that there's warmth in knowing that even if Suguru won't, maybe Nanami would.
Tuesday, 2:02PM
It's not great to be so distracted on a Tuesday, but distracted is how he finds himself, and for once, he's not alone, not really.There's a pack of playing cards Nanami keeps in his desk that he pretends to be too adult for, but he's walked in more times than he can count to find Nanami playing a game of solitaire during his down hours. And solitaire isn't his favorite game to play, but doing anything else feels like too much work. Another column empties, and he flips the waste stack in search of a red King. Solitaire is boring, lonely, but it's the kind of nothingness that feels like it could be beneficial, 'least for today.He's contemplating his next move when there's a soft sound from the couch in front of Nanami's desk. His eyes drift, and the sight of Nanami sleeping is more interesting than a game of solitaire will ever be. It's rare, is the thing, to see him stretched out, but exhaustion must be eating at him too. There's so many ways Nanami tries to make himself seem small, but draped across the couch with one of the blankets that stay stashed away in the cabinets, it's obvious he's anything but. He should be waking him up soon, but he doesn't feel like it. It's a nice play at domesticity, even for a Monday, and the lights poking through the blinds paint Nanami Renaissance.He turns back to his cards, reminding himself that he's already memorized enough of Nanami for the day. As he stares at his cards, he realizes there's no real way to win.It’s funny, just a bit.
Tuesday, 9:44PM
Down from his apartment, there's a noodle shop that only opens at night, hidden by the tall modern buildings surrounding it.He's not a fan of spices, garlic, but their speciality is mayu ramen, and he feels cold inside and ramen sounds warm, welcoming. The streets are busy, and the shop is too, but he's able to find a secluded seat in the back, tucked in a corner.
It'll be a while before his food is ready, so he reaches into his bag on the floor for his book.He hasn't had the time to read like he'd like, and in this moment of minute stillness, it feels right to surround himself with the sounds of people and just be.He's read this book many times over now, but it feels more apt this year than ever, and he doesn't have to think too long to know why. He finds a lost soul in Kafka sometimes: the lack of self, a love that seems to burn fast and bright and not for very long. Love and obsession, one in the same, and he's not sure what he feels for Nanami, only that it must surely be one of the two. Love and addiction, Nanami and Suguru.He's dragged out of his thoughts as the shop worker brings his food, and looking at the big bowl, he feels nauseous, knows it was a bad idea to come, but his body needs something warm, needs Nanami, and this is better than nothing. He snaps his chopsticks with his mouth, bracing himself before he shoves a mouthful of noodles in his mouth. It's hot, hot enough to scald, and it does, but the pain is nothing compared to the warmth sliding down his throat in thick strings.By the time he finishes, the shop is nearly empty, and the workers are cleaning up. Nanami would chastise him, but Nanami's not here, so he doesn't worry, doesn't care. He gets up, sluggish, stuffed, and wraps himself in his scarf before sliding his book back in his backpack. He pays, and then, he makes the short walk home.The streets are still busy, and he feels invisible as he maneuvers around clusters of friends, couples, families.The crosswalk light across from his apartment building turns red, and he waits, watching as dusk starts to fade from the sky. The noodles helped none, he's still cold, frozen, hollowed. There's the ghost of garlic on his lips, and it's familiar, comforting, 'least, and if he thinks of Nanami, well, no one has to know but him.
In the city, in the train, wherever I walk or sit, I have discovered how much I belong to you.
Tuesday, 11:49PM
After twenty minutes of violent tossing and turning, he abandons sleep.His unfinished painting haunts him from the corner of the room, and for a while, all he can do is stare at the colorless shapes staring back at him. Eventually, he gets up, can't stand the silence nor the inactivity. He feels his way in the dark around the bed and to his CD player on the dresser; he doesn't care what music still sits inside, no, the only thing that matters is that the thoughts don't get too loud again.He makes his way over to his work space, humming along to the generic, outdated pop, and it's not lost on him that it's been harder these days to ignore it, ignore them, the nasty ones that whisper and taunt to remind him, laugh at him that it means nothing, none of it.He doesn't need light to paint, not tonight. It's better like this, in the dark, when all he can go off of is the barest glimpses of himself reflected back, and sure, it means nothing, ’cept, is it really so bad to want to be seen? To be remembered?It's not lost on him that art tends to be an avenue for those on an ego fueled quest for importance, remembrance, and he's not immune to the sentiments. He knows this is more than likely just a desperate last ditch to find some justification of his existence and give proof to his being, his feelings.Insignificant, desperate, they whisper—and sure, maybe, but there's worse things to be.Insignificant, desperate, they whisper—and as he holds his paintbrush, the water-damaged walls start to feel too close, too tall.Insignificant, desperate, they whisper—and the words, they don't hurt as bad as they used to.There's worse things to be, and that's the only thing that gets him out of bed, the only thing that manages to keep the hopelessness at bay, even if for an hour ’cause to be remembered is to be loved, to be vulnerable. It's depressing, sometimes comforting, the threat of decades of him gone in an instant, then a third, final death as the memory of him fades from memory all at once like the ink of an old receipt.And so he picks up his brush, over and over, day in and day out, and paints for love, for attention, paints and paints and paints ’til his wrist starts to cramp and his shoulders seize and he's dizzy from malnutrition and fumes as the waxy film of insomnia and self-induced grief sits on his teeth ’cause—Even if there's no one else, if all else fails and his efforts all fall short, 'least he has Nanami, and that's enough, ’cause Nanami's always been the sentimental type.the only conclusion [...]: i am your real misfortune, and no one else but myself.
Wednesday, 2:10AM
The ache, the fucking ache won't stop, and he hates it all, hates being human, hates being a walking, corrupted mass of flesh and bones and blood and viscera and hunger and he's, he's,He's not hungry, he's not, but he can't, can't stop, can't stop eating, can't fucking stop, and even when he closes his eyes, just to pretend, pretend that he's normal, adjusted, sane, the bright glare of the refrigerator bulb burns behind his eyelids like the death of a million stars.
Wednesday, 3:54AM
Acid sits on his tongue, sour, bitter, and it takes nothing to dig through his brain to drag all the instances of Nanami locked inside of his head out to immortalize them on paper. The desperate need to keep all the good that happens to him surrounds him like a fog, and he draws, and draws, and draws and draws and draws and he's, he's,He's pathetic, he's pathetic, and still, like a man possessed, he grips his graphite, and draws, and draws, and draws, and—
Wednesday, 5:39AM
Their bed is a coffin full of love bloated with rot, and he lies there, sleepless, silent, shaky, with charcoal stained fingertips as his CD loops back to the first track. Fear pushes against his ribcage like soft cemetery dirt—all he can do is search for small pockets of air as he suffocates, counting the seconds ’til the world wakes and gives him another reason to get through another day.
Wednesday, 10:25AM
Vandyke, Burnt Umber—Nanami’s suit dances between the two.
His focus should be on the seminar, but the dichotomy in front of him is hard to ignore. Nanami’s suit… it’s too, too warm for the undertones of his skin and too cool for the indanthrene of his shirt.
It’s annoying.
He itches for a brush, any brush, just so he can drag the sticky-shine of paint-tinted linquin over the bland shades of Nanami to paint him better, brighter.Raw umber would be good, transparent oxide even better—but does Nanami notice? Does he even really care?Above the clean, crisp crease of Nanami's shirt sits another eyesore: pink, hidden, but more than likely just forgotten. It's hard to identify the exact shade under the LEDs, but it waves hello to him like Quinacridone, smiles at him in Alizarin with the shyest whisper of Zinc. He wants to be in the studios, alone, in silence, just so he can play with pigments and conjure up that imperfect waxy-pink to keep another fragment of Nanami's life within reach, finally his, and,
A throat clears, Nanami's. He looks up.The ever present frown on Nanami's face is deeper, though not so noticeable as to draw attention to them. Only someone who knows all the small intricacies of Nanami as well as he does would see it, that discomfort, that not-so-subtle warning, threat.All he offers, all he can offer in return is a too-sweet smile with redirected attention, feigned, just ’til Nanami's gaze skitters up and away once more. Only then is he free to slide his gaze over Nanami's profile to the sharp cut of his cheek where more quinacridone sits, taunting him, haunting him.Alizarin, with just a whisper of zinc. Rose madder, maybe, ’cept he'll never know for sure, ’cause it's smeared, swiped away in haste, but not all that hidden, not all that forgotten.His eyes fall to the ring shining on Nanami's finger: real gold, full of pigment and reflection like metal oil paints never can seem to duplicate.Four days until Sunday, and he's,He's tired, and it's annoying, it's all just so goddamn annoying.
Wednesday, 1:48PM
There hasn’t been a time where the prop closet hasn’t been a mess.
Higuruma-sensei never has his display set up on time, and it’s during moments like these that he feels like the department intern rather than an assistant professor. He frowns as he looks at the state of it. There’s never any time to organize it the way he wants it to be considering he’s the one that gets the most use out of it, but as he takes in the cluttered shelves and bins full of miscellaneous objects—he could make the time, maybe, just to save himself the trouble of being buried under props older than him at the slightest misstep.
Lamenting over it won’t make the still life magically appear before the start of Higuruma-sensei’s class and the chemical smell of all the fake flowers are starting to make his nose hurt, so he gets to work. The tile is uncomfortable on his knees and it takes two bins and a dangerous poke on the bottom shelves before he finds the poppies and pomegranates. He even finds a miniature David statue; but it’s still not enough.
He’s contemplating a dented grapefruit when the door to the classroom opens. It’s easy to ignore—it’s not unusual for students to come in before the three-hour class to set their workspace up properly, and he’s hidden away in the closet anyway so he shifts his focus into his pointless scavenger hunt right up `til there’s a knock on the open door of the storage closet.
When he looks over his shoulder, he’s not all that surprised to find Nanami there—Nanami has a lecture next door and he’s supposed to be in the office. What is surprising is the crossed arms and slight frown sitting on Nanami’s face. He raises an eyebrow and turns back to his chore as he sets the dented grapefruit to the side.
“Shouldn’t you be in class?” he asks, squinting. There's more fruit somewhere, but it’s hard to see with the dim lighting and with the amount of stuff in the boxes, well, round things start to feel the same after a while.
“Could ask the same of you,” Nanami says, murmurs, and his voice slides down his back like warm water. “Why are you setting up for Hiromi? Doesn’t he have someone for that?”“Careful,” he says, smiling at Nanami’s tone. It’s petulant, just a bit, and it’s funny ’cause he knows Nanami doesn’t mean for it to be. “You sound jealous.”Nanami doesn’t answer, and that’s,He looks over his shoulder, smiling, and Nanami’s eyes never leave his.“So it’s like that then.”Nanami frowns harder.“It’s not like anything, Mahito.”“Sure, sure,” he says, dismissive, standing up. It’s gonna be a pathetic still life, but Higuruma-sensei has no one to blame but himself... ’cept, maybe,“Hey, we got any more poppies around?” he asks, tossing everything scattered around him back into the bins.
“Maybe. In my office.”And he knows Nanami’s office like the back of his hand. There’s a lot of things in that cluttered space of his, but there's no poppies.But if Nanami wants to monopolize his time, he'd be fucking stupid to say no.
Wednesday, 3:50PM
He has no interest in women.
Women are everything he doesn’t want to be and everything he wishes he didn’t have. The only interest he can find in them is aesthetic, scientific, even. Much like women, descriptive neuroaesthetics hold no interest either, not really. It seems terribly contradictory to contemplate the validity of aesthetics and why people like what they like. It’s nothing he’ll need in life after he graduates, so while he should be taking notes, instead he sits and stares at Shoko-sensei as he gets into the meat of the lecture.
He takes in the way she leans against the whiteboard with a forgotten cigarette tucked behind her ear, the way not all of her hair managed to get captured in the low bun on her neck and the way the shape-fitting turtleneck wraps around her body like he imagines Nanami doing.
He should be taking notes, but this feels more useful.
Shoko-sensei is pretty, though not in a way that feels meaningful. She’s not Classical, she’s not Renaissance. She’s Contemporary at best, but Nanami does tend to gravitate towards all the no-fuss things life has to offer. It’s hard to consider what sort of neuroaesthetics theories come into play to draw Nanami towards two people who aren’t even remotely the same. Their hair is different, their builds. Where he's broad and heavy, Shoko-sensei's small, frail, even, maybe. Different undertones, different highlights, different styles, different eyes, lips, hands. They dress the same, maybe, in moderate blues and blacks, and maybe their interests run the same. But those are the only similarities he can find, and he wonders if Nanami would mind, if he felt like breaking their silent agreement to never talk about Shoko.Underneath that, on a biological level, he guesses that's one way in which they're the same, but that can't really count for much.Shoko-sensei turns to grab a marker for the whiteboard, and the plain gold ring hanging around her neck dances in the beam of light coming from the small windows in the lab. He's never been a fan of rings, not really, but he looks down at his hand all the same, wondering if something so dainty would fit him too.
A yawn creeps up on him, and the lack of sleep from the past thirty-six hours is starting to get hard to ignore. He rests his head on his chin, settling in to wait the hour and a half before he’s free to read his book and maybe even take a nap in the office.
Wednesday, 6:00PM
Out of everything to dislike about working for the art department, the budgeting might be the worst.
Numbers, formulas, money—it's all a fucking slog and he hates it all, but Nanami always says it’s important to learn if he ever wants to go professional, which,
He doesn’t, is the thing. Graduation is still a distant point in the future, and he’s still not sure if going professional is what he wants, ’cause if he stops to think about it for too long, there’s nothing about him that feels authentic enough for professionalism. Most days, he’s a lost soul shoved into the cracked shell of something too devoid of warmth to be a convincing human.
A headache starts to pulse behind his eyes as he types another formula into the spreadsheet program. It’s dark outside, and the lamp in the office is far too close to his desk, too bright. He wants to go home, but there's nothing there. If he goes home, he knows he’ll spend another night sleepless, anxious, and there’s only so much silence he can take. So even though he hates it, even though there’s a million and one things he’d rather be doing with his time, it makes sense to stay in the office and finish up Nanami’s work for him, ’cause maybe then he’ll feel like sleeping.
Behind him, Nanami’s desktop computer shuts down, and he looks at the time in the top corner of his laptop.
6:00PM.Nanami’s leaving earlier today.
He spins around in his chair, ’cause he likes this part, watching as Nanami starts the slow intentional process of packing up all his things. It’s always the same order, every day: laptop inside of his computer bag, glasses on his face, phone and keys in his pockets. Nanami’s a little faster stacking and organizing the papers on his desk today, barely noticeable if he wasn’t so attuned to Nanami.
"You got some fancy plans for the night then?" and Nanami’s hands pause. The band around his finger shines in the warm lamplight of the office.
"Just... just dinner. It's our scheduled date night.”"Yeah? Date night, fun. What's on the menu?" he says, pleasant, feeling anything but. How terribly domestic of them."Pasta Aglio e Olio, I think. Salmon, too, just… nothing special,” Nanami says as he pushes the stack of papers to the side. Nanami looks as if he wants to say something else, and he sees it dancing on the tip of Nanami’s tongue but…
He’s not in the mood for coddling, for being placated with neutral truths that feel like all the lies Suguru gives, so he spins his chair back around. Endless rows of numbers is preferable to Nanami’s misplaced pity."Sounds good," and he feels sick to his stomach. "Hope you two have fun."Nanami sighs, says something under his breath too soft to hear. He stares unseeing at his laptop while listening to Nanami grab his things. One last parting cloud of Nanami’s cologne as he walks past before the door to the handle clicks. The air is tense, loaded; he waits, waits and waits, but,
"Try not to stay too late," Nanami says, quiet. "The door will lock behind you. I'll see you tomorrow."And then, he's alone.
Wednesday, 10:12PM
The apartment is empty when he enters, though, it's not like he's expecting anything less.There's hints of Suguru around: the bathroom light is still on, the smell of Suguru's shampoo sits in the air. He tries not to breathe, tries not to let the nausea rising like a wave push him over the edge. Off go his shoes, shoulder bag and keys, too, and then he's pushing open the shoji door. It takes eight steps to get from the door to the middle of the room, and he stands, looking around for all those hidden bits Suguru tends to leave.There's a bowl and a pair of chopsticks in the sink, one of Suguru's guitar cases is gone. The third drawer of their dresser that sits against the wall is open, just a bit, and he knows it'll be another day 'til he sees Suguru again.It only takes eight steps from the middle of the room to get to the door, and then he's picking up his keys, sliding his feet in shoes far too big to belong to him, but that doesn't matter, ’cause he's only going to be gone for a few minutes.
Wednesday, 10:24PM
The lights in the convenience store hurt, though that could be the lack of sleep catching up to him.It’s far too late for this, but being stuck in the apartment with nothing to do feels far worse. He knows he looks a mess in shoes two sizes too big with paint covered clothes, but it’s far too late for him to care much either. He stares at the shelf—the box-dye brand he likes to use is out of stock. The other options aren’t ideal, but it’s not like he cares about that either.He grabs two boxes of the first thing his eyes fall on before going two aisles down to the pet section. Cat food is getting more expensive, but it’s not like that matters either.The cashier in the front looks bored. They don’t speak; that’s fine, too, ’cause the store lights are breeding a migraine, and the quicker he gets out of here, the better. Still, he can’t help but wonder what she sees as he counts out the last of his coins out.He wonders if he looks as haunted as he feels, if the skeletons in his lockbox heart are as loud as they seem.
Wednesday, 10:30PM
People stare, but he doesn’t blame them.He should be getting home instead of crawling around on the damp ground next to the dumpster. The can of cat food next to him smells like saltwater, like rusted copper and fermented tripe—it’s all fetid, and he’s nauseous from it, from exhaustion, from Nanami and Suguru, and just,He clicks his tongue, louder this time. From underneath the dumpster, he hears a quiet, raspy meow. There hasn’t been much to smile about lately, but something untangles in his chest at the sound, at the small paws that creep from underneath.He’s not a fan of animals, but there’s something about the cat that he likes. Kids must’ve gotten a hold of him at one point or another, ’cause his fur is patchy, and the exposed skin on his flank and back legs are covered in burn marks. It’s a healthy kitty, considering, but he never sees him come out for anyone other than him.“Hey there, Jogo,” he whispers as the cat inches closer. Jogo gives another wet purr, and he laughs.There’s not much to smile about lately, but some secrets don’t have to all be bad.the weather is lovely, warm, the window is open, and i did something i hadn’t done for a long time—
Thursday, 9:02AM
The humidity hits him like a fist once the balcony sliding door clacks all the open.It’s heavy, wet; he can smell the threat of thunderstorms lurking underneath the humidity as he reaches down for the watering can tucked in the corner. He gives it a shake—it’s almost empty, but the kitchen feels too far, so he’ll make it a problem for tomorrow, for the weekend, ’cause rain means the plants’ll be okay, if only for a little while.Soft hello’s to Hanami and Dagon get lost in the distant rumble of thunder, and he sighs, squatting low to push a finger deep into their soil. They’re hungry, so he feeds them ’til water beads up past their soul and seeps from the cracks in their terracotta.Hanami and Dagon—they don’t need much care; they’re the easiest plants he’s ever taken care of, the longest living ones too, and he loves them for that alone.He watches them, one hand in the pocket of his painting apron, and he’s hungry, maybe; but it’s too much effort to eat, too much to get up from his squat now that he’s there. Exhaustion still clings to him, and he should know better than to start his early morning off by painting as he waited for the box-dye to process, but restlessness is the enemy, and he’s never been the best at making well-meaning decisions.It’s too much to get up; and so he doesn’t, and instead decides to make a few more bad decisions. Hidden away in his apron sits a forgotten, half-crumpled pack of Nanami’s menthol cigarettes alongside one of Suguru’s lighters he’ll never think to miss.He pulls both out, dragging his paint-covered thumb along the torn foil and thin cardboard of the pack. There’s just three left, and they’re far past their prime: stale, tasteless, but still, he covets them, still takes them out and smokes them the moments he needs to be held but can’t.Menthol isn’t his favorite thing, but it’s easier to inhale knowing it’s another piece of Nanami available for him to consume out of all the other unavailable aspects about him and it's, funny, maybe, that toxic chemicals are the only parts of Nanami he can covet with no one the wiser.He stares down at Hanami and Dagon as he smokes, swatting at the late-season bugs still hopping around his face: there’s some dead leaves hanging off of Hanami, and the first stages of wet rot around Dagon’s stem. He should be home more to take care of them, and he has half the thought to ask Suguru to check in on them before a laugh slips out without permission—Suguru’s home even less than he is.The smoke does nothing to deter the bugs, and he resigns himself to a few bug bites scattered on his arm as he sticks the cigarette in his mouth to get to work.A wordless song slips from his parted lips, off-tune, even for him, but it’s therapeutic, this small moment of peace amidst the chaos in his head as he tends to his plants with the taste of Nanami in his mouth. Dead weeds and leaves get tossed to the side, bit after bit, and when he’s done, he sits back on his heels, admiring the new state of Hanami and Dagon as lazy gusts of wind drag the unwanted, dead mess of them over the balcony’s edge.He stays there, smoking, kinda, but mostly letting the cigarette burn down to the filter close enough to bite at the thin skin of his stained fingers.It’s almost time for his independent study. There’s still a shower to be had, and he has to pack up his paint kit, clean, and maybe eat if he can stand it but,It’s tempting to stay holed up while ignoring his duties as rain blankets the city. It’s tempting to ignore his troubles, just for the day, and retreat to the place where there’s no thinking, just instinct, just touch. But there’s work to do and rent to pay; ’cept, mostly, he wants to see Nanami, to find the comfort a quiet apartment won’t give him, and that’s what gets him moving.The cigarette butt gets tossed over the railing, still lit, and he stretches enough to give relief to all the tiny bones in his spine and neck before he goes to drag Hanami and Dagon under what little covering the balcony offers.It just won’t do, after all, to have more than two half-dead things occupying the apartment.
Thursday, 10:49AM
“Y’know,” he mumbles around his cracked thumb nail. “I’m your senpai, technically. You could be nicer to me.”“Are you really though?” Choso asks, smirking in that annoying way of his as he leans against the cabinets while eating. “You’re not one to act your age very often.”“Age doesn’t mean anything, shut up,” he says, taking his thumb out of his mouth to stare at it. It’s cracked, and there’s a blood blister underneath the nail bed that’s gonna get ugly sooner rather than later, but he’s still good to work, and that’s what matters.He squats to check his canvas. It’s a little dirty, but it’s nothing a few coats of gesso won’t fix. His thumb twinges as he gets his hand underneath the heavy wood frame to flip it over. The folds are a little puffed up, and he thumbs the corners. If he took the staples out, maybe it’d lay flatter, but that’s more work than he wants to do.This is the part he hates the most about painting—he’s not one for the finer details, for the perfect construction of a frame and the neat edges of a handmade canvas. His personal philosophy is art is meant to be chaotic, messy, but Nanami’s philosophy is unrelenting when it comes to proper etiquette. Everything should be museum standard, ready for critique and inspection and god forbid Nanami gets into a mood where he feels like lecturing and ranting instead of standing off to the side, staring judgmentally at him while he works.The smell of Choso’s tuna sandwich seeps into the room, and combined with the chemical fumes of paint thinner and latex paint, it’s enough to have him nauseous—but he’s stuck in this room for the next four hours unless he’s in the mood to play hide and seek with Nanami.While his canvas looks fine to him, the only way to avoid the threat of a lecture is to start painting ’cause the only thing Nanami hates more than lecturing him about tight corners is re-stretching canvas that’s already been prepped."Ken-chan's gonna be mad at me," he sighs, more to himself. He only remembers where he is and who he’s with when he stands back up and gets met with a sharp look from Choso.“Ken-chan?” Choso says, a little too rude for his liking. "Thought you were done with that."“Dunno where you got that stupid fucking idea,” he murmurs, ’cause he’s never thought about giving Nanami up for good, ever."For such a smart-ass, you sure do a lot of dumb shit," Choso says before stuffing the last of his sandwich in his mouth. It’s meant to be a low-handed compliment, but he looks over, smiling nice and bright just to piss Choso off."That's probably the nicest thing you ever said to me, y'know," he says, and Choso rolls his eyes as he chews."If you're done exploiting my labor, I have a project to get back to,” Choso says eventually. Calling it a project is being generous. It’s an abstract mess of metal rusted with iodine shoved into canvas, but to each his own."Mm, good luck with that, then.”It’s not all snark; he really does mean it. It takes a lot to impress Kenjaku-sensei.
Thursday, 2:36PM
The static of the storm outside is distracting—though that could just be another one of his excuses. Whether opening the window by his workstation helps or hinders his progress doesn’t matter much, not really, ’cause he’s decided this painting won’t be joining the rest meant for his dissertation.No, this one will be for him.Another dab of turpentine-thinned ochre on his canvas, and just ’cause this one won’t ever see the carefully curated walls of the graduate exhibition doesn’t mean he shouldn’t give it his best.It might be over-exposure, or maybe the fact that he hasn’t eaten much at all these past few days, but something about the first layer of paint doesn’t look right, feel right.The form, maybe, or the colors; usually it clicks easily, but today, it’s all he can do to try and make sense of the slight hints of realism poking through the soft, near shapeless blend of colors as he breathes through linseed-oil induced nausea. The continuous wave of showers cancels most of the afternoon classes; there’s only two names on the studio logs, and with Choso-kun long gone, he has all the time in the world.He stares at the canvas as he dips his paintbrush in the brush cleaner; no one’s at home waiting for him, so the least he could do is be productive—but his shoulders are stiff, and he wants nothing more than to go home, or maybe even to Choso-kun’s, just to bother him and his baby brother and relax in the bathtub that Choso-kun never seems to appreciate properly.Being alone isn't so bad, anyway, not when it comes to painting, ’cept doesn't seem like he's all that when the door to the studio clicks open.Only one person bothers to look for him during his independent study in a fake gesture of professionalism. One, two, four, nine, twelve—twelve steps is all it takes for spice and musk to caress him before Nanami speaks.“So is this all the progress you’ve made today?” Nanami questions from behind him, too close, really, and he tilts his head, deconstructing his painting in the way Nanami must see it. It doesn’t take him long anymore to get underpainting done—it’s easy to tell what’s on the canvas even in spite of the lack of details.It’s a body shot, a memory ingrained in his mind that he could paint it from memory over and over again. There’s a few details; not much, but enough to emphasize broad fingers resting on a soft stomach with warm cotton sheets pooling across a waist. He knows what it is, who it’s supposed to be, but the only question he really has is if Nanami can see it too."Mm, having a little trouble, but I can’t figure out where though,” he says, frowning.Another wave of musk and spice hugs him; he’s only half-prepared for the proximity, but the warmth of Nanami’s chest against his back is a dangerous comfort. Nanami’s fingers ghost against the wet canvas, and he bites down on his lip.It's warm outside despite the early winter trying to settle, so he shouldn't be surprised ’cause Nanami tends to run hot on days like these, but the flash of skin still manages to twist and steal his breath.He follows the arch of Nanami’s fingers as a gentle heat licks up into his stomach.“Your anatomy is a bit skewed here,” Nanami murmurs. “Tighten up, but keep in mind wrists are delicate, despite the build.”He sees it now, of course, the minor discrepancies between what sits on the canvas and the inspiration in front of him; but it’s easy to drop his focus to the stretch of Nanami's muscles, to the arch of his fingers, and the fluid twist of Nanami’s wrist as he skims them down the wet canvas.“The coloring is a bit off,” Nanami continues. “More olive here, less pink there.”Wearing his heart on his sleeve has never been something he’s done; but something gives him away—maybe his breathing, maybe the thudding of his heart. Whatever it is, the way Nanami’s fingers pause and pull back is proof he’s not nearly as subtle with his thoughts as he’d like to be. There’s no need to reply, not with the hushed air sitting stagnant between them. He lifts his brush instead, tip wet with cadmium yellow-tinted viridian and flake white, and spreads it on the areas Nanami mapped out, and Nanami—Nanami says nothing, Nanami doesn’t leave—Nanami watches him paint in silence. It feels less like instruction and more of a performance, more like intimacy and foreplay, and together, they watch as the perspective on the canvas transforms, stroke by stroke."Like that?" he asks after a few minutes, silent save for the patter of rain, the distant roll of thunder.Nanami makes a contemplative sound that nearly gets swallowed."Better," Nanami murmurs after a few seconds, and it's as good as he'll get it for now.He sets his paintbrush down on the easel before closing his eyes. Hours of sitting have twisted the muscles in his shoulders; he rolls his neck, but the tightness doesn't unravel. It’s late enough now that he could leave, if he wanted, but before he can entertain that thought properly, warm hands come down against his nape, fingers dancing against his neck, shoulders. A groan slips out as Nanami’s calloused thumbs dig into his flesh a little too sensual for the environment.Alone like this, faced with solitude and temptation—it’s the easiest way and the only way to have Nanami.It’s because of that, he allows it, wants it when he knows it’s a reckless thing to do, even after his muscles soften and Nanami’s touch begins to linger in the absence of pain."Better," Nanami says again, and he knows Nanami's not talking about anatomy, 'least not in the usual ways.
Thursday, 4:03PM
There’s a café Nanami likes in Toyama.It’s far enough from the campus that they don't have to worry about being recognized once they exit the train, and it’s only for that reason alone that he lets himself be dragged along. He’s not hungry; 'least, not for food. For attention, maybe, yeah, but he’s in a decent enough mood to pretend that he’s enjoying himself, even as Nanami spends the short train ride focused on his phone answering e-mails.It’s a different story once they’re in the café.Nanami orders for them both—a sandwich and light beer for Nanami, a soup and a seltzer for him. The broth is thin enough that he can get it down with little gagging, but the chunks of vegetables are a different story. Most of their time there is spent dragging Nanami into conversations to pass what little time they have, just to give him some time to breathe. Each bite has nausea churning, and the ginger seltzer only helps some.“Any plans for the weekend, Nanami-sensei?” he asks, lips wrapped around his straw.Nanami chews slow, gaze cautious but heavy.“I’m not sure,” Nanami says.He smiles, fake and wide; acid sits at the base of his throat. It takes more effort than he’d like to admit to keep it there.“Want any?”And Nanami…Nanami says nothing.
Thursday, 4:44PM
He excuses himself to the bathroom once Nanami calls for the check.One, two, four, ten, twenty—the bathroom is empty, bright and quiet. He spares no glance towards his reflection and the sound of his shoes echoing in the empty room are haunting, ominous.One, two, four, seven steps to a stall that’s squeaky clean. The sound of the lock catching feels like permission.There’s a hair tie of Suguru’s that he always keeps on hand, and carefully, he pulls up all the fine, fried strands of his hair that never seem to listen.This part is meditative; a calm comes over him that he hasn’t felt in days and it’s, easy, after that, to kneel and find more peace at the bottom of porcelain.
Thursday, 5:15PM
He almost trips over Suguru’s boots as he unlocks the door to step into the genkan.It’s… unexpected.There weren’t any texts or calls; he stands there in the entrance for a while as the sounds of Suguru’s acoustic guitar float through the shoji. Anxiety bubbles up in his chest despite the music feeling like a balm against his skin. It’s been just him in the apartment for too long, and it’s, it’s,It won’t do to let the emotions overflow; so he swallows it down, down like the foulest of medicines ’til he can deal with it later when he’s alone like he always does.He moves into the genkan, and the front door slams shut behind him.Traces of Nanami’s cologne and the café linger on his sweater, and he can smell it as he kicks his shoes off. That won’t do—his best bet would be to shower, to scrub himself soap-clean and avoid any kind of potential conflict with Suguru that he can.The hardwood of the hallway creaks with each step, loud, telling, but Suguru’s plucking never stops.It’s not as if Suguru’s going to come to him, but still he locks the bathroom door, just to put another barrier between them. Off come his clothes, and he shoves them deep in the laundry hamper, though it’s not as if Suguru cares enough to wonder where he’s been. Self-destructive, he might be, but it’s easier for them both when it’s like this.He twists the shower to as hot as the pipe’ll allow him before grabbing the soap that smells like nothing much. It’s a mindless chore—scrub, scrub, scrub, ’til he’s pink and squeaky; he even washes his hair, too, despite it being his least favorite thing to do, ’cause he thinks of Nanami’s hands, of his musk and the smell of fresh baked pastries and too soft looks and,He has nothing to hide, not today, but... it's, it’s still safer, comforting, for him, like this.The bathroom tile is cold against his toes, and he watches as water drips from his body to seep into the dirty grout. There’s anxiety in his stomach—it hurts when Suguru’s gone, but when he is home, it somehow feels worse.He doesn’t bother to dry off before he’s digging through the laundry hamper to find half-decent clothes. They’ll need to do laundry soon; rather, he’ll need to do laundry soon. He finds a shirt of Suguru’s, soft and well-worn, and a pair of ratty fleece shorts that belong to him.He slips them on and they cling to his skin in a way that reminds him of guilt.
Thursday, 5:31PM
Standing outside of the shoji door, he tries to collect himself, ’cause there’s something bitter and nasty clinging to the underside of his skin. Water drips from his hair onto his bare feet and he breathes, breathes ’cause Suguru has to know he’s home, has to know if not from the front door slamming to the way the pipes clank and groan every time the shower runs.He can smell heavy smoke, like Suguru forgot to open up the sliding door or window again but he’s just, tired, too tired to complain but not tired enough to let the sorrow seeping into his blood fade.The song Suguru plays grates against his ears; it’s warm, a little sad, and he wonders just which Suguru he’ll get for the evening. One, two, five, six breaths, and he shoves the shoji open. The only light on in the cramped space is the one on Suguru’s side of the bed. At the foot of the bed sits Suguru, shirtless and staring down at a sheet of crumpled music on the floor between his feet.Some of his sketchbooks sit open next to Suguru on the bed, and suddenly, he’s angry—dizzy from it, sick from it, sick of it, and he wants to, wants, needs, to smash Suguru’s guitar, throw it right off the balcony and watch that shitty wood crack to pieces. His sketchbooks, his painting, Suguru’s vinyls and all their shared CDs, he’d throw them all and let them join the pieces of Suguru ’cause nothing in their apartment means anything much to people like them, people who settle and pretend and it’s, it’s,“The painting’s coming along nicely,” Suguru says into the quiet. It’s polite, impersonal, like everything Suguru ever does and the rage washes away into the gutters just as quick as it came.“Not really,” he says, walking past Suguru to the kitchenette for water, or maybe a snack, just, anything to avoid looking at him for a little while longer. “Kinda hate it.”Suguru says nothing.Looking inside of the fridge is pointless. Grocery shopping needs to be done soon and he adds it to the never-ending list in his head of things that he’ll end up doing alone. There’s a melon soda shoved towards the back behind some weeks old take-out. He can’t remember who it belongs to, but he grabs the bottle anyway and lets the fridge fall shut.It’s a bottle cap, glass, and he hates those the most, so there’s a good chance it’s Suguru’s. Still, that doesn’t stop him from twisting the cap loose with the tail of his shirt as he leans against the kitchenette counter. There’s a half-finished hand-rolled cigarette in the ashtray sitting on the bed, and he stares at it like it’s a personal offense. The room is hazy with smoke and the anger lurking in his blood threatens to spill.Instead, he takes a deep breath, another.Instead, he walks over to the sliding door, shoving it open with more force than it really actually needs. His cracked nail throbs from the force of it, but it feels good, right, for the ugly mood settling into the room that only comes out when he and Suguru are together for longer than they should to be.Suguru’s strumming pauses, and he turns around, face neutral as he can make it.“Stinks in here,” he says. “Can’t you open the door or somethin’? Not that hard.”“Should I have?” Suguru asks, small smile on his face. “Didn’t want to ruin your stuff with all the humidity.”It's bullshit; they both know it.
Thursday, 5:42PM
He crawls into bed feeling cold and empty.Melon soda coats his teeth and he feels like vomiting again.On the floor next to their bed, there’s a stack of books. He hangs over the bed's edge, dragging his thumbs down the spines of them; he doesn’t feel much like reading, but he’s not tired, not really, and with Suguru still playing his guitar and smoking, there’s probably no chance of sleep any time soon anyway.He picks another Kafka—Metamorphosis, and he falls back against the pillows and crosses his legs, reads, waits. Suguru’s songs transition into each other after a while, but he likes silence when he reads, so he doesn’t get very far into the book before his attention drifts back to Suguru and the way smoke floats around him and hits the evening sun.He doesn't like to smoke what Suguru smokes, but sometimes, when it's like this, when they're like this, it's easiest to indulge just to get the voices to quiet down."Hey," he says, poking at Suguru's lower back with his toe. "Gimme."Suguru turns around, smiling that boyish smile of his."You gonna?" Suguru asks, and he nods.Suguru sets his guitar down flat on the ground as he takes another puff, two, before he twists to crawl on the bed.And he and Suguru, they’re not so good anymore, haven’t been for a while, but when Suguru looks at him with those low, dark eyes, hair loose and soft it feels, it feels like they’re young again, before college, before life got too much and pulled them towards different ambitions, different people, different versions of themselves.He closes his eyes as Suguru presses lips to his, and stale, heavy smoke creeps into his mouth. He forces himself to inhale, forces it past the sudden itch in his lungs that wants to expel it.They haven’t kissed in... longer than he’d like to admit, and he knows it means nothing in the grand scheme of things, but... Suguru's lips are soft, firm, and it wouldn’t be so bad, would it, to let himself want?He opens his mouth slow, asking, inviting, and Suguru takes it for the silent plea it is and,Suguru's tongue is warm, the warmest thing he's felt in days; and when Suguru pulls back, eyes heavy and heated like he’s plucked inspiration from his lips, he's lightheaded. His body is made from bricks and lead, and when Suguru crawls back down the bed to re-adjust his guitar and find the right chords, he gives himself permission to be lulled to sleep by the sound of thunder and Suguru’s sad songs.
Thursday, 7:58PM
The shifting of the bed wakes him up, and he blinks, eyes adjusting to the dark as Suguru crawls above him with curious hands sliding up and between his bare legs and up to where he's soft and barren. His shorts are gone, and Suguru finds a space between his legs effortlessly.Lips on his shoulder, neck, and Suguru's hair smells like shampoo they don't own.Suguru's hard, needy through his sweatpants, and he thinks of scratches, of white-haired men and girls prettier than he'll ever be as Suguru's hands slip underneath his shirt to grab his chest. He's still cold, still empty, there's heat in Suguru's sweatpants, and,He's willing to take his chances that maybe Suguru can fix it, fix him, 'least for now, for today.Suguru around him, groaning as he pushes into him a little too fast, it's enough ’cause it has to be.
Thursday, 10:36PM
The next time he wakes, only hints of Suguru are found: the smell of smoke lingering in the corners of the room like ghosts, sheet music on the small table on Suguru’s side of the bed. He lays there, hand on his stomach as he listens to the echos of the evening thunderstorm; he feels rubbed raw, sore, and when he rolls over to his back, lukewarm cum slips out of him.The pain, the mess—he doesn’t mind it, ’cause that’s all a part of Suguru too.the feeling kept growing inside me; what an unclean pest i was for you, disturbing you everywhere, always getting in your way.
Friday, 11:00AM
When he wakes up, it’s drizzling. He stares at the overcast skies through the small window next to their bed. The space heater hums, keeping the room warm but still cold enough that it’s no effort at all the bury himself underneath the mess of blankets.It's late, but getting out of bed feels like more trouble than it’s worth, so he doesn’t.His eyelids are heavy, head and body too. The week has caught up to him, and the black hole in his stomach is begging to be filled, fixed, healed, listened to. But there’s no food in the house, and the thought of greasy take out rolls his stomach.His thoughts drift, drift and drift ’til they’re too far out of his control and,In the kitchenette cabinet over the sink, there’s a little bottle of Suguru’s sleeping pills. It would be easy, maybe, to drift off, away, away and further still, never to be dragged back down inside of a body cracked and broken like porcelain.But that's too much effort.He doesn’t feel like getting out of bed, so he doesn’t.
Friday, 1:43PM
The next time he wakes, it’s afternoon—the sun shines bright and he’s sweating. He sits up in bed, groaning as he reaches over to yank the space heater cord out of the wall.Fridays are his days to get things done: he should clean, eat, take the laundry to the laundromat and clean up his paint space. And he gets up, only—it’s not to clean, to eat, but to push the sliding door open and let the tepid breeze inside. He e stands there for a while, watching as the people below go about their day, wondering who's as broken as he is.Before long, fatigue washes over him. Suddenly, standing feels like too much effort too.
Friday, 1:50PM
It’s instinct, the way he checks his phone once he crawls back into bed. There’s no texts. There’s no one waiting for him, waiting to talk to him. The motions of it are soothing though, even if the subdued sense of rejection isn’t.He could text Choso, but Choso is more than likely spending his day with his brothers and the last thing he’d like to deal with is Choso waxing poetic about his family. Contacting Suguru would be pointless, but that still doesn’t stop his thumb from hovering over Suguru’s name.There’s books that need his attention, physical and digital; there’s chores to be done and paintings to paint, but his eyes skip past the few names he has in his phone as he scrolls aimlessly before landing on Nanami’s.The kanji of Nanami’s name seem to dance, calling out to him, and it’s... not wise to call on their day off, but logic has never stopped him from making bad decisions before.Nanami picks up on the fifth ring, but silence is the only thing that greets him. He turns the speakerphone on before he rolls on his back to stare at the water stained ceiling and still—Nanami says nothing.“Hey there, professor,” he says, murmurs, quiet enough not to break the tension stretching between them more than he already has. “Busy much?”Nanami exhales slow, breath crackling against his speaker before mumbling something not meant for him. A door closes, and Nanami exhales again."I doubt if that if I said yes, that'd deter you any," Nanami says, and there’s nothing to say ’cause it's the truth."I've asked you not to call without warning, especially on weekdays," Nanami continues. He rolls his eyes."Mm, yeah, but, what's the point when you answer anyway?""That's not the point and you," Nanami starts, frustrated, before cutting himself off. Silence ticks on before: "What do you need Mahito? You can't, can't keep doing this—""You home?" he interrupts, low, warm, ’cause he didn't call for a lecture. His hand slides between his legs, still sticky and warm from last night, but he's still empty, still hollowed."You know I am," Nanami says, just as low, but for a different reason this time, like he doesn't want anyone to hear."Is she home?" and he's met with silence.The silence breaks as he slips a finger inside of himself, moaning, soft and exaggerated on the edges."Naughty, naughty, Ken-tan.""You're the last person to lecture me about bad behavior," Nanami hisses, and he laughs, breathy and wanting."True, but 'm just young and dumb," he says, getting wet. "You should know better, Mister Responsible."Silence, silence that he wants to break, needs to rip in half."Got some time to spare?" he whispers, nuzzling up against his phone, staring at Nanami's name as he slides a third finger in. There’s an itch inside of him that needs to be rubbed, teased, and Nanami’s low monotone only adds fuel to the fire."For what?" Nanami says, and he smiles."Nothin' too serious," he says, honest for once. "Just need you to listen, 's all."And just like everything else, Nanami gives him what he wants.
Friday, 7:38PM
He’s sitting at his easel when Suguru comes home—though, it’s not to him; rather, it’s for Suguru's guitar.It’s easy to pretend to be busy color matching a fresh palette of paint as Suguru fusses behind him. It’s silent between them; like an intrusive thought, the urge to say something bubbles up in his throat like a hasty mix of baking soda and vinegar when he’s desperate to clean the gunk off his expensive paintbrushes.He’s able to control it, ‘least ’til Suguru brushes past him to grab his headphones off the art organizer and then he’s speaking without meaning to.“Practice again?” he says, not bothering to look behind him. Suguru doesn’t reply, but he can hear him pause.In his freshman biology course, they learned about cells, all the things that make them function. At any given moment, they can turn hostile; no rhyme, no reason. Malignant, corruptive—most days, Suguru bleeds him like a tumor, depleting him of everything that makes him half-good. There’s no love, not anymore, but severance is too heavy of a burden to bear. They choose metastasis instead of isolation; they choose the pestilence that rots, festers with each passing day. They infect each other with toxins as the mutual need to not be alone drives them further apart, smiling all the while their relationship eases its way into hospice.Suguru says nothing to him— but that’s just fine with him. He smiles at his canvas, but it stretches and cracks along the edges like decades old linquin.“Have fun,” he says, and he means it like he’s never meant anything before.Suguru hums, and the hardwood boards creaking underneath Suguru’s feet as he leaves says more than Suguru ever could. The shoji clacks open, stays open, but the front door slams, lock clicking loud and final.He reaches for another tube of paint, wondering just how fast a terminal cancer can really kill.
Friday, 10:33PM
The apartment starts to feel too small, too, too much—maybe it’s the smell of the paint, maybe it’s the lingering smoke, maybe it’s the way the traffic outside starts to push against the noise in his head but it’s, it’s too much to stay, and the piles of clothes scattered around the room aren’t helping any. It’s late, but not too late to go to the laundromat a few blocks down.Whatever he can get his hands on, it goes in the duffle bag: clothes, towels, blankets and his painting apron. His fingers find the hidden pack of cigarettes, the lighter, and it only takes a second of hesitation before he shoves them in the duffle bag too.He doesn’t bother locking the door when he leaves—there’s nothing worth stealing anyway.
Friday, 10:49PM
The sound of clothes thunking against the drum of the washer isn’t as irritating as it should be.He sits on a stool near the propped open laundromat doors, letting the sounds of the machinery soothe him. The smell of food wafts through with the unusual humidity for the late hour and Suguru’s short sleeved shirt sticks to his back.On his lap, his sketchbook sits opened, flat, and It's a nice night for drawing, but his head holds no ideas, only vignettes of memories, people, things but even that is better than letting his mind idle. Tonight: there’s drawings of Choso, of Jogo, of Suguru and buildings and scenery long left in his past, but mostly... it’s Nanami, always Nanami.Cars honk in the distance. People talk, argue, and the smell of fried seafood and ramen continue to waft inside the small room. Hunger still alludes him; but that’s fine, ’cause he’s more concerned with capturing the tightness that sits around Nanami’s eyes that he only sees on Monday mornings—the tightness that communicates regret, guilt, and yearning all in one.Every so often, his eyes catch the faint bruises on his forearms from Suguru.It’s not hard to pretend they're gifts from Nanami instead.
Friday, 11:54PM
It’s a little cooler, cooler enough that he goes outside to smoke the last cigarette in Nanami’s stolen pack with Suguru’s lighter. The streets are a little quieter here, but not by much. The few people that pass barely look at him as he sucks stale menthol down; he feels like a ghost, invisible, but he doesn’t hate it, not really.Thirty minutes ago, he sent a text to Nanami—innocuous, normal, for them. Nanami leaves him on read, and he doesn’t know whether he wants to scream or laugh more.He’s stepping on the cigarette butt when his phone vibrates in his pocket. It vibrates again, but as he wakes it up, instead of Nanami’s name, it’s Suguru’s that he sees.
>> Are you home right now?
He considers lying. Maybe it's a night he's finally found people to be around—it’s not out of the realm of possibility that he could be with friends and he doubts Suguru cares enough to probe much deeper than that. He wants to be free like Suguru likes to be, unaccountable, but still he watches with a detached fascination as his fingers force him to be more truthful than he ever really feels like being.
<< finished the laundry, heading back soon
<< u coming?
By the time he’s making the slow walk back home, Suguru hasn't replied.The apartment is unchanged when he comes back, and as he begins to push their clean clothes into the dresser, he tells himself he doesn't care, doesn't fucking care at all.do not let yourself be scared away from me—even if i disappoint you once or a thousand times or right now or perhaps always right now.
Saturday, 10:46PM
Once a month, the department faculty go out for drinks in an effort to "bond".In reality, it's just an excuse for the professors to use up the department budget without worrying about having their funds cut due to excess; but underneath that, it's just an excuse for everyone to drink on the university's dime. Bars aren't his favorite place to be, and he's too much of a lightweight to enjoy alcohol, but on the end of rough weeks, he doesn't mind much being dragged out by Choso and Miwa.Tonight, they're inside of a bar that Shoko-sensei picks, and he sits at the bar counter, trying to push the headache behind his eyes back, ’cause it's the gaudiest bar he's ever been in. The harsh lighting bounces off the disco ball anchored above, and the televisions mounted all along the walls play different things at different volumes. It's the true definition of a dive; and it's a sensory overload.
He half-listens to Choso and Miwa's conversation, something about Choso’s brothers again. The lemon drop in front of him looks as unappealing as the other two before it. He's light-headed already, and he knows, knows it's not a good idea to drink on an empty stomach ’cause that's when he does all the things he regrets, but with Choso rambling to his left and Nanami on the other side of the bar, dead set on ignoring him, there's nothing else to do but lean into all those masochistic qualities he likes to pretend he doesn't have.Nanami and the other professors sit in his eye line, and he tries not to focus on the too-close way Shoko-sensei sits next to him ’cause frankly, she’s allowed to. It's not like he hates her; rather, he has no logical reason to, but it's hard to ignore how picture perfect they are, how well they complement each other, and maybe he finally understands the point of neuroaesthetics, on why the heart wants what the heart wants.
There's a true, tender softness on Nanami’s face that he never gets to see, even when he's desperate for it, and it… hurts, maybe, is the word. He hates how childish he feels, hates how he feels robbed of another day with the only person who ever seems to see him fully and not just a mirage of all the things projected onto him when there's so few days in a single week.
But there's nothing to be said, nothing to be done, ’cause he doesn't have that right, so he drinks, drinks and drinks and pretends that being ignored doesn't feel like bones fracturing, like skin burning and a heart breaking.He drinks and drinks and pretends that he doesn't just… want.
Between the forth and fifth lemon drop, Choso and Miwa migrate somewhere behind him to the tables, and he's left alone with his misery and alcohol that sits toxic in his stomach. He wants to cry, but maybe that's the alcohol, and he wants to scream, but maybe that's the alcohol, too, and somewhere between trying to differentiate the two, a middle-aged man that smells like printer ink and stale smoke sits next to him.
The man introduces himself as Cyrus, and he blinks, smiles nice and wide like he actually gives a fuck, ’cause some attention is better than none, and if he squints, maybe Nanami'll look like this, in a few dozen years if he’s lucky.Some attention is better than none, and so, he entertains the filthy looks, even when there's the phantom touch of oil settling on his skin. Some attention is better than none, and when Cyrus rests a hand on his thigh, whispering about how pretty of a boy he is, he leans into the touch and fawns like he's meant to do.
When Cyrus turns away to order them both something stronger, hand sliding up higher all the meanwhile, his eyes dance over towards the professors, just a glance. He's not sure what he wants, what he was expecting, but Nanami's glaring daggers at him, ’cept, that's not right, no,The daggers and malice are for Cyrus, and it's funny, funny enough that he giggles, bell-bright, and Cyrus takes that as the go ahead to slide his hand further.
All night, all night, Nanami's attention has been on Shoko, on Kusakabe-sensei, on Higuruma-sensei, on the televisions, on his beer and on his phone and on the bar patrons and on everything but him.
Cyrus says something else, sliding something called a Silver Bullet into the loose cradle of his fingers, but he can barely hear the rest of Cyrus’ words thanks to the blood rushing in his ears.He giggles harder, giggles to cover up all the butterflies hatching in his stomach as shaky fingers grip the shot glass.
Saturday, 11:05PM
Cyrus is in the middle of some kind of tangent, and suddenly, he can't sit there anymore, can't tolerate the feel of Cyrus’ meaty hand sliding up to places it shouldn't be, and he stands up, quick enough to have the barstool tip over and clatter to the ground. He turns around, stares at it, thinks that he should, should maybe pick it up, but the butterflies, but the hysteria, the nausea, the feel of Cyrus' eyes, of Nanami's eyes, it's too much it's too much it's,
He pushes his way through the crowd around the bar counter, ignoring Cyrus' cursing, ignoring Choso’s voice, ignoring Nanami's eyes, those fucking eyes, and stumbles out through the back door of the bar.The fresh air helps none, makes the nausea worse, and he's spinning, falling, falling ’cept he's not, and he makes it two more steps past the empty smoking area before he's doubling over, splashing pale yellow alcohol and bile all over discarded cigarette butts. He vomits, heaves, coughs and coughs and coughs and coughs ’til his stomach starts to cramp.
It’s not ’til he’s wiping his mouth with a shaky hand that he realizes he’s crying—silent, but still crying, still scared, and that’s funny, just a bit, ’cause he can’t remember the last time he let himself cry.The hysteria, the nausea, it feels close, like it’s lurking, like it’s waiting for the right moment to burst free from his chest like all those parasitic monsters in those American horror movies he likes to play on loud just to fill the dead air in the apartment on the nights he can’t sleep.The brick wall against his back is cool, stabilizing, and it’s a blessing, for now; but he’s tired, and he wants to go home, wants to leave and wash the night away in water that never gets warm enough, crawl into bed and complain to Suguru about his shitty week like they used to when they were younger, when they were still maybe in love.But there’s no one home, no one to comfort him in the ways he needs, and the hysteria peeks its head out again—curious, happy, bubbling up against his eyelids with a hot-heat that’s devastating.The unmistakable sound of footsteps hit his ears: each step steady, sure, always so fucking composed, always looking for him when he wants to be found the least.Silence, then:“Are you alright?” Nanami asks, low, low enough for him to entertain the idea of passing it off as alcohol induced psychosis and pretend they aren’t doing this.“Peachy,” he rasps instead, and he can smell the alcohol and sadness on his breath, can feel the concern radiating off Nanami in waves, and it’s all just so... fucking funny. The cigarette in Nanami’s mouth wiggles, and he knows even without good lighting that Nanami doesn’t find this even as half amusing as he does."Well, you certainly don't look it," Nanami says, and he sighs, ’cause he's tired, he's tired and he wants to go home, wants Suguru."So what? You sayin' I'm not pretty?"
"I never said that," Nanami mumbles. "Don't put words in my mouth when you don't know what I'm thinking."When the silver old-school lighter Nanami keeps on him always flicks, Nanami's eyes say everything he wishes Nanami had the guts to tell him out loud.
He wants to reach out and grab Nanami's cigarette, snap it in half and stomp on it ’cause it smells like one of Shoko-sensei's, wants to reach out and grab Nanami and press their lips together as if that's something he's allowed to do, 'least in public.But his hands are still shaking, and his mouth tastes like vomit and regret, so he does nothing, and instead he smiles, ’cause he knows how to play his part, knows it well ’cause it's the only part of the play he'll ever get to have.
"Still no plans for the weekend?" he asks.
"I might," Nanami says, and his smile feels brittle, even as he forces it wider.
"Walk me home then?" he says, low, dangerous, ’cause that's the only way Nanami ever gives in.
"Walk you home?" Nanami repeats, and he shrugs as best he can, even as his body starts to feel disconnected from his consciousness.
"It'd be a real shame if someone took advantage of me," he says and Nanami gives a humorless laugh.
The cloud of smoke that hits him feels like a kiss.
Saturday, 11:26PM
The last train of the night is crowded; they stand close, closer than what Nanami would normally allow. He's got one hand on his shoulder bag, and the other around Nanami's wrist, and he feels daring, daring ’cause no one's paying them much attention and he's got Nanami trapped, he's got Nanami for the night.And this is why, out of all the days in the week, he likes the weekends the best, ’cause he can pretend, pretend that it's all different and that Nanami's flushed faced and downcast eyes are from a place of want instead of shame and guilt.
His fingers drift down to brush against Nanami's hand, the plain gold ring, and he feels bold.
"Hey," he says, whispers, and Nanami's eyes find his with no hesitation.
"When's your birthday again?" he asks, and Nanami frowns in that too-serious way of his.
"July 3rd," Nanami says. "Why do you need to know?"And he thinks of Kafka, of endless yearning, of self-sabotage and the ever real threat of losing it all, of being alone, of being too needy, of being too much, too soon, and he smiles.
"Nothin'," he mumbles. "Just. A guy I know has the same birthday."
The train rattles on. Nanami asks no more questions, which is just as well.He’s not sure he’d have the answers.to resort to black magic at night—hastily, panting, helpless, demonically possessed;
Sunday, 12:01AM
His mouth tastes like vomit, like sadness and bitterness, but that doesn’t stop Nanami from laying him out on the bed he shares with Suguru, tongue deep in his mouth as if Nanami’s trying to devour him whole, and like this, with Nanami on top of him, smothering him, Nanami’s,Warm. Comfortable. All the things he never expects to find in this loveless bed unless it’s with Nanami.Nanami only lets him pull away long enough to reach over and yank on the lamp cord, and once light fills the room, hands possess him: his hips, thighs, legs, chest and it’s, it’s,“Move,” he moans, pushing against Nanami’s chest just so he can get himself out of his clothes ’cause he, he needs to be skin on skin, needs it like he needs air.Nanami helps him get his shirt off but pulls back to unbutton his own. The lack of Nanami on him hurts, and he hurries to wiggle himself out of his pants, hot in the face ’cause he’s, wet, real wet, can feel it through the thin cotton panties he has on.The way Nanami stares down at him, he’s sure he can tell—but Nanami makes a pretty picture as well with his face shadowed, haunted. He stares at the shifting of Nanami’s muscles painted chiaroscuro by the light as Nanami throws his shirt and leans back over him, eyes black, and,They're both ghosts, but just different types and it's, it's not funny, but he still has to smile, has to try and hide it in the tangle of his hair ’cause defeated is how he likes Nanami the best.Hot hands curve around his hips, thighs as Nanami peppers kisses against his lips, jaw, before sliding down to suck at his neck, chest, and there’s, there’s not much to grab, but Nanami gives it attention, and he moans, moans ’cause Suguru never touches him like this, kisses him like this, not anymore."Tell me what you need," Nanami says, slurs, against his pebbled nipple, already drunk on the feel of him, already rock hard in his pants for him and, and he likes it like this, loves it, maybe, that Nanami feels just as obsessed with him as he does Nanami."Anything, whatever," he whispers, honest like he never is, honest like he only ever is when it’s this, and his hands find Nanami's face to bring him back up for a kiss.Nanami’s hand leaves his thigh to slide between his legs, and he arches up into the light touch of Nanami’s fingers as they find hiss swollen clit through his underwear. Nanami’s good with his hands, good in every way that does and doesn’t matter and this, this is no different. He closes his eyes, overwhelmed as Nanami stares down at him, ’cause Nanami knows how to touch him, knows how to please him and when two fingers slips underneath the the leg of his panties to feel the slick of him, it’s,"Fuck," he sighs, mumbles."Like that?" Nanami says, just as low, sliding two fingers into him nice and easy, and yeah, like that, ’cept,His clit is aching, needy, and he arches up for more—more friction, more touch. Nanami pays attention to his wordless pleas; those calloused fingers slide back out to brush against his clit, featherlight with the wet of him ’til his legs start to shake.He doesn’t wanna cum like this.He wants, needs, Nanami’s cock in him, but Nanami,Nanami doesn’t stop touching, doesn’t stop looking at him like that’s exactly what he wants right now and really, whatever Nanami wants is always what he wants too.It's, it's been a week, only a week, but it feels like the first time over again. He holds Nanami's chin as Nanami's fingers slide back to thrust in and out of him. Nanami doesn't stop rubbing, teasing, abusing 'til sticky slick ruins his panties and smears against his thighs.“I want,” he starts, stumbles, pressing his lips against Nanami’s as words fail him. “Not like, just,”Like always, Nanami understands him.Nanami pulls back, fingers already working on his belt buckle. He tracks the movement, and highlighted by the dim lamp light, he can see the hard lump of Nanami’s cock trapped in his fine tailored pants and that’s,Tonight, it's all for him, just for him, and he gets wetter, needier, and he wants Nanami in him so bad it feels like a sickness taking over.He shifts, lifting his leg high enough to drag his socked toes over the hard arch of Nanami's cock. Nanami hisses, and grabs him hard and mean by the ankle and he giggles, giggles ’cause he has to, just to keep the fear of the after at bay."Missed this," he whispers, admits, voice just a little wobbly. "Missed you."His heart sits in his throat.Nanami pauses for the briefest of seconds, but says nothing as his pants slide down, and that’s,That's okay.
Sunday, 12:10AM
Nanami insists on stretching him out even though he doesn’t need it, but he doesn’t mind it, doesn’t mind feeling the rough pads of Nanami’s fingers against his walls or the way Nanami can’t seem to stop himself from bending down to lick at him around the stretch of his fingers.He’s, sensitive, feeling too much too soon. It might just be the alcohol, might just be the way it feels right every time they do this or the way it’s been a week, a week since he’s been touched like he’s loved and it’s,
He swallows the lump in his throat, and tries not to wonder what it could’ve been like if they met under different circumstances.
Sunday, 12:17AM
"Do you have condoms this time?" Nanami asks, abandoning his neck in favor of logic.Nanami says it so serious, so he shouldn't laugh, but it bubbles up, and he'll blame it on being fuck-drunk, on being half-in love with a man that refuses to acknowledge that he loves him back."Mm, no. Forgot, sorry."Nanami curses, and he giggles again."Stop laughing," Nanami hisses. "How do you forget, we do this every-"At that, he cuts himself off. It sobers him up, just a bit, ’cause it's the bit of truth Nanami'll never like saying out loud and he’s not, not bitter, but, it’s,“How do you forget," Nanami hisses, repeating himself as he leans over him to dig through the small wonky end table that sits on Suguru’s side of the bed, but that vitriol is useless on him.He cages Nanami in with his knees, drags his hands up Nanami's side to memorize the feel of him when he needs it the most and smiles ’cause Nanami won't find any over there, never will."'s okay, just, pull out, y’know? Like you always do," and he says it like an afterthought, like it's something he doesn't think about but the fact of the matter is sometimes the thought of having Nanami take up space inside of him is the only thing that gets him through his days.“We can't keep being irresponsible," Nanami huffs, arching into the soft touch of his fingers regardless. Nanami’s cock drags against the wet mess of his pussy, and he moans, ’cause it’s not like how it is with Suguru. He doesn't wanna have this conversation ’cause the only time he doesn't hate his body is when it's against Nanami’s.Worrying about protection, condoms, it’s useless—’cause what Nanami doesn't know, won't ever know is that he's barren in more ways than one.“Kento, please, want it now," he says, pulling out the most well-used weapon in his dirty little bag of tricks, leaning up just enough to press a kiss to any and every part of Nanami he can reach.“Fuck," Nanami says, moans at the use of his first name, and he doesn’t bother hiding his smile this time.For all of his protesting, it doesn’t take very long for Nanami to give up his search for condoms and grab his cock by the base to line it up.After that, there’s nothing else for him to do but dig his nails into Nanami’s shoulders and laugh as Nanami sinks inside of his cunt in one slick push ’cause all he feels is Nanami, all he smells is Nanami, and later,Later, he hopes Suguru can smell Nanami too.
Sunday, 12:23AM
Everything has a shelf life.Relationships are no difference: whether it’s growing apart or the passage of time, everything has to end, either by consent or by force.He knows this; but he also knows, sometimes the risk of consuming something expired is worth it, even with the threat of sickness and death—and love is a disease in of itself, but that’s just fine.It’s fine ’cause it’s the only option he has.The first few minutes that he needs to get adjusted to Nanami’s size are spent in his head:Is it really him Nanami sees or are the ugly, jagged parts of him distorted and switched with a softness he’ll never possess.
Sunday, 12:39AM
He’ll feel better tomorrow.Being with Nanami cleanses all the rot from his bones, and he could be clean, maybe, if it was different, different in the sense that there'd be nothing to hide but there is, something to hide, that is.Nanami cleanses the rot but Nanami feeds the rot inside of him each and every day when it’s all said and done.He’ll feel better tomorrow—that's what he tells himself as he rides Nanami nice and steady. The sounds of their bodies meeting is obscene, perfect, and as he bites down hard enough on Nanami’s parted lips against his to draw blood, he wonders if Nanami would mind if he said he liked the taste of it; how it’s sweeter, warmer than the blood that circulates through him and bleeds out of himHe’ll feel better tomorrow, and one day,One day, it won’t be just a lie.
Sunday, 12:45AM
Nanami is in his stomach, in his throat, in his heart; with Suguru, he hates getting fucked from behind, but Nanami,Nanami’s good to him, real good; and it’s good when Nanami drapes himself across his back and grabs him by the throat—one hand, big, possessive, possessive in ways Suguru isn’t, and he likes it like this, likes that Nanami fucks him nasty and mean like he can’t ever fuck her, likes that this Nanami is his even if nothing else about Nanami can’t ever be and,
Sunday, 12:51AM
It’s not the first time he’s cum tonight, but he knows by the way Nanami’s breathing it’ll more than likely be the last. And it’s not, not grief that wells up in his throat and expels itself in the shape of a sob disguised as pleasure."'m g'nna cum," he mumbles, breathes, and instead of going faster, Nanami keeps him right there on the edge, no more, no less, spasming around his cock while he chases his own end at the same time. It’s torture, it’s heaven, but it’s love that leaves him when he comes in waves—a torrential downpour strong enough to flood his core before leaking out and bring tears to his eyes.He makes a mess of the sheets, of himself, of Nanami’s lap and it should be embarrassing, but it’s not, not when Nanami’s pace stutters, stalls, and his cock hardens up before,“Jesus, fuck," Nanami pants, moans, right in his ear, broken and ruined as he buries himself deep inside of him and spills.And this: Nanami’s sounds, his pleasure, his vulnerability and weaknesses; well, that’s his too, will always be his.Nanami’s too good for him, far too good, but he doesn't mind dragging him down far enough to keep.
Sunday, 1:27AM
He's learned to stop fighting the urges to kiss Nanami when it strikes: tonight—it's right against Nanami's temple where pale yellow fades into the first smears of gray-brown.It’s too dark to tell, but if he had to guess: Naples Yellow, with just a bit of Davy’s Gray. He doesn’t have any favorite colors, but the hues that make up Nanami could probably classify as such.Sunday morning, officially, and he should be sleeping too, but he knows once morning comes properly, the bed will be cold, and he'll be alone, and it'll hurt more than it did last Sunday and the Sunday before that, and Sunday, and Sunday, and always fucking Sunday. He watches Nanami sleep, restful like Nanami never is, and he wonders: wonders if Nanami's more like his mother, or maybe his father, wonders if he has any extended family or siblings he cares about, loves, wonders if they all like Shoko and wonders, wonders if Nanami’s mother knows just how pale-gray and deep-blue her boy's gotten inside.Obsession, infatuation—two sides of the same coin that he'll never have enough of, but sometimes, he finds himself wishing he wasn't so poor and devoid of goodness as to try. And it's ’cause of that, or maybe in spite of that, that he paints, dreams and creates and tries to be a little more than a forgotten ghost playing house, but, it all falls flat, ’cause there's never much inspiration to be scavenged from a home long abandoned.In his sleep, Nanami mumbles a name he can't hear, and he presses his fingers against his lips, gentle enough to be undetected, mouthing along as he maps out the movement, and,Oh, he thinks.It was never going to be me.
Sunday, 10:37AM
There’s a bottle of water and a brand new box of Levonorgestrel on the bedside table.It hurts to look at for now, so instead he stares at the spider that only comes out to play when the apartment is quiet as it dances on Hanami’s leaves. The bed’s long gone cold and he’s still covered in the weight of their combined sins. He strains his ear, but underneath the street ambiance, there’s no noise to be found.It doesn’t take getting out of bed to know he’s the only breathing thing within all these walls.From the bed, he can see there’s traces of Nanami elsewhere: the trash has been collected and presumably taken out to the bins, there’s no dishes left in the sink, and while it’s still a mess—his painting area has been straightened up the slightest bit too. If he did get up and take a look in the refrigerator, he’s sure there’d be a small container of food from the noodle shop down the block.Nanami, always a perfect gentleman. It’s all so sickeningly sweet that he feels ill from it; whether it’s from anger or want, he can’t know, doesn’t want to know, not right now.Push and pull, hot and cold—that’s all he and Nanami ever seem to do, and one day, he’ll look back on this moment in time and wonder just where it all went wrong, but for now,The only thing of importance to him is tomorrow, ’cause tomorrow is Monday, and that’s all that matters.
Sunday, 12:04PM
He’s still damp from his shower, heating up the leftovers Nanami left when he hears the front door open.Noon—earlier than usual for Suguru. He stares at the rotating bowl of ramen as the sounds of Suguru putting his things away floats through the shoji. Instead of coming into the main room, Suguru’s footsteps pad past, and it’s only seconds after that the bathroom door closes.Even when their time together is fleeting, they still have the same nasty habits.
Sunday, 12:21PM
When Suguru comes back in, he’s sitting on a small stack of pillows he keeps near his easel for perspective shifts, eating a chocolate bar forgotten in the pockets of his paint duffle bag.One of the hardest things to do when it comes to art is capturing the essence of self—it’s easy to capture the workings of life, but turning that vision inward... it’s difficult, even more so when there’s nothing but nastiness to be found.He thinks of Goya—of fear, of paranoia and self-destruction and,"Fun night out?" Suguru asks from somewhere behind him. He gives a half shrug, not particularly interested in pleasantries today."'s okay. Got too drunk. You?""Alright," Suguru replies, and silence fills the room. He wants a cigarette, wants Suguru to leave so he can wallow in the empty spaces Nanami's gone and left.The silence drags, and maybe, maybe that’s the end of it, but after a while:"I like your painting," Suguru says. "It looks just like you."And he frowns around his chocolate, still staring at the portrait of him.The eyes are missing. It's a monstrous depiction of him, horns and fangs and tails. It should be a compliment maybe, but any and everything Suguru says always feels backhanded, cruel."Thanks," is all he says, turning around to look at the long, dark lines of Suguru that no longer feel familiar. It’s all he really feels like saying, ’cause his legs are still weak and there’s still enough of Nanami inside of him to keep his temper at bay. He's not in the mood to fight, not right now.And Suguru,Suguru smiles that smile he can remember loving once before before turning to pick up his guitar with more care than Suguru’s ever had for him.
Sunday, 3:56PM
Being around Suguru as he writes music is too much to handle on the tail end of a week full of comfortable silences and soft conversations. The slide of Suguru’s pencil on paper, the hums and low murmured lyrics, the strumming that never finds a steady tempo—it’s all just,It’s cloudy outside again. The air drifting in from outside smells like rain, but he can’t stay here. He’s running low on coins but there’s towels that need to be washed, some of his paint rags too.He goes to strip the top sheets of the bed. Suguru pauses his strumming and looks up from his spot on the floor."Didn't you wash clothes Friday?" Suguru questions, and he rolls his eyes, yanking the fabric free from the mattress harder than it really needs."Yeah? Doesn't mean I can't wash more,” he says, snaps, turning around. “You got anything to wash or not?”A silence, another fucking silence, so many fucking silences, and,“Mm,” Suguru hums, setting his guitar down before taking off his shirt.Suguru doesn’t bother handing it to him, eyes already back on his lyric book as he tosses the shirt in his general direction and it’s all just so fucking—He stomps over and snatches it up off the floor, turning around and slamming the shoji behind him to gather the towels in the bathroom.There's more scratches on Suguru’s shoulders, and he tells himself he doesn't care, doesn’t fucking care at all.i’ve lost my way a little [...]—if you’ve accompanied me, then we’re both lost.
Monday, 6:45AM
Today: there's going to be no threat of rain, of overcast skies.Today: it's warm enough that he doesn't bother with the silly pretense of coffee.Today: he’s wearing a shirt that belongs to him—a shirt not borrowed, not stolen. He feels dreadfully bare, but today: he feels okay for the first time in a long while and ’cause of that, ’cause there’s the sound of footsteps echoing across the empty courtyard, he knows it’ll be a good day.It’ll be a good day ’cause it has to.i belong to you; there really is no other way of expressing it, and that is not strong enough.