It isn't really something he means to do, he's cooking and Mayama is gone—gone again like he's always gone, even when he's there because he's so close to Rika he can taste it. And Takemoto is so far from Hagu he can smell her—and it's almost the same thing—until he's thinking about building her dollhouses where she can hide her heart and soul.
And it's mostly that Morita slips in like a cat. When he wants to, he can do anything—when he sets his horrible, horrible mind to it anything is possible, even if that sunnavabitch brain of his certainly doesn't take orders from the likes of Morita.
The money is scarce and the noodles are cheap-ass and Morita makes it all seem innocent when he upends the bag of vegetables into the cup and whispers something slow into Takemoto's ear. The innocence fades as the peas sink into the water and Morita's arms wrap around his nearly anorexic stomach and rests his chin on Takemoto's strong shoulders.
"Burdens," Morita notes, in that way of his. Like he's a faerie who cannot possibly control when the truths and the prophecies will come spilling out.
And Takemoto wishes he were more surprised, wishes he weren't tired and hungry and wishes he hadn't jumped in surprise and nearly spilled his precious cup of ramen down the drain.
He wishes his face weren't red and wishes his muscles weren't taut and wishes Morita didn't have him pressed flush against the sink.
He wishes his hands didn't tremble, wishes Morita wouldn't smell like sandalwood and expensive clothing and Hagu.
"Welcome home, Morita," he says instead of voicing any of his whisper-like prayers.
Morita hugs him closer, because Takemoto hasn't pushed him back, even if his voice is recalcitrant and his body is resistant.
Morita kisses his face; because it's burning a feral pink and he watches Takemoto shut his eyes in some kind of embarrassed-disgust and giggle.
"I have a message, to you, from me," Morita says, his dark hair is soft and tickles Takemoto's ear.
"Does it have to involve hugging me?"
"Probably," Morita laughs, and then nuzzles the side of his face, purring.
"What's the message then?"
"I don't want to see you suffering all alone. The rest of them can play that game, just not you."
"Why not me? I know the rules as well as anyone, I could even win."
Morita's arms tighten around him, pressing Takemoto back into his hips.
His lips purse in Takemoto's peripheral and there are millions of words he does not say.
"I'm not part of the others."
And suddenly, really suddenly, Takemoto gets it and lets himself lean back against Shinobu and sigh.
He sets the cup of noodles on the counter and goes weightless and Shinobu—Shinobu Morita of all people—supports him casually and breathes condolences against his neck.
"I'm really not that sad about it," Takemoto says to the room at large.
Shinobu shakes with laughter and then his cold lips are against Takemoto's pulse, dancing there with every mumbled word.
"I understand more than... It's painful, sometimes, Yūta, to get it so thoroughly and I just..."
They are not rivals.
And Takemoto's name sounds delicate on Morita's lips.
He melts, lets harsh worries and sharper insecurities drain away.
Lets Shinobu kiss him, lets Hagu slip from his mind, because there are other people to think about, other burdens to be borne—born too, he thinks, detachedly.
"Thank you," Takemoto says and invites Morita to share his dinner, and his warm futon, if he is so inclined.
Morita asks him why he is so quick to agree and Yūta does not tell him, because it's painful, sometimes, Shinobu, to get it so thoroughly.
Standard Disclaimers.