Do I Have Your Heart
Disclaimer: Don't own.
They run together every morning through the dark streets, up and down hills and winding roads. She admits she told him to come with her in order to discourage him, but she'd somehow overlooked the fact that he'd withstood three years of her Spartan training and had come out much the better for it. They keep pace with each other, breathe evenly—sometimes he falls back to look at her ass and she smacks him because she's always had eyes in the back of her head (and she knows him well enough by now). He's memorized the way her feet pound the pavement, how she shifts gears going up or down a hill, the way the sweat gathers on her neck and her hair, gathered into a ponytail, swings through the wind (but that doesn't stop him from watching her every time until he's almost completely unaware of his other surroundings, the ground beneath his own feet, the direction he's running; all he sees is her).
Some weekends they go running in the mountains and they reach the top where the air is just a bit thinner and the view is fantastic and dizzying and she lets him pull her onto his lap as they look up at the sky and it feels like they can almost touch the clouds. These are the days when they come back and have sex in the shower until there's nothing in the stall but steam and they can barely see and their fingers are pruny.
They play basketball sometimes, too; but they're too evenly matched and their styles are too similar for any of their games to end in something other than a deadlock. They know exactly how to guard each other, exactly how to apply the pressure, exactly where to force each other on the court, the spots where the other has the most trouble shooting. Neither one of them is willing to admit defeat, so they keep going until long after they should have stopped. Masako is always sore the next day, wakes up early and does more stretches and winces more when she thinks he can't see.
After the third time they ambush him, Kensuke starts to expect it, the well-dressed women in their thirties who travel in twos and threes and who remember how to fight even though their gang days are long behind them. They underestimate him, though; if there's anything his dyed hair and curled lip and slouched posture and short temper and big mouth have done for him, they've made him an easy target and he's learned to fight by necessity, how to defend and how to land solid hits in the right places.
The fifth time they start getting serious and he ends up with a black eye, which of course she gets mad at him for. He tells her about them and she quirks an eyebrow.
"Fifth time? You're a better fighter than I thought."
She places a bag of frozen broccoli over his eye. Her thumb brushes across the bridge of his nose and he half-smiles.
"Are they going to stop?"
She shrugs. "Probably. I'll talk to them about it, but I think by now they've decided you're a worthy opponent."
"What about you? What have you decided?"
"That you're an idiot," she says.
"Don't I know it," he says.
She kisses him on the cheek and he turns his head, sliding his lips onto hers while she's half-off-guard, and she actually smiles into the kiss (he knows she'll carefully arrange her features into some sort of angry expression by the time he pulls away, so he holds his breath for as long as he can just to enjoy this feeling).
She'd been surprised when he came back to visit after graduating, but he'd thought it was obvious that he enjoyed her company. After all, they had a lot in common, the way they thought about basketball and their impatience (especially with other people) and short tempers and the way their lips curled sometimes and perhaps they had too many of the wrong things in common to be expected to get along—but they did, anyway. Of course, it helped that she was easy on the eyes, but as time went on he had thought about that less and less as he had gotten to know more and more of her.
The look of surprised gratitude on her face had faded to something kind of like contentment (although he knew her better than to ever really think she'd be satisfied) by the time he'd left, and he'd promised to visit again soon (and ask her on a real date, but that would have to come later).
The first time he bleaches his hair in the sink she yells at him because of the smell, but he just shrugs because there's nothing he can do about it. She mutters things under her breath about how it's bad for his hair (somehow he resists the urge to ask if she actually thought he was a natural blond) and keeps going on about the smell, so he buys an air freshener. She knows he's got her there and that he knows she just likes to complain (he can't really say he's not that way himself, though).
When Kensuke kisses her, she always waits a second before kissing back, has to adjust herself.
She trusts him enough to bare her entire body to him, even if there are things about it she's not exactly proud of. She lets him see the twisted scar that winds around her side, a stark white against her toned curves. He presses his fingers to the rich firmness of her inner thighs and she tilts her head back, hair spilling over the white sheets. She traces her fingers over his chest while he presses kisses to the faint crow's feet that have formed at the corners of her eyes that she diligently covers every morning with makeup.
The red rose that blooms between her shoulder blades is fantastic, but her half-shame for the impulsive adolescent version of herself is noticeable. He parts her hair in the back and gazes at its slightly awkward asymmetry, the thorns that are too large for the stem, the way the muscles in her back and shoulders move with her breath.
She goes out riding still some nights, with no verbal warning—but soon he learns to recognize the signs. She'll be glancing out at the window like the apartment is trapping her and then she'll abruptly get up and dash out, grabbing her old jacket on the way out. The first time, he follows her, dashes down the stairs in time to see her get on her bike, shove the helmet on, and ride off into the distance, taillights cutting through the snowy air like it's some kind of laser show.
He waits up for her that time and doesn't know what to say; she says nothing so he says nothing. After the first few times he gets used to it, goes to bed and wakes up briefly to roll over as she joins him, skin still cold from being whipped by the wind.
She takes him once, tells him to come with her, gives him a spare helmet and he has no idea what the hell is going on or where he's going but forgets all of that boring shit because he's on the back of a sick vintage motorbike with his ex-gang-leader girlfriend and they're going faster than he thought was possible at all and he's scared and exhilarated and baffled all at once. They go out to the suburbs and stop at a gas station where she refills and then they sit quietly and enjoy the night and the whiteness of the gas station light and the stars above them and each other's company. It's bizarre and otherworldly, even though Kensuke's been to this gas station before, has filled up his car and bought the newspaper here. With her, like this—he kind of gets it, why she needs to do this every so often.
She stares longingly through the glass at the red-and-gray high-tops, their advertised supportive insoles and excellent traction, and turns away when she catches him looking at her. It's obvious she wants them, but she's not going to shell out any of her hard-earned money on something this impractical. She wears heels when she's working and running shoes when she's working out; she doesn't need anything else. He can see her telling herself that each time, so he buys her the shoes for her birthday.
"Really, Kensuke," she says, and crosses her arms over her chest.
He meets her eyes. She can always buy a new CD or something for herself and has no problem doing that, but this is something she's never going to get on her own, something she'll try not to want when there's really no reason she shouldn't. It's better to play basketball in basketball shoes, especially since her running shoes get worn out so quickly because she uses them so much.
"So are you thanking me or not?" he says.
She sighs. "Thank you."
He takes her in his arms and she doesn't protest. She's getting better at letting him do things for her; her old habits are hard to break. But even if he'd never say it like this (and she'd never let him get away with it if he did) he wants her to lean on him sometimes, to need him the way he needs her.
Shirogane sips his tea; he's sitting like an aristocrat and Kensuke feels out of place even though this is his apartment. He leans forward in his seat and eyes Shirogane warily.
"You know," Shirogane says, "If you ever hurt her you'll probably have to answer to Tora first. Not that I won't be in the mix somewhere, although after him everything might be a little redundant."
It's a bit late for this kind of threat, isn't it?
"Well," he shrugs his shoulders. "I love her, so that's not really an option."
Shirogane takes another sip. "Things change, Fukui-kun."
"So you're saying your attitude will?"
Shirogane raises an eyebrow.
"I can take care of myself," Masako says.
She flicks Shirogane on the forehead. He glares at her, but she pretends not to notice and sits down next to Kensuke. The slight red tint on her pale cheeks is the only thing that indicates that she heard his earlier words. He intertwines his fingers in hers and she moves closer to him. Shirogane's features soften.
"But you don't always have to," he says.
(He doesn't apologize to Kensuke, but he does quietly accept their relationship after this, which, Kensuke supposes, is good enough.)
The landlord is a cheapskate but it keeps the rent low, and the heat turning off every once in a while isn't the most terrible thing in the world, especially given how well-insulated the apartment is. Still, on a January morning in Akita even the best insulation isn't much of a motivator to get up and go for a run. The radio announcer talks about traffic and neither one of them reaches a hand out from the covers to put her on snooze. Masako at least puts forth a nominal effort to get out, but doesn't resist terribly when Kensuke pulls her back and nuzzles her neck.
"A few more minutes," he mumbles.
"If I lose a step, it's your fault," she says.
He hugs her closer and she rolls over so she can embrace him in return and they let the heat from each other's bodies connect until the idea of getting up is bearable.