Standard Disclaimer: Yami no Matsuei © Matsuhita Youko, Central Park Media, et al.
Rating: PG (Intimations of shonen ai)
Summary: Tsuzuki reflects on his partner and their indefinite relationship.
- Nor for a thousand turnings have I yet moved.
- -- "Rimansi a dietro il sestodecimo anno," Petrarch
I don't remember how this began -- maybe I asked and he didn't say no, or I just came over and he didn't slam the door in my face (or maybe he opened it again afterwards, which would be more like him) or maybe he somehow managed to invite me without admitting he wanted company -- but I guess it really doesn't matter now.
You'd think it'd be boring, just sitting around -- an afternoon of doing nothing. He tends to read. Sometimes -- if he's really lost in what he's reading -- I can rest my head in his lap without getting hit for my boldness. Maybe he doesn't notice at first and then figures it's too late to make a fuss, or maybe it's just a pretense, so he doesn't have to admit that he doesn't mind. Sometimes he'll even start playing with my hair -- I think he really is distracted when he does that, but it feels nice. Often I just drift off to sleep or lie there in a lazy, unfocused daydream. It's strange to be so quiet without the thoughts I don't want to have forcing themselves on me. It's like he can draw me into that calm, still world of his. Sometimes, I think this is almost what peace feels like.
Our relationship is a little strange, I guess, or it would seem that way to most people. We haven't slept together for one thing, even though I think a lot of people would take us for lovers. I'd call us friends -- not in the way you usually mean friends, you know, something like an acquaintance or a person you talk to whenever you see them -- just friends, or maybe family. I don't know, it's hard to describe. I do love him, something like a little brother -- but not quite. It would be too easy for me to fall in love with him -- it's like one of those line drawings that can seem to be two different images depending on how you look at it. But I'm not in love, I don't think so, or at least not yet -- I don't think he's ready for that, neither of us really -- but maybe . . . someday . . .
His hand pulls away and there's the rough whisper of a page turning -- it's probably one of those incomprehensible Chinese classics, the sort that screams status and son of an elite. Oh well, to each their own. I feel his moment of hesitation as his fingers release the page, but then with a controlled casualness he reaches back to flick a strain of hair out of my face. Baby steps, but I'm glad. This isn't easy for him either, yet he tries. There's something heroic in trying so hard for so little.
We don't talk -- that's understood between us. I guess it would make whatever this is less special. It would become commonplace -- there'd be nothing to separate it from the everyday -- at the office we can talk, on cases, over meals, but here . . . I don't know, it's just us. Maybe we don't need words, or maybe he doesn't have anything to say. Maybe it's all just in my own mind this . . . mutuality, or whatever it is. Maybe it's just what I wish--
His fingers pull away. He turns another page. There's another moment of hesitation, a flash of tension -- and his hand is back in my hair. It feels nice, his fingers combing through my hair -- he's so close . . . so . . .
Close enough. He continues reading.
A patch of sunlight creeps across the floor. It creeps up the couch and over me. So warm. Pleasant. I feel like falling asleep. Comfortable. Safe. The warmth moves up my neck to my face. I close my eyes against the brightness. Breathing, in and out. A page turn. Another pause, shorter. Gentle, hesitant fingers, moving again and again, lulling . . . lazy . . . calm . . .
"Do you want the blinds lowered?" His voice is always so soft, it doesn't disturb the silence. He sounds so near, almost--
"I'm fine." Everything's fine. He goes back to reading. The patch of sunlight moves on, hitting the cover of his book, then his chest, his neck, his face, lingering. I watch it, or him -- I don't know. He pretends not to notice, or maybe really he doesn't -- I can't tell.
Finally he lifts his hand to his face, shading his eyes. He keeps reading. I'm not sleepy anymore. I watch him. I wish the sun would set faster. I miss the feeling of him -- his fingers, almost touching -- in my hair. His willingness. It's almost as if--
The sun goes down. The light fades from his face. He turns on a reading lamp. One hand holds open the book, the other is loosely fisted under his chin. The faint orange glow lingers in the sky, lingers . . .
and fades. It's getting late. Everything's dark outside the circle of lamplight.
- I should go -- I should . . .
- I can't.
- I will.
- I must.
Finally . . . finally I sit up. It seems colder. I pick up my jacket. He glances up from his book. I can't read his expression. I can't read his mind, his emotions, his heart. I wish--
He looks away.
I find my trench coat, folding it over my arm. There's nothing more I can do even though I don't want to leave. I don't want to -- but it's just that I don't want to be alone. Nothing more -- not yet. He's lonely, I'm lonely. It makes sense. That's all this means. Nothing more. Nothing. But why do I feel -- why do I want -- why--
I need--
"Hisoka, can I . . ." No -- no, it's too soon for that. I have to leave. I can't stay. Wait. Don't be foolish.
He looks up. He's looking at me.
Smile.
"I'll see you tomorrow." Keep smiling -- everything's fine as long as you can still smile.
He's curious, I can see that much. But . . .
he lets it go. He only nods. Sometimes I almost wish he would--
Nothing. Everything's fine, just fine. Friends, partners, family -- it's enough. I smile -- I'm not in love, I know that. I can't be. Not yet.
But as I close the door behind me, I realize it's cold outside.