Yamato did not have the burning, spastic sort of pain that sucked in his chest, everything a little too edgy and sharp. His mother did not understand, and she used to turn him over on his stomach in his sleep while she rubbed large circles on his back, as if physically trying to ease out some hidden feelings.
"What were you doing?" he had asked one night. He had been awake, like always, when she came inside his room; a thin slit of light would slide between his eyes, and the world rose up.
"Feeling for knots," she said quietly. She looked at him steady and tired, her hair unraveled and curling by her neck. The light in the hallway fell at her feet.
"Did you find any?"
"You're still young," she replied, "and don't start to argue with me," but Yamato was already half-asleep, words heavy and lost in his mind. And somehow, he knew that this was breaking her heart.
...They grew up together. Their fathers were friends, so, consequently, friendship between him and Izzy was naturally assumed. They went to the same, rich, private boarding school, and they owned the same clothes until, somehow, Izzy integrated himself into his life, his fingers digging their way in while Yamato imagined himself closing off all his pores, his hair lining up straight and stiff against his skin so that nobody could touch him. When Yamato saw Izzy eating lunch one day with his friends, his head knocked back and laughing easily, he began to hate him, a dull, constant feeling in the pit of his stomach. The only thing they did not share was their social group, and Yamato always prized the fact that his friends were somewhere so high Izzy could not reach them with his hands, a little sticky, a little too big and awkward. But now, he was there, talking with them, digging his feet a little deeper into Yamato's life like a parasite. Yamato gripped his lunchbox tightly and strode over to them, his teeth biting the inside of his lower lip.
If Izzy did not get the message then, he was sure to get it afterwards complete with a messenger and a golden trumpet bursting out clattering sounds. Izzy suddenly became the last one to be picked for teams during recess, vicious songs about him were heard in the hallways, and a few boys, wild and wanting acceptance, occasionally took time after school to show Izzy exactly what they thought of him.
It was childish, Yamato knew that, but when he saw Izzy during class, edgy, his hair disarrayed, his fingers gripping a pencil tight enough to bruise, he felt immensely satisfied, as if this was the future of their lives. And, in a way, it was.
..."I see you've met Izzy."
It was a week later. Yamato stood on Taichi's doorsteps with his eyes half drooped in a lazy gaze. This was the first time Taichi saw Yamato in something other than a suit, but regular jeans and an old, thin sweatshirt.
"He's a rich guy." Taichi shrugged. "He seems lonely. Maybe you should introduce your brother to him."
"I think him whoring you around would be cheaper than my brother," Yamato replied. Taichi laughed and opened the door, wide and inviting.
"Care to try that theory out?"
Yamato walked in. There was a bright mark near Taichi's collar that blended oddly with his skin like a plane in the sky.
"I'm not so cruel as to destroy some sort of self respect that you seem to have."
Taichi closed the door and offered him a cardboard box as a chair. He smiled, because he was practical in the blind sort of way (like his courage), and surviving was not a mark of shame. It was far better than leeching off his father's money.
"I guess we all have our different views," Taichi said, and dropped the conversation. Yamato felt it, and he did not mention it. Instead, he sipped his coffee while Taichi talked about his life, about having a some-what stable income, about the burnt eggs and bacons he had this morning.
"Can you whistle?" Taichi asked suddenly.
Yamato nodded. "But I'm not very good."
"Teach me," Taichi whispered.
"Nobody taught me, so I wouldn't know how," Yamato replied. Taichi could feel himself sink, not drown. A slow pulling by gravity into something heavy and thick. It was as if the only friend he ever had was in a quicksand with him.
...Despite Taichi's world-weary views, they did not mean anything to him because he was fearless. And so, when he found a new dining table, a set of chairs, and a red, packaged whistle in his house the next day, he took it as it was, a declaration of deceit. However, because he was courageous, it did not matter to him, and he plunged himself in a familiar story, thinking he knew the outcome. What he did not realize was what those boys at Yamato's school ten years ago did not realize: it was unbelievably easy to fall in love with Yamato Ishida. His rough finger pads, the way he squinted against the sun while they laid with their backs against the grass, the swift twist of his lips, the casual sort of cruelty that went with his elegance. All of this became too easy to miss.
...Yamato came one day with sushi and beer. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Taichi knew he was supposed to be meeting Izzy somewhere, but Izzy was harder to lose than a hidden smile and hands that gripped chopsticks like fangs, fingers poised as if they were pulling back to strike.
They watched reruns of old shows while pointing out idiocies to each other and laughing. At one point, Yamato caught Taichi's lips in a kiss, and it occurred so naturally that Taichi wondered why it did happen before. Yamato's lips were smooth and graceful, and Taichi moved naturally, his hands working on their own accord. They both had enough experience to know what was going to happen next. Later, when Taichi reflected on this occurrence, he'll realize that Yamato's kiss remind him a lot of Izzy or rather, Izzy's kiss reminded him a lot of Yamato's, because they felt like failed imitation of Yamato's than anything else. Izzy kissed with a fevered urgency that he tried to hide unlike Yamato, who did everything with his eyes half closed and looking like a cat. Izzy always stopped a bit too short, gasping for breath, but Yamato moved back while Taichi leaned forward, leaving only a tiny break that felt like proper, necessary punctuation.
However, Taichi will not think about this until much later, after the sex, after the showers, after Yamato leaves, picking up his jacket with a blank look on his face. Yamato knew he did not have to try anymore; he did not need to charm Taichi with gifts and words that felt like cotton in his mouth. He had known, for a long time, how easy he could imprint himself in other people's lives, and that they would try like an orphaned child to keep him there. He placed a hundred dollars on the kitchen table and left, his clothes neat (not crisp – that was more Izzy than Yamato) and car keys jingling sharply in his hands.
What they both did not know was that neither was like what the other expected him to be. Taichi was far too self-reliant to be needy, and even if he was, he would never show it. Yamato, on the other hand, knew what he wanted, and if he found it, he was not the type to let go.
Taichi stared at the ceiling, one hand above his head, the sheets tangled around his legs, and waited for Izzy to call. He knew that love did not stop everything in its track, and he just had to keep breathing.
