It had all started with a proposition. Rin had accepted out of selfish necessity. He told himself that it was lust that drew him toward eyes made of raw peridot and the most gentle kind of smile. He told himself that he wanted the heat of his broad back and arms around his waist, not the heat of the other's heart that beat for his rival who was always too busy, too lost in his own quiet world to notice Makoto's adoring stares. His fingers tangled in hair that could change like magic from tan to cinnamon to sand depending on the lighting he was in. His nails would drag down the hard muscles of the other's back and chest, and he would never notice, never care that he was holding on desperately to the sweet moments filled with sweet nothings he knew were not meant for him.
When he realised that nothings were exactly what they were, it was too late.
He had fallen.
He was drowning.
No matter how much he clawed and fought, Makoto's eyes would wander. He had told himself it would not hurt, not too much, to allow Makoto to manipulate him for his own selfish reasons, but it did. It was excruciating, torturous. He found himself lost beneath snow and ice and his heavy heart. He found it hard to leave the bedside that was already cold after the other left. He would go to his dorm, and he would sob. Not in front of others. That could not be allowed. He would lock himself in the bathroom and slide to the floor under the guise that he was showering and collapse on the floor biting his lips and tongue to choke down his voice.
He prayed to his heart, for its forgiveness for the grievance he had put it under because no matter how much he hated how much he hated what Makoto was doing, he could not hate the man himself.
He had wanted so much and so little at the same time. Three-little-words danced on his tongue, but when he was finally found on that bathroom floor by those peridot eyes, the opposite poured out.
"I hate you."
Makoto needed to go. Rin had accepted that he did more harm than good. Makoto begged him to stay. He poured out empty apologies that Rin closed his ears to. He could not keep playing along. He was not Haruka. He was Rin. He was Rin. He was Rin.
He mumbled that to himself, a small "I'm Rin" that confused the other as he scrubbed at his face desperate to stop the dam pouring saltwater from his eyes. Then he was the one begging. He was pleading that Makoto just please get out because Oh God it hurt to even breathe from his scratchy throat and struggling lungs. He could hardly manage words out by the time he was forced into an embrace that he needed but hated.
Makoto was not sorry. Rin just knew it, and he was so bitter for knowing it. He could understand when people said bliss was ignorance. He wanted to forget he was a replacement for something the other could not have. He wanted to forget peridot and sand and sugar-coated lies, but instead he just laxed in the arms as he felt fingers in his hair. He could hear the other's heart beating and his steady breathing that challenged Rin's own raspy inhales. This love would be his grave. He would be buried in the sweet, little white lies and the bitter truth, and the worst part was that his heart kept whispering it was worth it. That everything (his mind, his heart, his very being) was worth the other holding him.