[One more purposeful tug--] I can't read your mind, Touya. For the love of god. You have to say... say what you mean to me, or it's just... [That's what it feels like it's coming down to. Touya says he said yes, when he really said something neither here nor there, and he thinks Hikaru should've been able to understand it anyway. Idiot. An idiot who's being so stupid. Just plain stupid and dumb and beautiful. Half of the time, they understand each other perfectly, like two hands operating from the same body, and then... the rest of the time, he doesn't know what the hell is going on. Maybe they should spend more time talking to each other. That's a reasonable solution. But it's so hard to talk about how he's feeling when he can't figure out how to put it into words. This is the first time he's ever tried to do that, a strong and honest try at it, and it still doesn't come close to describing the true state of things.
But any frustration he feels is sublimated when Touya deigns to join him down on the floor. Hikaru has some trouble arranging himself in the best way, but now his front is pushing against Touya's back, and they're aligned together, just like that. His arm has been thrown artlessly around Touya's waist; one of his legs is slotting in between both of Touya's, which seems natural to him. They're really close together. Even closer than they were when he was letting Touya dry his tears on that unreal, too-shrill morning. His breaths stir into Touya's hair like a warm breeze, slow, slower, slowing down. Touya smells like the slight electric tang produced by the space heater, and also the sake itself, and also, also, the shampoo he diligently used on himself. Hikaru presses his face into Touya's hair, somewhere around his upper neck. He might be happy with this.
Unfortunately:] We haven't played yet, [he mumbles, even as he's hearing good and keep doing that on repeat in his head.] You said you'd play me, you said that, but we haven't... [The floor has to the worst place to fall asleep, with no lumbar support to speak of. Touya's going to wake up with every muscle locked into place tomorrow, riddled with knots and kinks, and he's going to kill him tomorrow, for everything he's doing now. Hikaru's arm tightens stubbornly, his fingers spreading over Touya's chest. As close as possible. Closer than that.] Play me tomorrow, please, and I'll keep doing what I'm doing. Otherwise...
[Otherwise he's going to fall asleep, which he does, finally, all at once.
He wakes up first. It's bright in the sitting room, with natural sunlight splashed all over, and he intensely regrets opening his eyes and the fact he might be dying, actually getting ready to curl up and die, if the crushing-crackle of his head and his bowels is any indication. His mouth tastes like spicy curdled piss, putrefied, fucking diseased, and...
He's still holding onto Touya.
And, boy, oh boy, Touya is going to murder him. He remembers enough to be confident of that much.]
no subject
But any frustration he feels is sublimated when Touya deigns to join him down on the floor. Hikaru has some trouble arranging himself in the best way, but now his front is pushing against Touya's back, and they're aligned together, just like that. His arm has been thrown artlessly around Touya's waist; one of his legs is slotting in between both of Touya's, which seems natural to him. They're really close together. Even closer than they were when he was letting Touya dry his tears on that unreal, too-shrill morning. His breaths stir into Touya's hair like a warm breeze, slow, slower, slowing down. Touya smells like the slight electric tang produced by the space heater, and also the sake itself, and also, also, the shampoo he diligently used on himself. Hikaru presses his face into Touya's hair, somewhere around his upper neck. He might be happy with this.
Unfortunately:] We haven't played yet, [he mumbles, even as he's hearing good and keep doing that on repeat in his head.] You said you'd play me, you said that, but we haven't... [The floor has to the worst place to fall asleep, with no lumbar support to speak of. Touya's going to wake up with every muscle locked into place tomorrow, riddled with knots and kinks, and he's going to kill him tomorrow, for everything he's doing now. Hikaru's arm tightens stubbornly, his fingers spreading over Touya's chest. As close as possible. Closer than that.] Play me tomorrow, please, and I'll keep doing what I'm doing. Otherwise...
[Otherwise he's going to fall asleep, which he does, finally, all at once.
He wakes up first. It's bright in the sitting room, with natural sunlight splashed all over, and he intensely regrets opening his eyes and the fact he might be dying, actually getting ready to curl up and die, if the crushing-crackle of his head and his bowels is any indication. His mouth tastes like spicy curdled piss, putrefied, fucking diseased, and...
He's still holding onto Touya.
And, boy, oh boy, Touya is going to murder him. He remembers enough to be confident of that much.]