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Is this what it's come to? Shouta comes to bed, kisses the back of his neck, holds him tight like he's afraid he'll run, a scared animal who might bolt at any second? And Hizashi does nothing but let him, no reciprocal embrace to tell him he's not going anywhere?
This wasn't what he thought love would ever feel like.
They used to be champagne guzzled too quickly, eyes watering from the burn. Hanging upside down a moment too long, laughing through the dizzy throbbing. They used to be the exhilarating rush of skinny-dipping in a public pool after hours.
Now they're tepid water, feet firmly on the ground. There's nothing dizzying about the way they can't spend their days off with each other without wondering what they'll argue about this time. Wary eyes watching as they pace around each other, looking for an opening to air out their annoyances.
Apologies come in the form of letting the other press close at night, of gentle kisses when they wake up before rushing to start the day.
Anger unacknowledged.
Love undeclared.
He does love Shouta. Whatever else, pieces of him will always be lodged deep under Hizashi's skin, settled there, as much a part of him as his own blood. You don't love the way they had and not take parts of them with you wherever you go.
But now there are fights and avoidance and stiffness more often than there's anything called intimate. Like they only cling to each other because there's a magnetic pull to the shards of themselves embedded within the other.
Their bed is the only place they touch anymore, and even that's chaste. More like a formality. Cuddled up together because that's how they've been doing it for so long now, but it feels like a lifetime since they were skin to skin.
Long enough that now, with Shouta's arm tight around his waist, lips gliding along his neck, Hizashi isn't sure what to feel. Relief, knowing that he's still wanted? Resentment, that Shouta thinks this will make up for something? Resignation, to the truth that this is how they are now?
Hips press against him, a stiffness he hasn't felt in weeks, but he can't react, too surprised by the sudden desire.
Shouta must take it to mean disinterest, a rejection, because his warmth leaves. He rolls away, says "Sorry" and it's not even bitter, just a whispered apology too soft to be anything but sincere.
How did they get to this point, where the slightest sign of a lack of reciprocation meant apologizing and letting it be? Indifference used to be a challenge, seeing how long they could stay nonchalant while the other teased them into arousal.
Hizashi rolls onto his back. Shouta's turned away from him now, sheets low on his hips.
"What happened to us?" Hizashi asks.
The question isn't unexpected, not entirely, because there's a stretched-out moment before Shouta reacts, shifting onto his back as well. "I don't know."
Something feels unsettling, and Hizashi can't place it until the not-speaking becomes too heavy.
Their bedroom is not a silent place. It's a quiet place, but never silent.
Hizashi is used to quiet. He's used to the vague hum of appliances that becomes growling when his hearing aids are in. He's used to feeling a cat's purr, not hearing it unless there's a furry face close to his own. He's used to getting the gist of every conversation on a phone, every scene of dialogue on a tv show, and piecing together the rest out of intuition and context.
He's used to hearing Shouta breathe. Not just the long, deep sighs of rest, or the snore that's inevitable when he sleeps on his back, but even when he's awake, breath no louder than a caress, Hizashi's used to feeling air on his neck or his chest or in his hair, used to feeling the rise and fall of a chest against him, little hints of life and noise.
He probably can't truly hear it, but he thinks he can, and that's enough.
But now he hears nothing. A testament to the eggshells they've been walking on around each other. As if they're afraid to break this calm. It's all wrong.
Hizashi moves maybe a little too quickly to rest his head on Shouta's chest, to press his ear right over his heart, because he needs to hear it. It's deafening like this, and he wonders what it would be like if he could hear it as it was meant to be heard. If it would overwhelm him.
Shouta's fingers stroke over his hair, feather-light. Hizashi kisses over Shouta's heart, nothing more than a press of lips before lying back down so the steady thumps can drown out the silent aching.
There's enough of a bulge in the sheets that he knows Shouta's not entirely soft yet. Hizashi slides his hand along skin, under fabric, cups him lightly, rubs with his palm.He feels the hitch in Shouta's breath, feels him rest a hand on his arm as he says "You don't have to" even as his heart picks up.
But he wants to.
Shouta's heart becomes thunder, soft sighs becoming heavy enough to be heard the longer Hizashi plays with him. He kisses his chest again, thinks he can feel his heartbeat against his mouth, and a hand guides his face up until his lips are pressed to Shouta's.
After too long of moments no more private than a kiss saying 'goodbye' or 'welcome home,' the way Shouta kisses is so yearned for and so familiar that Hizashi's hand stills as he's caught up in the taste he's been missing.
Hands framing his face, heavy breaths through his nose, unwilling to break their lips apart even for air, Shouta kisses him like Hizashi hasn't been there for months. Like it's been the opposite, like he's been physically gone but there in every other way. Like he's making up for too many missed opportunities. Maybe he is.
Shouta rolls them over, one hand moving to Hizashi's hip and the other cradling the back of his head, gentle even with how softly he lands on the pillow. Hizashi's eyes are wide as they always are when Shouta treats him with such care, surprised at the tenderness because he never learned how to find himself deserving of half the reverence with which Shouta could look at him.
Shouta looms over him, dark hair hiding dark eyes in the dark room. Hizashi goes to sweep it away but is stopped by the cheek pushing against his hand. He can just barely make out that Shouta's eyes are clenched shut, and Hizashi pulls him close, presses their foreheads together.There's a hiccup in the rhythm of his breath and a sharp sound from his mouth and Hizashi realizes Shouta is crying before he feels a tear on his skin.
"I'm sorry," Shouta whispers. Hizashi shushes him, wipes away wetness with his thumb, knows he isn't apologizing for crying.
"Kiss me again."
He does, hard and almost demanding, like he's worried he can't say enough otherwise.
It's whiplash, it's emotional disorientation, it's probably stupidly unhealthy to go from stranding each other on dispassionate islands to this, to over-emotional scrambling, rutting against each other with only a handful of words thrown out to acknowledge something went wrong.
But there's confession in it, there's recognition and something next to repentance and there's warmth in holding tight once they're finally bare against each other again, in panting with each other, in jerking open the drawer of the bedside table.
There's warmth and want in how Shouta's hips barely leave his, grinding inside him hard enough to rock the bed, Hizashi clinging too tightly.
There's warmth and want and worth in the sweat and moans and tears. There's weightlessness in the whispered words after, weariness in the worried wondering. Affirmations of what they hadn't really forgotten. Concessions to the need to talk in the morning. Watery laughter at the yawns that interrupt them.
Normalcy within sight. Affection within reach. Love understood.