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Shion knows. With every slow-spreading smile that makes Shion’s eyes crinkle up in the corners, with every touch of Shion’s hands on his body when they’ve collapsed into bed, he can tell that Shion knows.
But Nezumi hasn’t said the words out loud yet.
He hasn’t said it, and lately, that’s beginning to bother Nezumi more than he can explain.
He tells himself it’s simple enough. Three words. Three syllables. And it would make Shion so, so happy.
He wants to say them. They bubble up in his throat every time Shion hands him a cup of coffee made just the way he likes it, whenever Shion rubs his back after a long day at the theater, when Shion is writhing beneath him and looking up at Nezumi through half-lidded eyes that are brimming with the sentiment. And every time Shion says the words, no matter how casually or laughingly or whether he’s saying it with his heart in his eyes, a voice within Nezumi screams at him that now, now is the perfect time to say it; how perfect it would be to see Shion’s expression when the words are echoed back to him.
But every single time, Nezumi finds himself choking on the words, unable to make them mean the same thing they mean inside his head.
It’s becoming rather problematic.
“It’ll be fine,” Nezumi says as he wipes the blue foam from his lips; there is a tinge of panic in his voice. He spits the rest of the toothpaste into the sink and drops his toothbrush into the cup on the edge of the sink where it clatters around loudly. Rather like his nerves. “I made Ruka practice with me every day. She may be an understudy, but she’s fine. She’s good. She knows the lines. It’ll be fine.”
“It will be fine,” Shion affirms, “so stop rubbing your neck.”
Nezumi scowls at Shion. “I can rub my neck if I want to. I’ve got a crick.”
“You only rub your neck when you’re nervous and you know it,” Shion counters.
Nezumi pulls a face at Shion as he stalks past him into the bedroom. He wrenches open the closet door and pulls a shirt off the hanger without looking. As he tugs it down over his head, he hears Shion say, “I’m not sure that’s theater-appropriate, even if you will just be getting into costume once you’re there.”
Nezumi looks down at himself and curses. The shirt was a birthday gift from Inukashi, whose eyes had glinted evilly when Sion saw the shirt and asked what it meant. “I DON’T GIVE A” was printed in large block letters across the top of the shirt, and below it was an image of a rat holding a donkey’s lead rope. Even Shion had snorted with laughter when he saw it; Nezumi had tossed it back into the box and told Sion that all questions were to be directed to the woman who wouldn’t know a good joke if her dogs caught one and brought it to her. (Really, he thought she’d had enough of the rat jokes years ago.)
While Nezumi rips off the shirt and roots around in the closet for something less offensive, the phone starts ringing. “If it’s Jin, tell him to shut up and get another coffee, I’ll be there when I’m there,” Nezumi yells to Shion.
Shion rolls his eyes and picks up the phone. “Hello? Ah, yes, Nia, I’m well, how are you? That’s—what? Today? You’re joking.” He glances at Nezumi, who’s finally holding an apparently acceptable shirt and watching Shion with open curiosity. “That’s unfortunate. Would you be able to take over for me? I’m afraid I can’t come in today. Yes, I thought so. Well, thank you very much. Good luck. You can fill me in tomorrow. Goodbye.”
As soon as Shion sets the phone back down, Nezumi jumps in. “What was that about?”
“The research administration,” Shion says somewhat dazedly as he sits down on the bed. “They’ve decided that my studies into the Mao religion bear further exploration. They’re offering a grant to support my work.”
Nezumi stares at Shion. “A grant? Haven’t you been trying to get that for, what, at least a year now?”
“Yes, I suppose it’s been about that long.”
Nezumi’s eyes narrow. “A grant. For your work. And you’re letting someone else handle it now?”
“Well, it’s our work, really. Mine and Nia’s and everyone else we’ve pulled in to help us. We’re—we’re actually getting funding, Nezumi,” Shion says with disbelief. “We’re being supported by the research administration. That opens so many doors for us, we’ll be able to—“
“A grant for your work,” Nezumi repeats through gritted teeth, “and you’re just going to let someone else handle it?”
Shion pauses and looks at Nezumi with confusion. “It’s just for today. Nia will handle the negotiations, and then I’ll be back at the office tomorrow and can take over again.”
“Aren’t negotiations an important part though?” Nezumi presses. “This is the kind of thing the guy leading up the research team should be a part of, shouldn’t it?”
“But, Nezumi,” Shion blinks, “it’s opening night. I never miss opening night.”
There’s a pause.
“You idiot,” Nezumi roars, “forget opening night! This is a once-in-a-lifetime thing, and you’re going to let your toady take charge of it? Screw that, call her back and tell her you’re going to be there.”
Nezumi is somewhat thrown when he sees the small smile on Shion’s face. “I love that you care about me so much,” he says laughingly; Nezumi hopes he isn’t visibly blanching. “Thank you for looking out for me and giving me permission to go. But there’s no need for that, Nezumi. Nia will be fine on her own. This…it’s tradition. I’ve never missed opening night.”
Nezumi swallows hard. “But this is important, Shion. And it’s important to you. You’ve put so much work into this—you should see it through. I know you want to, even if you won’t say it. So call Nia back and say you’ll be there. You can come to closing night this time, or any other night.”
Shion stands and crosses the room to Nezumi, placing a hand on his cheek. “I really love you, you know,” Shion says with a smile. “That’s why I want to be there for you. But if you say it’s okay to go, I’ll go.”
Nezumi’s tongue feels too thick in his mouth, and when he goes to speak, the words he wants to say aren’t the ones that come out. “It’s okay.”
Shion presses a light kiss to his lips. “Okay, then.” He steps back and gives Nezumi’s chest a pointed look. “You should finish getting dressed and head to the theater,” he says. “You’ll give Jin a panic attack if you aren’t there by nine.”
“Right,” Nezumi replies quickly. He hurriedly pulls on his shirt, then grabs his wallet and his keys. He just needs to keep moving and not let himself think about the thing he’s thinking about, the thing he’s bursting to say; now, of course, the moment has passed. “I should get going. I’ll see you later tonight, okay?”
“Okay,” Shion says. “And Nezumi?”
Nezumi pauses as he’s about to hurry out the bedroom door. “Yeah?”
Shion smiles broadly at him. “Break a leg.”
Nezumi’s returning smile is somewhat tight, but still there. “You too.”
Sometimes he wonders if Shion can see his internal struggle. Does Shion know he’s trying? Can he see his frustration whenever the words won’t come out? Have his smiles been a bit more patient, a bit more forgiving?
Nezumi isn’t sure if that would be better or worse.
The situation is quickly driving him to madness. He must think of saying the words at least a hundred times a day; a hundred times a day, he becomes furious with himself for not saying it. But there’s always some reason: the timing is off; Shion isn’t looking him in the eye; he’s wearing sweatpants, and how can he possibly say those words for the first time when he’s wearing sweatpants?
(The excuses are just too easy to find, and therein, perhaps, lies the problem.)
Nezumi feels like death.
His throat is dryer than a desert after a hundred-year drought, he’s sure of it. He’s having trouble breathing because of the slug that is presumably slithering up one nostril; in a few minutes, it will have switched to the other nostril, and no amount of sniffling will clear it away. His skin is clammy. His head feels heavy, his eyelids even heavier. And he’s fairly certain he’s got a fever.
“Made you some chicken noodle soup,” Shion says sympathetically as he walks into the room. He’s carefully balancing a tray that holds a bowl with steam rising from it and a tall glass of water.
“No point,” Nezumi croaks. “I don’t need sustenance. I’m dying. Just let me go in peace.”
“You’re not on stage, there’s no need to be so dramatic,” Shion says dryly.
“Shuddup. Is it appropriate to use sarcasm on someone who’s on their deathbed? I think not.”
Shion slides the tray onto the coffee table and perches on the edge of the couch beside Nezumi. “I’ll keep that in mind if I’m ever around someone on their deathbed,” he patiently remarks. “Nezumi, it’s just a cold.”
“Just you wait,” Nezumi says threateningly, “I’m going to sneeze all over you and then when you’re the one lying here, you go ahead and tell me it’s just a cold.”
“Okay,” Shion condescends. “Until then, though, why don’t you sit up and have some soup? If you do wind up dying, I promise not to be upset about wasting food on a lost cause.”
Nezumi mutters under his breath (“No need to be so goddamn patronizing”), but he drags himself into a sitting position on the couch.
While he eats the soup, Shion fusses around him: plumping pillows, rustling up another blanket, shelving the books Nezumi has already gone through while confined to the couch. He puts a hand to Nezumi’s forehead and tuts, leaving the room quickly and returning with some pills that he orders Nezumi to take. When the soup is gone and the pills have been swallowed down, the tray gets whisked away. Nezumi has just settled back down on the couch and burrowed comfortably into the blankets when a cool cloth gets pressed to his forehead.
“Is there anything else I can get for you?” Shion asks. “More tissues? Another pillow? Tea with honey? Or do you just want to sleep?”
“What I want,” Nezumi sighs, “is to be in line at The Midvale getting my tickets for Caligula.” He sneezes violently into the blankets, and spends the next minute blowing his nose thunderously until he seems to have emptied himself out for the time being. “Dammit,” Nezumi says weakly.
Shion gathers up the tissues Nezumi tossed unceremoniously onto himself and drops them into the wastebasket. “I did tell you I couldn’t go to the play, didn’t I?” he says, sounding confused. “And I thought you hated sitting alone.”
“Ruka said she’d go with me,” Nezumi grumbles, “but only if I were the one to, quote, waste half the day standing with the peons, end quote.” He sighs again. “Would’ve been nice to see it.”
Shion adjusts the cloth on his forehead and presses his cool hand to Nezumi’s cheek. “You should sleep,” he says softly.
“Mm,” Nezumi agrees, eyelids closing as if on command.
“Will you be all right by yourself?” Shion asks as he stands up. “I’ll probably be gone for quite a while.”
“Huh?” Nezumi asks, his eyes snapping back open. “Where’re you going?”
Shion smiles at him crookedly. “To stand in line with the other peons, I suppose.” He bends to press a light kiss on the tip of Nezumi’s nose. “Sleep. I’ll take care of it.”
“You—“ Nezumi cuts himself off, staring up at Shion with astonishment. And he knows he should change that “you” into an “I” and let his mouth finish off the sentence, but the words stick in his dry, dry throat and crack the way he’s sure they would if he tried to say them out loud.
Shion’s smile seems to soften. “Sleep. I love you.”
And before Nezumi can force his mouth open and respond, Shion is gone.
He spends the next two hours fuming at himself—Of all the childish, ridiculous things, they’re just words, for fuck’s sake—and steadily going through another box of tissues. When he hears the front door open again, he turns over and pretends to be asleep, unable to make himself face Shion again so soon after his latest failure.
If only there were a switch on his brain, Nezumi thinks, that he could flip off for those moments when he just wants to stop agonizing over how and when and where to say the words and just say them.
He’s distracted all day at the theater, missing cues and saying other people’s lines. He just can’t help thinking: What if it were this easy in real life? The pages of the script right in front of your face, the cue to enter stage left, approach the other romantic lead, and there, you say the lines and it’s over. He’s mentally writing himself a script he know he won’t use when Jin clearly and somewhat fearfully calls his name, telling him it’s his line. Jin is clearly too well-acquainted with Nezumi’s temper and doesn’t say anything in front of the others, but as Nezumi takes a break in the back room with a glass of water and his tangled thoughts, Jin approaches him and politely suggests that Nezumi take the night to exorcise whatever’s messing with his head.
As Jin walks away, Ruka approaches with Aiko and Mashi in tow. “Nezumi,” she says in greeting. “What’s up? You were shit today.”
Nezumi scowls at her. “Flattering, as always,” he mutters.
“Whatever it is,” Ruka says breezily as she plops into a chair beside Nezumi, “you’ve gotta work it out. We’re going to Shiki’s once we’re done here.”
“Yeah, well, have fun,” Nezumi says blandly, deliberately misinterpreting her.
“Don’t be difficult, Nezumi,” Ruka scolds. “You’re so wound-up right now you look like one strong breeze might snap you in half. You heard Jin. Take tonight to get your head out of whatever’s fucking you up. Turn off your brain for a night.”
“I’m buying the first round,” Mashi says hopefully.
Nezumi sighs with resignation. “Yeah, all right,” he says, and begins to think of all the ways this could go horribly wrong.
Nezumi stumbles through the front door at half past one. He has a vague thought that Shion might be in bed and perhaps he should be quiet, but then he remembers why he’s done what he’s done and dismisses the thought. It is of the upmost importance that Shion be awake right now, Nezumi decides, and he proceeds unreservedly on down the hallway.
“Shion!” he hollers as he stomps up the staircase. “You awake? Shion!”
“Well if I wasn’t, I certainly would be now,” he hears Shion dryly remark from their bedroom. Nezumi enters and sees Shion sitting on the edge of the bed as he removes his socks. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, fine,” Nezumi says. The words may have been a bit more slurred than usual.
Shion peers curiously up at him. “No, you’re not.”
“’M fine,” Nezumi insists. “Just went out for a bit with—with people. Some people. From the theater.”
“You’re drunk,” Shion notes with surprise.
“Yeah, well, it had to be done,” Nezumi deadpans. “’Cause when I’m sober—y’know, brain all there, that’s the problem. My brain is all there, thinking and—and thinking, and it all just gets in the way. Had to…I dunno. Shut it up. Alcohol seemed like a good enough solution at the time.”
“Nezumi, what are you talking about?”
Nezumi makes a pathetic moaning sound and drops into Shion’s lap. His head droops until his forehead is touching Shion’s; his hands come up to stroke Shion’s face, fingering the soft hairs by his ears, tracing his cheekbone with his thumb. “It’s just that I—I have this thing, you know, this thing that I want to say to you, but I can’t, I can’t with my brain giving me a million reasons why I shouldn’t say it, and it just messes me up and—and I want to say it but I still don’t—can you just kiss me, please can you just kiss me and get me out of my own head?”
And maybe Shion doesn’t understand what he’s saying—why should he, when Nezumi doesn’t understand himself?—but Shion tilts his head up just slightly and presses their lips together, and Nezumi whimpers with gratitude.
He feels Shion’s hand at the small of his back and presses closer, holds tighter, kisses harder. He’s feeling more muddled than ever before; odd that the thought should comfort him. He thinks about how people call alcohol a social lubricant and gets a sudden and intense desire to laugh. Lubricant. It’s just funny. (Fuck, I really am drunk.)
But Shion’s pulling away from his lips now and that’s not very funny, especially when Shion says, “What did you want to tell me?”
Nezumi’s hands clutch at the shoulders of Shion’s shirt. “It’s madness,” he sighs. “Madness. I want to say it—I do, want to say it all the time, but my head, I can’t—I mean, right now, I want to, but I’m thinking and I’m thinking now that saying it when I’m drunk and horny is probably a stupid way to go about it—“
Nezumi’s tirade gets cut short when Shion roughly pulls him down to the mattress and kisses him again.
Shion’s pressed up against him, chest and hips and thighs holding Nezumi down to the mattress. His hands are tangled in Nezumi’s hair; his mouth is sliding over Nezumi’s with bruising, mind-robbing force, and Nezumi loves it. He arches up into Shion, moaning softly when he feels heat and hardness against his thigh.
And Shion pulls away again. “Got anything to say to me?” he asks huskily.
“Can’t remember,” Nezumi says, and pulls Shion down by the nape of the neck.
Nezumi’s brain seems to both shut off and reach terminal velocity in the moment when their lips crash together. Thoughts jumble together in his head and disappear completely an instant later. Neurons are misfiring in every direction, and he’s not sure he has any idea what his lips and hands and hips are doing. Every sense is flooded; every sense is gone. He’s just aware of Shion moving over him, Shion kissing him, Shion Shion Shion.
His jeans are being unbuttoned and—oh, yes—he’s pulling Shion’s pants down too, hands lingering on the expanses of naked skin he’s slowly uncovering. Then the pants are gone and Shion’s hands are all over him and Nezumi needs more.
He pushes two fingers into Shion and feels him shudder at the quick, unexpected touch. Shion presses one hand to the mattress and leans over Nezumi, mewling low in the back of his throat as Nezumi thrusts his fingers in and out. Shion’s gaze locks on Nezumi’s, face flushed and eyes flashing with wantneednow. When he starts moving his hips in time with Nezumi’s rhythm, Nezumi gives a loud groan, removing his fingers to reach back and root around in the drawer of his bedside table. Shion lightly takes the bottle he procures with a grin, snapping the lid open with his thumb and squirting out some of the gel before tossing the bottle away. Nezumi watches with dark, glittering eyes as Shion slicks his cock; he’s mesmerized for a bit too long before he finally swats Shion’s hand away muttering, “Enough,” as he grasps Shion’s hips and thrusts up into him.
Shion cries out and arches back, bracing his hands on the mattress. He fixes Nezumi with that lewd look he knows drives him crazy—lips parted, eyes half-lidded—and begins to move on Nezumi’s cock. Nezumi’s fingers involuntarily clench tighter around Shion’s waist, hissing “Fuck,” as he watches Shion.
It’s clear after a few moments that the angle is wrong; Shion whimpers with frustration as he slows down. A little bit of shuffling has moved Shion’s hands from the mattress to the tops of Nezumi’s thighs, and when Shion undulates his hips again, he gasps out an, “Oh,” and moves faster.
Shion’s riding him now, fucking himself on Nezumi’s cock, his cries growing louder and louder. The sound fills Nezumi’s head until that’s almost all there is, that and the feel of Shion moving on top of him, the sight of his head thrown back in ecstasy, and that feeling, the one that’s been brimming inside Nezumi and bursting to come out for—hell, for a long time. For all he knows, it’s been there since he was 12 years old, and he was just too stubborn to admit it.
“Nezumi, please,” Shion begs, and Nezumi knows instantly what he wants. He circles a hand around Shion’s cock and jerks him roughly; Shion’s orgasm hits him almost immediately, leaving him bucking wildly as he comes. It’s the way that he moans Nezumi’s name—throaty and satiated and teeming with emotion—that finishes Nezumi a moment later, his fingers digging into Shion’s hip as he tries to keep from thrashing.
As he blinks the stars out of his eyes, he feels Shion place a hand on his chest. When Nezumi meets his gaze, Shion says nothing, but the patient, expectant look on his face is a clear enough question.
And with only one coherent thought left in Nezumi’s head, it’s suddenly simple.
“I love you,” Nezumi breathes. And then, laughingly, “And it’s getting worse.”
Now Shion drops his forehead onto Nezumi’s, eyes closed and breath ragged. “Do you regret it?”
“No,” Nezumi whispers. “Not at all. Not any of it.”
He can feel Shion’s pleased smile. “Good.” Shion flops down onto the bed beside Nezumi, tauntingly poking him in the ribs. “Took you long enough.”
“Shuddup.”
“So,” Shion continues in that teasing tone, “am I going to have to get you drunk and have sex with you every time I want to hear you say it?”
“Nah,” Nezumi responds. He pauses, reconsiders. “Well, not the drunk bit.”
“You’re horrid,” Shion murmurs. His nose nuzzles against Nezumi’s ear. “But I love you.”
“Mm. I love you, too. Wait, I already said that, didn’t I? Fuck.”
Shion laughs delightedly into Nezumi’s shoulder. “I think I like you drunk. This affectionate side is so much more pleasant than the sober Nezumi. Really, it’s quite charming.”
“Hey! You—shut up.”
“And so much more eloquent too.”
“I can be charming when I’m sober.”
“Sure you can,” Shion glibly agrees.
Nezumi narrows his eyes at him. “You’re implying that just because I can doesn’t mean I am, aren’t you?”
Shion returns his look with feigned innocence. “Why would I do that? You must still be drunk, Nezumi.”
Nezumi snorts and rolls away from Shion. “That’s it. I take back my ‘I love you.’ Prick.”
Shion sidles up behind Nezumi, slipping an arm around his waist. “That’s okay,” he says, resting his head in the crook of Nezumi’s neck, “I’ll just have to make you say it again.”