6.9

[necessarian]

tfw you're like "haha i'll just write some short ushimoni for moniwa's birthday" and less than 24 hours later a disgustingly domestic and self-indulgent monster has reared its ugly head and you look at your hands like "oh"

this is 1,838 words of fluff enjoy

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In the end, after roughly six months of not seeing each other, it’s down to being in the right place at the right time. Kaname’s stranded under a flimsy awning in a part of Tokyo he’s quite certain didn’t exist last time he was here, flicking desperately through his contacts for anyone, any local he knows. He’s about to give in and dial Futakuchi’s number, even though he’s quite certain Futakuchi is the sort to treat a rainy day with the attitude that running through the streets sans umbrella is a perfectly reasonable thing to do, when a shadow appears in the corner of his vision, and suddenly he’s just a little bit drier.

 

“Kaname?”

 

Even after six months, even after over four years of a relationship conducted mostly in text messages and staticky skype calls, Kaname would recognise Wakatoshi’s voice anywhere. Looking up, he tries to come off a bit embarrassed, contrite, sorry that he’s making such a fool of himself. Wakatoshi is barely receptive to emotional appeals, though, so it’s lucky for Kaname that he’s already holding out his umbrella.

 

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

 

“Ah,” Kaname says, “I got caught in the rain.”

 

“I mean in Tokyo,” Wakatoshi says.

 

Kaname can’t decide whether or not there’s an unspoken why didn’t you tell me? “I had a job interview just now,” he says. “I was just applying to places in Sendai initially, but, well, the opportunity came up, so I—”

 

Stop rambling! he tells himself, but Wakatoshi’s face is impassive in patience, like he’d listen to whatever Kaname has to say. The handful of times they’ve met up in person, Wakatoshi’s always been like that, doesn’t interrupt—it’s one of the things Kaname’s always liked about him.

 

“—I’m sorry I didn’t tell you beforehand,” he says. “It was sort of short notice.”

 

“That’s alright,” Wakatoshi says. “Do you want to come back to my flat?”

 

Kaname almost chokes on air, but he knows that Wakatoshi is a forward sort, and practically a chessmaster with his knight’s move thinking, skipping from one idea to another with no evident connection. “You mean, to stay out of the rain?” Kaname asks.

 

Wakatoshi nods. “It’s nearby. I was just on the way home. You can wait out the storm.”

 

“T-thanks,” Kaname says. “I’d like that.”

 

And immediately, he berates himself for not saying something more neutral, like “That’s very kind of you,” and berates himself again for thinking that Wakatoshi cares. He doesn’t. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t see it as an obligation out of kindness, it’s just natural. Kaname supposes he’d do the same for anyone he—

 

—likes.

 

Whatever that word means.

 

They’re quiet on the walk to Wakatoshi’s apartment complex, standing almost uncomfortably close under Wakatoshi’s broad umbrella, which he has to hold high enough so that it doesn’t bump his impossibly stratospheric head, the unfortunate side effect of which is that Kaname does get a bit wet, on top of how drenched he already was, despite everything. It’s a relief to get in through the glass doors and towards the lift with doors so shiny Kaname can almost-clearly see his reflection in them.

 

Wakatoshi folds up his umbrella as they wait for the lift. “I can lend you some clothes, if you like,” he says.

 

“That’d be silly,” Kaname says, laughing nervously, “you’re several sizes too big for me, I think. You can just lend me a towel.”

 

“That’s fine,” Wakatoshi says. “If you’re worried about looking silly, I can put your clothes in the drier and they’ll probably be dry by the time the rain stops.”

 

“Probably,” Kaname says weakly.

 

The lift arrives and, as he follows Wakatoshi in, Kaname starts to wonder why Wakatoshi didn’t offer to walk him to the nearest convenience store to buy a cheap umbrella, or to find him a spare umbrella in his flat at least—no, instead he offers to lend Kaname some clothes and put them in his drier. How much must he be paid to afford a drier at his age? Kaname forgets that Wakatoshi only did a three-year degree, so he’s got a head start in life, a career as a professional volleyball player, and, probably enough money for a drier too.

 

When they get to Wakatoshi’s flat, when the lift slips quietly to a stop, Kaname is overcome with a sudden, stupid bout of nerves. Get a grip, he scolds himself. It’s just Wakatoshi. They’ve known each other for over four years. Wakatoshi has even crashed in Kaname’s dorm, on a few occasions when he was in Sendai overnight for some reason or other. Granted, Wakatoshi took the bed and Kaname took a few pillows and the floor, so nothing untoward ever happened, but there’s a history of tension on top of that, a history of hearts in text messages, which started roughly a year ago and completely by accident. There’s a history of something unspoken between them that Kaname steadfastly ignores when they’re just a high-speed train apart.

 

Being so close, though, bumping elbows as they play out the routine of no, you first through the door, it’s hard to ignore.

 

Of course, there’s the other way Kaname could play this. He could stop being nervous, stop tip-toeing around both of their feelings, start making it happen. He knows he’s more socially astute than Wakatoshi, knows that he can compare all six people he’s ever dated to Wakatoshi’s impressive zero, knows that it gives him the upper hand in this sort of scenario. Wakatoshi can offer Kaname all the clothes he likes, but at the end of the day, Kaname is the one holding the balance of power.

 

“What’s the job?” Wakatoshi asks, disappearing down a corridor. Kaname hears the sound of cupboard doors sliding open, hangers clinking together.

 

“Environmental consultant at an architectural firm,” he says. “It’s a very junior position, but the firm’s well-known, and I was lucky to get through to this round of interviews.”

 

Wakatoshi reappears holding immaculately folded clothes and a towel, slung over his arm like a waiter with a tray. “There’s no such thing as luck,” he says. “If you got there, it’s because you’re good at what you do.”

 

You can not make me blush, Kaname thinks. “So it wasn’t luck that I got caught on the very street that you were about to walk down?”

 

Wakatoshi purses his lips in thought. “Coincidence, not luck,” he settles on. “When are you going back to Sendai?”

 

“I’ve got a ticket for seven-thirty,” Kaname says.

 

There’s a clock on the wall that reads five-thirty-six, and Wakatoshi’s gaze flickers to it almost imperceptibly. “Do you have time to stay for dinner?” he asks.

 

Kaname privately thinks that he’d give up his ticket and just go back in the morning if it meant he got this opportunity for longer. “We don’t spend enough time together,” he says. “Of course I have time now.”

 

“You can use the bathroom while I start cooking,” Wakatoshi says. “First door on the right.”

 

“Thanks,” Kaname says, taking the clothes and the towel as Wakatoshi holds them out.

 

The bathroom is like the rest of the flat—modern but compact, utilitarian in its design. Wakatoshi doesn’t have anything scattered around the sink; Kaname presumes it’s all in the cupboard behind the mirror. There’s just room for a shower, and Kaname is almost tempted to use the all the warm water he knows Wakatoshi can afford. He doesn’t, though, just towel-dries his hair until it starts sticking up again.

 

As predicted, Wakatoshi’s spare clothes are ludicrously oversized. He’s not only taller, but broader, and his spare shirt comes down to just above Kaname’s knees, and the socks are pooling around his ankles. It would be funny if it weren’t so embarrassing. Kaname tries on the bottom half, which is a pair of volleyball shorts, but not even a drawstring waist can save him now.

 

“Um,” Kaname calls out, opening the door a crack, “do you have anything smaller?”

 

“All my middle school clothes are still at my parents’ house,” Wakatoshi says mildly. Kaname would probably feel insulted if it were anyone else.

 

“Never mind,” Kaname calls, closing the door again. He stares himself down in the mirror, getting as far back as possible to see what he looks like, but when his back hits the wall he can just make out the hem of his shirt. He shrugs.

 

When he gets out, abandoning the shorts on the shower door handle, he carries his wet clothes to the kitchen, wrapped in the towel. “Can you point me in the direction of the drier?”

 

“Next door down from the bathroom,” Wakatoshi says.

 

He’s intent on the stove, frying some vegetables, and he looks up only briefly, as Kaname turns to leave. On his return, Wakatoshi is staring straight at him, vegetables lying dormant, quiet but for a few pops of oil. “Are you wearing the shorts under that?” Wakatoshi asks.

 

Kaname feels himself smile, and bites his lower lip inside his mouth to stop it from turning into a grin. “They were too big,” he says. “I left them in the bathroom.”

 

“Okay,” Wakatoshi says, his voice stilted, cracking on the last syllable.

 

A heat rises in Kaname’s cheeks as he plods into the kitchen, standing beside Wakatoshi as he goes back to the vegetables. “You don’t need to be shy,” he says. “We’re old friends.”

 

Wakatoshi doesn’t meet his eye when he says, “Yeah.”

 

Now, Kaname’s not so nervous anymore.

 

They sit down to eat at the kotatsu, knees touching at the table’s corner. It’s warm, familiar, not so hard given that they’ve spent most of their friendship at a distance. There’s no conversation, but Kaname likes the peace. After they’re finished, Wakatoshi looks up at the clock. Kaname keeps his eyes firmly on the wall-sized windows, lashed with rain, and the thunderclouds in the distance, the occasional flash of lightning.

 

“It’s seven-twenty,” Wakatoshi says. “You’ll probably miss your train. You can stay the night.”

 

“What a pity,” Kaname says, barely holding back a laugh. This time, Wakatoshi smiles with him—his smiles are small, usually localised at one corner of his mouth, and rare.

 

Kaname twists so that he’s facing Wakatoshi, and says, “I don’t suppose you could think of anything we can do to pass the time?”

 

Wakatoshi drops his chopsticks—Kaname hadn’t even noticed that he was still holding them—and slowly brings a hand up to the side of Kaname’s face. “Is this alright?” he asks.

 

This time, Kaname really does laugh, loud for all the years he’s spent pining like an idiot, and for the years after that he’s been absolutely certain that his feelings are requited and done nothing. And when they kiss, and all the tension leaves his body, it’s not a resolution—it’s a beginning.



(The next morning, as Wakatoshi sees him off at the train station, he tells Kaname that if he does get the job in Tokyo, he’ll have a place to stay.)