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soundsaboutrighttumblr · 4 years

Text

Cool Boy - ramking fic

Read at AO3

Summary:

My take on what happens after season one’s final episode for them. Ram’s POV.

Texting. Then meeting back at the condo.

Also, this song put me in the mood: youtube.com/watch?v=CCPqEEC8J_0 Josh Rabenold's cover of Ocean Eyes

---

I’m sorry

---

By late afternoon, Ram is back at the condo.

The washing machine’s been loaded with the trip’s laundry, and his tooth brush has been put back into its holder. The plants needing water have been cared for. Feeling modestly accomplished and a tad less restless Ram takes to the couch, swiping through pictures of the last two days that his friends have kept sending to him. Mostly because he knows he’ll come across and stop at that one.

He opens the tab with King’s messages. Just in case he didn’t hear the notification. But this morning’s sent text still sits unanswered.

I wasn’t drunk last night.

Ram deliberates sending King the photo. But Ting already might have. For sure she did. He’s about to get up for something to drink, when suddenly his eyes are drawn to movement, and the typing bubble pops up in the corner. If Ram sits up straighter for it, no one is there with him to judge him for it. The notification sounds off in his hand.

Thanthep King: I’m sorry

Ram stares at it. He doesn’t want it to, but it feels like a punch to the gut somehow. A damper on his careful, hopeful waiting. He’s been telling himself to keep his worrying in check, tells himself the same thing now. What is King saying? I am sorry I can’t do this?

Ram waits. A long minute. Two.

Thanthep King: I shouldn’t have shouted at you like this

More typing.

Thanthep King: Or pushed you

Ram breathes out slowly. Texts back:

It’s okay

Thanthep King: I am 80 percent sure I wouldn’t have done that if I hadn’t been drunk…

Ram feels the corner of his mouth tick up. It’s only half a smile. He types:

I know

The dots in the upper corner keep moving. But no more messages come through.

Ram waits.

---

Ram knows King’s plan was to stay the night at his grandma’s house, and drive home after lunch the next day. King can take a car that his grandma’s gardeners will collect on their next errant in the city. They’ve done it before, apparently. It’s almost a two-hour drive, so Ram first expected King back around afternoon.

He took the dogs out for a long walk around midday, but left them at Duen’s parents’ for a few more nights with a heavy heart. Daoheni cares for them with that special possessive brand of generosity only a child can muster, and they have a big garden for them to play in, so he supposes it’s okay.

It's starting to get dark outside.

Ram’s trying to watch a tech documentary that one of their teachers recommended, but he keeps pausing and switching tabs because he can’t seem to concentrate. He’s halfway across the room to check their stock of cold drinks in the fridge, when he hears rustling at the entrance. So once the door opens, Ram kind of just stands there.

King’s eyes flick over to him, but then he turns around to bring in his bags. Ram reaches for a glass on the counter, to have something to do, but he waits. Fills it at the tab. Then sets it down again. King glances at him once more, shuffling off his shoes, but then he skips down, crouching to address some of his plants on the lower levels of his shelf:

“Hello, hello, I am back at last, did you guys miss me?” His voice trails off at the end, but he coughs and touches two of the succulents in passing, his tone light: “Have you grown? I have only been gone for three days…” He runs his fingertips along several of the long, hanging leaves, but his movements are erratic, like he is unsure how many more plants he can greet before he has to face Ram.

Then he stands and turns to Ram with the same bright quality of voice:

“Hey.”

Ram brings his chin up in a careful smile he isn’t sure makes it all the way to his lips.

King’s head is tilted in that observing way, apprehensive almost, with eyes that are tiny bit too wide. He looks oddly vulnerable in the hallway of his own apartment.

“Have you eaten?”

Ram nods. Ignores how his heart wants to beat out of his chest.

“I’ve brought so many leftovers from at my grandma’s. It’s like a week’s worth of Tupperware…” He half-laughs and gestures to bag he left next to entrance.

Ram nods again. Takes a step closer to King. He’s not so sure why. He just wants King to look at him, not in that furtive way, but really look at him, so that Ram can see, and so that he can let King know.

He doesn’t know why it feels so strangely urgent, maybe it’s the day of waiting, or the dismissive lightness of King’s voice.

King’s forefinger and thumb rub against each other, and there’s that slope to his neck again, but at least he doesn’t take a step back. His eyes are ever assertive, still glancing, but he has turned his body towards Ram nonetheless.

Ram knows that any inch more will bring him inside King’s space, and he doesn’t want to be invasive, but he wants to be there.

“I think I should put them in the fridge…”

Ram reaches for King’s hand. Puts his fingers around his forearm, stopping him in his motion to go for his bag. King stills. Ram just tightens his grip once, an impulse, a signal, then he makes the circle of his fingers gentle, loose but there, and his thumb draws a caress along King’s skin.

He thinks he feels King shiver. Then King looks at him. The flicker is in his eyes as well.

“Ai’Ning…”

“Why?“

King blinks, a question in the lift of his brows; in the part of his lips. He looks caught and chased and puzzled and knowing at the same time.

“What changed?” Ram’s voice is low even to his own ears. Pleading. And somehow he doesn’t even mean since the text he sent yesterday morning, not since the time they last saw each other, doesn’t mean since the kiss… he somehow means what has changed since that time you put that flower in my hair and told me I’d always be welcome around you. And he wishes he could make King understand what he means. Don’t you want this? Didn't you say you do?

Ram has brought King’s arm in his hand up to their chests, their feet stepping in between each other’s, barefoot toes almost touching. King’s face is so close to his that everything else around him blurs.

Ram sees him trying to make sense, behind those clever eyes, watches his mouth open and close, and open. Huffed bouts of breath trickle along his neck, before King’s voice carries:

“I don’t want to hurt you, and even more, in a stupid way like this!” There’s force behind King’s words at first, but then it stumbles, peters out. “…and, honestly, all it needed was some alcohol, and I was hurting you.”

He swallows, a hitch like a dry laugh to his voice. His eyes are so wide.

“I don’t think… I think I am actually really not good at this?"

A skipped breath, a missed heartbeat.

"I don’t know what I am doing? You deserve-”

Ram seals his lips to King’s open mouth mid-word.

----

He doesn’t even move fast. It's like he’s carried along, inside a shore-bound wave the tide pulled in.

----

King’s eyes flutter closed in reflex, but Ram’s linger. He has to know King is okay. With this.

A sound like pain leaves king's throat, breath pushing out through his nose.

But he stays.

So, Ram kisses him as slow and gentle as he dares, empathically so. His own heart loud and high and wild in his chest.

King’s lips taste different today, with no trace of whiskey. His mouth feels softer, and there is gentle give. It pushes Ram into a rush like sudden falling.

When King shifts his weight from one foot to the other one in between Ram’s stance, Ram keeps him close just by the yielding angle of his mouth.

He brings one hand up to King’s neck, the other lost somewhere in the fabric of King’s shirt. King’s fingers hold fast onto the sides of Ram’s sweater.

When the first kiss stops, King is still almost vibrating inside of Ram’s embrace, breath shaking, although his forehead leans lightly to touch Ram’s.

But it feels like getting there. Somewhere. Better.

Ram decides and searches King's lips again, unhurried as before. King makes a soft sound of surprise and welcome.

And Ram is kissed back. Was before, too, but now it is in every way King’s body makes contact with his, drawing him in, gaining steady momentum.

---

When they pull back for air, just slightly, cheeks and noses keep touching, still nudging, grazing against each other.

This time King’s hand has found its way to the neckline of Ram’s sweater, loosely clinging there. His fingertips draw tiny caresses into Ram’s collar bone, and Ram is reminded of the way King has greeted his plant just earlier, and all those times before: subtle touches, checking up and reconnecting and exploring, and he feels lighter. Despite it all, everything feels lighter.

King’s voice is warm and slightly cracked against Ram’s neck:

“You are… important.”

Ram isn’t sure he gets everything King wants to tell him with those words right now. But he understands the implied ‘to me’.

He nods against King’s shoulder.

As close as they are, it’s just a shifting of their weight, really, to pull each other deeper into their arms.

Notes:

Did I get up yesterday night after already going to bed to write the rough draft of this until 3 am on a work day? Maybe.

Shout at me? Lemme know what you think? <3

Also thank you to @electricunicorn5678 for helping out with the spelling of Ai'Ning <3

#ramking #fic #after season 1 #kingram #feels #kinda angsty at firts but intense later i guess #possibly kisses so yeah

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furuuuba · 5 years

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Understanding the Quiet, a Furuba fanfic

Pairing: Yuki/Machi Rating: E Words: 2,200

Spoiler warning! (And thanks to @machi-kuragi for being a dope beta.)

“I don’t need to extend an invitation,” Yuki said into his phone, a bemused smile on his face and in his voice. “I gave her a key. The invitation is always open.” He heard Machi mutter something barely audible on the other line and his smile grew as Kakeru resumed his frantic shouting.

“Yun-yun, I’m surprised at you. You uncultured cad. If my dearest sister in the world just jettisons off without warning, I won’t have enough warning to come with her! Because you need me there to make sure you have any semblance of fun at college. This is the prime of your life! And all you do is water your plants and tutor delinquent students. You need to experience the world, like a true captain of the School Defense Force would as a diplomat to the world!”

“I’m not tutoring delinquents,” Yuki started to say, but he was interrupted by Kakeru.

“Doesn’t matter. Machi, tell your hopeless boyfriend that he needs both of us there and I don’t want to miss seeing you two reunite after months apart,” There was a muffled sound as Kakeru forced his phone into Machi’s hand.

“I think leaving Kakeru behind sounds ideal,” she said into the phone. Yuki chuckled at overhearing his friend’s protests.

“It does. But I am looking forward to you coming to visit this weekend. The trees on campus are beginning to turn red.”

“And the Mogeta pop-up store?”

“Yes, and the Mogeta pop-up store. When does your train get in?”

“I’m leaving after the student council meeting on Friday, so I probably won’t be in until after seven.”

“Well, I’m not far from the train station. Give me a call and I’ll be there to pick you up.”

Machi didn’t reply as Kakeru had taken back his phone, “Are you guys planning a salacious rendezvous? I know all about those. They say absence makes the heart grow-” Yuki hung up on him.

It was Friday afternoon. Yuki had finished all his homework already and just had one more tutoring session before he was finished for the week. Sakura had requested they meet at his place instead of the tutoring center, due to some obligation immediately after their session, and his apartment was just a couple minutes walk from the train station. The tutoring center was pretty far into town, and she had been so relieved that they hadn’t had to cancel, Yuki didn’t mind hosting, so long as it didn’t become a regular thing.

His apartment’s main living room was pretty tidy, save for the window boxes and potted plants that made up for him not having the space needed for a full garden. His room and kitchen were cluttered at the best of times, though Tohru had at least taught him enough that he took out the trash and sent the laundry out regularly. (The one time he tried doing the laundry himself it resulted in an overflowing washing machine.) So Yuki just made sure to take the trash out and close the door to his room to keep Sakura’s eyes away.

She always seemed to notice every little thing and ask a hundred questions about what he was wearing, what books he was reading, and so many other things he didn’t even know were there to notice. She was nice, but he was there to tutor her, and he wanted the focus to be on calculus and chemistry.

There was a knock on his door at precisely four o’clock. He opened the door to find Sakura smiling brightly. “Hello, Yuki!” she chirped.

“Good afternoon Sakura. Come in,” he said, stepping aside to allow her inside. She slipped off her shoes and pulled a set of keys from her pocket as she did so. “Do you know anything about cars, Yuki?” she asked, spinning the keys around her finger. “I finally got mine all fixed up, and it’s nice to be able to pick up and go wherever, whenever, you know?”

“I’m afraid not. I’ve never had much interest in cars,” Yuki smiled ruefully. “You can follow me. I’ve got us all set up in the living room. Do you want to start with calculus? I remember you mentioned an upcoming test last time.”

“Actually Yuki, I was hoping we could study chemistry,” Sakura said as she sat down at his table, putting down her keys and pulling out her own notes and pencils. The way she stressed her words was... different, but he brushed it off. It had been a long week.

“Okay, that’s no problem,” he assured her, rifling through the textbooks and notes on the table as he put aside the calculus and pulled forward the correct science books. “You should be talking about acids and bases, right?” The look in Sakura’s eyes was almost disappointed, which sent his anxiety spinning, but she smiled and nodded, and he focused on walking her through the lessons, being sure to pull up visual aids when she seemed lost.

Sakura had always been an avidly attentive student, but she seemed almost oppressive with her questions today. She asked about his bookcase and his plants, his table and even the cushions on the floor. Each time, he tried to shift the conversation back to his explanations, but she was so persistent. It was exhausting.

After giving Sakura a couple of problems to work through on her own, he offered to make them some tea, thinking a few minutes to breathe by himself would help. He set the kettle on the burner and prepared the cups, taking a moment to water the small succulent by his sink with a few drops of water. The waxy leaves were firm, and they barely reflected the sunlight that fell on them from the window. Yuki took a deep breath and removed the kettle as it started to whistle, and poured the steaming water over the tea leaves like Tohru had shown him. As he gave the leaves a moment to steep, he repositioned another of his kitchen plants, a fern, out of the direct sunlight and gave it a small sprinkle of water. These leaves were thin and flexible. The rustle when they brushed against his skin was calming.

He could do this. He could withstand another half hour of Sakura’s pointed questions, even if her questions about the photo of him, Kakeru, Machi, and his brother (Ayame had left it there last time he visited, claiming the room needed more roots. Yuki pointing out the half dozen plants in the room had done nothing to change his brother’s mind.) left him uncomfortable with the appraising look in her eyes when he told her about his friend, girlfriend, and brother. It was just a half hour. Machi would be by in a few hours, and the weekend was supposed to have nice enough weather to visit a local orchard.

Yuki checked to make sure the tea was ready, and since he didn’t have a tray, grabbed both cups by hand and walked back out into his living room. The cups were hot, but he could make it to the table.

“Careful, it’s still pretty hot,” he said as he set down Sakura’s cup in front of her, setting his own cup off to the side. He was just reaching for her sheet of paper where he’d written out her practice questions when Sakura grasped his wrist and pulled it against her chest.

“Yuki, I’m sick of playing games,” she said in a husky voice. Her grip on him was tight, and the look in her eyes made his stomach twist.

“Okay,” he said as amiably as he could. “We can move on to calculus?” Sakura smiled a smile that reminded him of cartoon cats wanting to eat cartoon rats as her hand moved up his arm until she held his shoulder. He tried to move away, but her vice grip was strong.

“I’m not talking about the stupid math. I’m talking about chemistry. Our chemistry,” she stressed, moving closer and closer to him with every word. She was practically embracing him, and he began to sweat as his breathing picked up. She noticed, and her smile grew as she lifted a hand to his face, caressing his cheek and jaw as her voice dropped to a whisper.

“I know you’re too polite to make the first move, Yuki. But that’s okay, I’ve read your signs and I know what you want.” She was so close he could feel her breath on his face. He was shock still and as much as he wanted to, his body wouldn’t move. Sakura was leaning dangerously close when an audible click was heard, the front door opened, and Machi stepped through the door.

His girlfriend immediately took in the compromising position of the two of them. She said nothing, and her eyes moved from him, to Sakura, to the tea cups and table of textbooks and notes. Her silence was so long, that it was Sakura who broke the silence, moving away from Yuki as she asked, “Who are you? As you can see, we’re busy.”

Machi held up Yuki’s apartment key. “I’m his girlfriend.” Sakura looked Machi up and down and tossed her glossy hair over her shoulder.

“Well like I said, we’re busy. So if you don’t mind-”

“On my way in, I noticed a car being towed,” Machi said to Yuki, speaking over Sakura. “It was this really nice Mitsuoka, but it had a huge scratch along one side and a missing side-view mirror. Whoever owns it is going to have some trouble getting it back.”

At this, Sakura paled. “What?” she practically screeched, snatching up her keys and bag from the table as she dashed past Machi and out the door, grabbing her shoes on the way. Machi had stepped aside to let her go, unceremoniously closing the door behind her and turning the lock.

She slipped off her shoes and put her bag down before grabbing the biggest plant in the room and walking over to Yuki, who didn’t even notice he was hyperventilating until she put the plant on the table and said “Breathe. Slowly.”

He did, taking in long breaths as he looked at the aralia his fingers automatically moving to pluck away the dead leaves he’d missed last time. When his heart rate was closer to normal, he turned and looked at Machi, who had taken up one of the tea cups and was sipping on it, quietly watching, concern in her eyes. Before he could say anything, she put the cup down. “Are you okay?” she asked quietly.

Yuki let out a choked laugh. “Shouldn’t I ask you that? It must have been a bad thing to walk into. I gave you my key so you wouldn’t have to worry about exactly what happened,” he said, gesturing to his door with a weak wave. “I’m so sorry, Machi. I don’t even know what happened, she just started moving so fast, and I didn’t know what to do.”

Machi nodded and held out her hands. After a beat, he reached out and she took his hands in hers, running her thumbs over his knuckles in small circles. The feeling was repetitive and soothing, and as she kept at it, he felt his shoulders relax. The warmth of her hands grounded him.

“You’re here early,” he said after several minutes of silence. She nodded.

“Student council adjourned early. And after you hung up, Kakeru got it into his head that he needed to visit you this weekend. I came to warn you. Though I think Komaki might be coming with him, so it might not be so bad,” Yuki smiled faintly and squeezed Machi’s hands. When she looked up to meet his eyes, he spoke.

“I really am sorry for that, Machi. Thank you for staying.”

Machi nodded. “Of course I stayed. You were uncomfortable. And the keys on the table were the same as the car on the street. So I got her out.”

“Wait,” Yuki said, thinking back, “I thought her car was being towed?”

Machi offered a wry smile and shook her head. “Nope.”

This time Yuki’s laugh was light and breathy, and it sparked a small chuckle from Machi. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers in a quiet moment of comfortable intimacy.

“Thank you for saving me again.”

“Anytime.”

They stayed like that for a long moment, and then had the tea Yuki had prepared, now at the perfect temperature. Machi broke out some cookies when she looked through his cabinets. She asked him about his plans for tomorrow, and he told her about his favorite ramen place Ayame had discovered during his last visit, and the nearby orchard he’d been hoping to see. She updated him on her plans for college next year and how her younger brother was doing in school how much he loved playing the fruits basket game. And just as they were finishing their tea and talking about heading out to have ramen, there was a strong knock on the door. They both paused when a voice joined the knocking.

“Yun-yun! Open up! I’ve come to join you in your School Defense Force diplomacy mission! And I brought along the fearless Meat Angel to assist us in all decision-making!”

Yuki shook his head and smiled as he stood up and answered the door, welcoming Kakeru and Komaki to his home, Machi at his side.

#fruits basket spoilers #fruits basket #fanfic #yuchi #literally all i seem to write about are these two weirdos #hashtag no regrets because i'm still obsessed

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shercockadoodledoo · 7 years

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ballet shoes and ice skates (9)

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9

also on ao3

On the day before Shion’s birthday, Nezumi signed a contract releasing him from the major motion feature film, Hearts of Ice. He did not owe the production company any money as compensation and was not liable to be sued, largely thanks to Kiyoko, who argued that the money spent hiring Shion to garner publicity had not been wasted – Shion had indeed accumulated a vast amount of publicity and press for the film, largely anticipated in not only the figure skating community, but the LGBT community and supporters throughout the country.

Nezumi had not shot enough scenes for them to be included in the film, but he signed over the few videos that Shion had taken of Nezumi during his own lessons. They’d been meant as tools for Nezumi to look back on and see where his forms and positions needed improvement, but the director said they might be useful in the film as flashbacks to the lead’s past.

Auditions were being held for Nezumi’s replacement. While there were not many actors who looked like Nezumi, a few had similar features that with hair-dye and colored contacts could be cast and still allow Nezumi’s actual footage from his lessons to be used.

“Why do they even want that footage?” Nezumi asked, while Kiyoko pointed to places on different documents for him to sign and date.

“Because you’re a beautiful skater. It’s good footage. Any actor they get isn’t going to skate like that. Using those recordings as flashbacks in the film is a genius move.”

“Was it your idea?” Nezumi asked dryly, signing the bottom of another page, letting Kiyoko flip it over and point to another blank line.

“Of course it was. They ate it up, loved the idea. Helps publicity too – this is actual footage from your lessons under the world’s greatest figure skater. Shion’s voice might even be in some of the clips, the director will be ecstatic. Figure skating fans will go nuts to hear Shion tell you your camel pose is sexy. The videos might be more valuable than you are, kid, and that’s why you’re not being sued. You should be on your hands and knees thanking me for saving your ass.”

“It’s called a camel position spin,” Nezumi said.

“That’s what I said. Initial this one, and last signature here – Good, done. Happy now?”

Nezumi peered up at his agent. They were in his apartment, Nezumi sitting at his kitchen counter with Kiyoko hovering energetically over him. “What happens to you?”

“I get paid a mighty sum for my hard work dealing with your difficult ass.”

“So you should be thanking me,” Nezumi proposed, and Kiyoko smiled, picked up the documents and tapped them lightly on Nezumi’s counter to straighten them into a neat pile.

“That sense of humor of yours never does get old,” she said cheerfully, opening her briefcase that sat on the stool beside Nezumi.

“Have you got a new client?”

“No, but you shouldn’t worry about me. The drama with you is quite famous in the film agency world. I’m a celebrity of my own now.”

Nezumi pushed his bangs from his forehead. “Actors quit all the time, I’m hardly the only one.”

“Actors quit with grace, unlike you. You skipped rehearsals and line readings, made no attempt to understand the plight of your director and cast mates, and I turned your selfish quitting into a glorious win for the film. That’s big news, not that you would know a thing about it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Nezumi said, standing up and stretching his arms over his head, then dropping them and extending a hand to his ex-agent. “Guess this is our tearful goodbye?”

Kiyoko smiled and took Nezumi’s hand. “I don’t think I’ll miss you.”

“Shouldn’t you lie and pretend to like me now that we’re parting ways?” Nezumi asked dryly, shaking the woman’s hand. Her grip was firm, tighter than his.

“To you? I didn’t peg you as someone to want fake flattery. Will you be going back to the New National Theatre?”

Nezumi shrugged, slipping his hand into his pocket when Kiyoko released it. “I’m too late for the current production, and The Nutcracker is already in rehearsal stage, but I’m heading there this afternoon to see if they’ve got room for an understudy. They’ve got auditions for Don Quixote in a few weeks.”

“So everything will go back to normal for you.”

“Looks like it.”

“Doesn’t that seem like a step back?” Kiyoko asked.

Nezumi offered her a wry smile. “Are you done commenting on my life choices? I thought by signing those things I didn’t have to put up with you anymore.”

Kiyoko waved her hand dismissively, picked up her briefcase, and turned from Nezumi, walking to his front door. “All right, I can take a hint. Maybe I’ll go to one of your shows.”

“Maybe I’ll sign your playbook backstage if you ask nicely enough,” Nezumi said, while Kiyoko opened the door.

She laughed, waved her briefcase. “I’ve got enough of your autographs. Goodbye, Nezumi. Good luck with your life.”

She was gone before Nezumi could tell her he’d never believed in luck a day of his life.

For Shion’s birthday, he was sent a total of fourteen succulents.

He, his mother, and Safu opened the packages in Karan’s bakery, which had been closed early for the afternoon. A half-eaten cake still sat on the counter beside the register.

“This one’s so cute,” Safu gushed, holding up a green plant whose leaves were thick with pink tips.

“You can have it,” Shion offered, and Safu quickly placed it on the table beside her plate of crumbs.

“I told you I don’t want your plants, Shion. I’ve watered enough of them in my lifetime.”

“There’s more this year than usual, isn’t there?” Karan asked, holding a plant with a tiny rainbow flag sticking out of the soil beside the long spiky leaves.

Safu plucked out the flag and examined it. “Who knew you’d be a gay icon,” she commented, while Shion blushed.

“I’m not,” he replied, stealing the flag from her and hiding it under one of the packages that another succulent had been shipped in.

“Sure you are. They talk about you at the clinic all the time,” Safu said, a smile tugging at her lips that Shion worked hard to ignore, painfully aware of his mother sitting beside him.

He pushed back his chair, stood up, grabbing the plates off the table as an excuse to escape and hide his embarrassment. He didn’t even know why he was embarrassed. He was twenty-six today – shouldn’t he have outgrown embarrassment by now?

“I’ll just wash these up. Should I put on more tea?”

“I can get it, hon,” Karan said, looking up at him, but Shion squeezed her shoulder.

“I got it,” he said, and walked away before she could object, listening to Safu discuss where they could give away the new succulents as he headed back to the kitchen.

In the kitchen, Shion washed the dishes slowly, reveling in the feeling of the warm water over his hands. He dried the dishes, put on the kettle, and stood looking down at it, not thinking too much about what he was doing when he pulled his phone out from his pocket and typed out a quick text.

Guess how many succulents I got for my birthday.

He reread the text, hovered his finger over the arrow to backspace it all, then sent it instead.

A flash of heat fell through him in a wash, and Shion quickly pocketed his phone, not wanting to stare at the screen as he waited for a reply. He wished the water was already boiled so he could return to his mother and Safu, let them distract him from the regret that hit him all at once, strong and unsteadying.

Guess how many succulents I got for my birthday.

Nezumi drummed his fingers on the counter beside the stovetop, waiting for the water in his kettle to boil. The shock of the text was wearing off, and he found himself trying to guess.

Five, he thought. Ten was far too many. Seven at most.

He glanced away from the text to his own cactus, sitting on the windowsill in his living room. He had spent the entirety of his train ride back to Tokyo on that last day in June setting alarms every ten days to remind him to water this plant. He’d gotten up to seven months in the future by the time the train pulled into Tokyo’s station. In seven months, he assumed, it would probably be instinct to water the thing. He didn’t really know how long they lived, but when he thought about it, he figured it could be forever. Plants didn’t really die of old age, at least, not that Nezumi knew of.

It was later, while Nezumi sat on his couch reading the script for The Nutcracker that he’d gotten from the show’s producer at The New National Theatre – he’d been hired the day before as an understudy after his impromptu audition, much in part because he’d done several productions under the same producer previously – that his phone screen lit up again.

He glanced at the notification. Another text from Shion.

Nezumi sat up. Tucked his thumb inside his script and picked up his phone with his other hand, sliding his fingertip over Shion’s name on the screen.

If Nezumi left it unopened, it could say anything.

Maybe it was the answer to Shion’s challenge – Guess how many succulents I got for my birthday. The text had been sent over four hours previously. It was past midnight now. Maybe Shion didn’t want to wait for Nezumi to guess. He just wanted to tell him.

It could have been something else entirely. Nezumi imagined Shion was in bed, but it was his birthday, after all. He might have been out. Getting drinks with Safu.

That wouldn’t be right. He was in-season, it was unlikely he’d be getting drunk. Still, his next competition wasn’t for another month and a half. He could sacrifice a night.

It could be a drunk text, then. Some senseless rambling. Might not even have been meant for Nezumi at all – Shion certainly hadn’t contacted him since Nezumi left at the end of June, over two months before. Why now? Very likely he was drunk.

But maybe it was meant for him. People did things they regretted when they were drunk. Shion would wake the next morning, hungover, maybe on Safu’s couch. He would look at his phone and remember he’d texted Nezumi something nonsensical, or worse, something sane. Something that couldn’t be passed off as nonsense, something Nezumi would read and know it was true because he felt it too, he had those words too, he just knew better than to get drunk and text them.

Shion might not have been drunk. Might have texted Nezumi sober, but it was middle-of-the-night sober, which was a different kind of sober. Not really sober at all.

Nezumi set his script down beside his leg. Turned his phone over in his hands. Considered what the text might say, what it probably didn’t say, what he’d hate if it said and what he wanted it to say.

He didn’t know what he wanted it to say. The number of succulents, he thought. That would be the best scenario. The safest information, the easiest truth he could take – how many plants Shion had now.

Nezumi put his phone down without opening the text. He picked up his script again, read half a page before he was just looking at the words, not understanding any of it. He kept at it, pretending to read until a little after two in the morning, and then he took his phone and went to his bed, plugging it into his charger. He brushed his teeth, peed, returned to bed, laid down, closed his eyes, and turned over twice before flipping over, grabbing his phone, and opening the text.

Sorry. I know I shouldn’t have texted you. Hope you’re doing all right.

Nezumi rolled over onto his back. Held the phone still, and with his other hand he covered his eyes. He wished he hadn’t opened the text and that in his head, he could have imagined that Shion had said anything to him, anything Nezumi might have wanted.

Shion had gotten to the point where he could land his quad axel about fifty percent of the time within his free skate as the final jump.

He was always left completely out of breath afterward, but it was progress. He increased his work-out regime, hitting the local gym so often he was offered his own pass to use it even after it closed. Shion knew his town supported his figure skating. He was honored to receive the support that they gave him.

By October nineteenth, Shion was on a plane to Moscow with Karan. Safu, who usually came with Shion to his competitions, couldn’t get off work. Shion would be skating his short program in the Rostelecom Cup in two days and his free skate the day after that. He slept for the entire plane ride.

After every competitor at the event had skated their short program, Shion’s scores put him in first. He sat with his mother at the hotel breakfast bar on the morning he was to do his free skate, poking at his blueberry pancake and not thinking of anything until his mother spoke to him.

“Shion.”

Shion glanced up at her.

“Are you going to do the quad axel this afternoon?” she asked.

Shion stared back at his pancake. He’d eaten only half of one. He wasn’t nervous so much as tired. He hadn’t slept much the night before, but then, he hadn’t been sleeping much for months.

“I don’t know,” he answered truthfully.

“I don’t want you to.”

“I know.”

“Shion.”

Shion looked up again. His mother’s eyebrows were creased in concern.

“Maybe you should take a nap before the competition,” she offered, and Shion chose not to argue.

He’d been planning to practice his quad axel at the rink until his free skate, but maybe it’d be better not to tax his body before his program. He stood up, left the table, and returned to his hotel room, where he laid on his bed and stared up at the off-white ceiling.

After a minute or so, he closed his eyes and let himself daydream about Nezumi, the way he sometimes allowed himself – not often, but occasionally. He pretended in his head that they were at the rink, and he was showing Nezumi a scratch spin, the first spin Shion had taught him.

The tighter you keep your arms to your body, the more speed you’ll give yourself.

When Nezumi spun, his bangs, free from their clips, had covered his eyes. Shion had watched him, a blur of pale skin in sweats. Nezumi fell out of it after several seconds of rotations, laughing on the ice, and Shion had stared at him, unsure why Nezumi was laughing but not minding one bit, not telling him to get up and try it again, not wanting him to ever get up at all.

Shion still didn’t know why Nezumi had laughed when he’d fallen. He’d never asked, and in his daydream, he didn’t ask either.

He just listened to Nezumi laugh, a mess of long limbs on the ice, of scattered bangs and the rest of his hair half out of his messy bun.

Sometimes, Shion hated that he had so many memories of Nezumi. It would take him so much longer to get tired of them, of running them through his head, of reliving them. It would take him too long to get over his man, and Shion hated that but loved it too, was so grateful for it too.

When his alarm went off, his cue to get dressed and head to the competition rink, Shion felt as though no time had passed at all. In his head, Nezumi had only just fallen out of his scratch spin and was still laughing, and Shion still felt amazed at the sound.

Nezumi had rehearsal during the free skate portion of the Rostelecom Cup. The competition in Moscow was in the afternoon, but in Tokyo it was still morning, and Nezumi had only been at rehearsal for an hour.

They’d only just begun rehearsals for Don Quixote a few days before after a week of auditions. Nezumi had been cast as the title character himself. The alarm he’d previously set on his phone went off mid-pirouette.

“Whose phone was that?” the producer demanded, while Nezumi stopped his spin and glanced at his wrist before remembering he didn’t wear a watch and never had.

“Sorry, mine,” he said, jumping off the stage and grabbing his phone from the pocket of his jacket, slung over an audience chair.

“Nezumi, I know I don’t have to remind you of our phone policy.”

“It’s the Moscow skating thing, isn’t it?”

Nezumi glanced up at his cast member. Akihiko, a guy Nezumi had been in several productions with.

“What skating thing?” the producer asked.

“Shion’s in it. The world’s greatest figure skater, you know, from here. Japan. He just taught Nezumi to figure skate for that film. You’ve never heard of Shion? He’s like, the country’s pride and joy,” Akihiko continued.

Nezumi silenced his phone.

“Oh, yeah, white hair. You kissed that guy,” the producer said, looking at Nezumi in a sharp way Nezumi didn’t care to read.

“We can pick up at the top of the act,” Nezumi said, pulling himself back onto the stage.

“What, he’s got a skating thing right now?”

“In Moscow,” Akihiko confirmed.

“It doesn’t matter,” Nezumi said.

“You follow this stuff?” the producer asked Akihiko, who shrugged.

“Sure, my wife’s in love with the guy. Shion. She’s all excited that he might do some impossible quad something.”

“Axel,” Nezumi said quietly, unintentionally.

“That’s it. Quad axel. That’s the one.”

“We can take a break,” another dancer in the cast said, while Nezumi strung his fingers through his bangs. “They only skate for like, five minutes, right? Isn’t that your boyfriend?”

“He’s not,” Nezumi said, looking away from the other dancers and his producer. His hand was still in his hair, and he tightened his fingers.

“Let’s take five,” the producer said, while Nezumi exhaled through his teeth.

“I don’t need to – ”

“Take five, I don’t need everyone distracted during rehearsal. Go on, get off my stage.”

The rest of the dancers left the stage, so Nezumi had no choice but to follow. He grabbed his phone from his jacket and made to leave the auditorium, but his cast mates were surrounding him.

“Well? You gotta get to the live feed, right?” Akihiko asked.

“Are you serious?” Nezumi demanded.

Akihiko smiled. “Come on, let us watch too. We all like the guy, he’s a good skater.” Nezumi shook his head, but Shion would be on soon, and arguing would just take up time. He had the website bookmarked, went straight to the live feed and caught the announcer’s last commentary on the previous skater before Shion was skating onto the rink.

Nezumi was acutely aware of the rest of his cast mates huddled around his back, and then Akihiko was grabbing his phone from his hand, holding it out further.

“So everyone can see,” he said, and Nezumi couldn’t glare at Akihiko because Shion’s music had started, and Shion was starting his routine, and Nezumi couldn’t look away from him.

Shion’s short program has him in first amongst the other skaters at the Rostelecom Cup, but the Grand Prix is just getting underway. He’ll have to retain the same excellent performance throughout his free skate, and then he’ll be moving on to Skate America in November where we’ll get to see him impress us again in New York. Moscow seems to have its own set of fans just for Shion – his popularity hardly seems any less here than it was in Manila during the Asian Open just a few months ago. And there’s his second quad of the program, the quad Salchow, gorgeously done, no surprise there, moving into a perfect crossfoot spin.

“This guy taught you to do stuff like that?” the producer asked Nezumi from somewhere to Nezumi’s left, but Nezumi paid him no attention.

Shion continued to skate gracefully, but Nezumi thought his breathing looked more labored than usual, and it was only the start of the second half of his program. He landed another quad, then a back-to-back jump, and Nezumi found himself wishing Shion would stop jumping altogether.

He had too many jumps in his program. He didn’t need them. He could just skate over the ice, no spins or jumps at all, and he’d get the gold. He didn’t need to do anything, and he’d be the most incredible skater to watch.

There was a double Lutz, and then a step sequence, and then Shion was slowing, skating in a long curve around the edge of the rink, and the last quad was next but Nezumi hoped he wouldn’t do it.

A triple instead, like at the Asian Open. Even a double. Just a spin to end the program.

Here comes his last jump. We saw a breathtaking triple Lutz at the end of his Asian Open performance, but we’re all still hoping for that quad axel. There he goes, a forward lift into an axel, and that’s – four rotations! Was that four rotations? I swear, that looked like four rotations to me! The crowd seems to think so too, they’re screaming so loud, and Shion landed it perfectly, is coming to the end now – A quad axel? Did we just witness the very first quad axel of figure skating competition history? But hold on, Shion doesn’t look so – Oh my goodness.

When Shion fell to the ice, Nezumi shouted his name. He reached out, grabbed his phone. Held it closer to his face, stared at Shion’s limp body on the ice and waited for the man to get up, couldn’t hear a thing but his pulse, watched the video pan closer to Shion’s body, and then there were medical personnel skating into the camera’s view, bending over Shion, blocking the camera’s view of him.

“Guys, shut up, we need to hear what they’re saying!” Akihiko snapped, and Nezumi realized everyone around him was talking, but then they weren’t, and Nezumi could finally make out what the announcer was saying.

– just crumbled right in front of our eyes, still no update from the medics, but he doesn’t seem to be stirring, though of course it’s hard to see. There’s his coach and mother Karan skating onto the ice now, the medics are paying her no mind. A stretcher being brought in – Oh dear, this is not looking good, they’re skating off the ice with him – Folks, I wish I had more information to offer, but for now we’re going to ask you to standby and switch over to –

“Nezumi.”

Nezumi wanted to throw his phone when the feed switched to a set of commentators outside the rink. “Fuck, fuck.”

“Nezumi.”

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Nezumi snapped, ripping his arm away from the cast mate whose hand was on his shoulder.

“You can leave,” the producer said, and Nezumi stared at him, tried to focus.

“Hey, come on now,” Akihiko started, but the producer cut him off.

“Go on, do what you have to do. We’ll resume rehearsal tomorrow. If you can’t make it, you call and let us know, and that’ll be fine.”

Nezumi continued to stare. He was aware he was breathing hard. He didn’t know what he had to do. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do. He looked back at his phone and couldn’t see anything. His hand was in his hair and he was aware that he was cursing, made himself stop.

He shook his head. “I’m not – I’m not even – I don’t – ”

Nezumi’s producer’s hand was on Nezumi’s arm, and Nezumi couldn’t jerk away. “I don’t care if the guy’s not your boyfriend, I don’t care if he is. I’ve known you a long time, Nezumi, and I’ve never seen you so scared shitless. So you go do what you have to do, and you’ll have your place here whenever you get back. You’ve done good for this theater, and for me, personally, in all the productions we’ve done together. I’m thanking you now by telling you to get out of here. Understand?”

The producer let go of Nezumi’s arm to push him gently, and Nezumi stepped back, then kept stepping back, then was leaving the theater, feeling numb, unsure what to do when he was outside the building, but there was Akihiko beside him, and Nezumi didn’t realized he’d been following him.

Akihiko was on the phone, and Nezumi stared at him, unable to make out what his cast mate was saying.

He gave up. Looked back down at his phone. Watched the commentator’s lips move. Waited for the cameras to return to Shion.

He was still waiting when a car pulled up, and then Akihiko was pushing him gently. “It’s taking you to the airport, I’ve got one of my buddies heading to your place to grab your passport, he’ll meet you there,” Akihiko said, and Nezumi had no idea what he was talking about, didn’t think, couldn’t think, got in the car and Akihiko closed the door on him and the driver of the car pulled away from the theater.

Nezumi closed his eyes. He felt nauseous, and the darkness didn’t help, but he was certain to open his eyes wouldn’t help either.

Nothing would help, and Nezumi knew that more than anything.

When Shion opened his eyes, Nezumi was staring intently at him, so Shion figured he was dreaming.

An odd dream, because he realized quickly that he was in a hospital room.

“You’re up,” Nezumi said, which was wrong.

“I’m dreaming,” Shion corrected, and Nezumi squinted at him.

“Does your head hurt?”

“I don’t think people can feel pain in dreams. Although there is research disputing that idea, I’ve read about it,” Shion said.

Nezumi continued to stare.

“It’s nice to see you,” Shion offered. “Even if I’ll wake up. I don’t usually dream about you, which is strange, seeing as you take up so much of my conscious thoughts. I daydream about you, though.”

“I think you hit your head,” Nezumi finally said, speaking slowly.

He was holding Shion’s hand, Shion realized. He looked down at it. There was an IV protruding from the back of it. Nezumi’s fingers were long and loosely curled around his own.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Shion said gently, because Nezumi seemed concerned for him, and Shion didn’t want him to worry.

Nezumi’s hand that wasn’t holding Shion’s reached up, touched Shion’s face only briefly before sliding around to the back of Shion’s head. Shion leant into the touch, felt Nezumi’s long fingers drifting through his hair, probing softly as if searching.

“What are you doing?” Shion whispered. Nezumi’s touch felt incredibly real, the way it did when he was awake.

It was occurring to Shion that he was awake after all, but he couldn’t piece together how this could be possible. He was meant to be at the Rostelecom Cup. Nezumi was meant to be gone from his life – or at the very least, in Japan.

“You don’t feel any pain?” Nezumi asked, not answering Shion’s question, but Shion had already forgotten he’d asked one.

“Where are we?” he asked, and Nezumi dropped his hand.

“The hospital,” Nezumi said carefully, and Shion thought the word sounded clumsy on Nezumi’s lips, as if he wasn’t sure how to speak it.

Shion tried to look more closely at the man. Noted that his eyes were a little wider than usual. His skin paler. He looked, to Shion, a little scared, and Shion’s heart beat faster.

He wondered if he were not in a dream at all, but a nightmare. He had a strong suspicion that Nezumi’s nightmares often took place in hospitals.

“Are we awake?” Shion asked, and he watched Nezumi breathe through his open lips, a quick breath, audible.

“Yeah,” he finally said, his voice a little shaky.

“Nezumi.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Nezumi’s hand was in his dark hair, pushing his bangs back.

Shion decided he was awake. They were both awake. Nezumi was scared of hospitals, or maybe scared for Shion, who was in the hospital, or maybe it was both.

He tried to work out how he could be awake. The last thing he remembered was the Rostelecom Cup. His free skate. Exhaustion. Gasping through his skate. Not thinking he’d make it to the end, just wanting it to end, his body searing for it to end. He’d landed his quad axel, he’d finished his free skate, he’d stood still to face the crowd and smile and bow, and then everything was black.

He’d fainted, he supposed. This made sense. The only other option was that he’d been attacked, shot maybe, but that was such a bizarre option that Shion eliminated it.

There was still Nezumi’s presence to figure out.

“Are we in Moscow?” Shion asked. He spoke gently. He wanted to distract Nezumi from whatever Nezumi was scared of.

Nezumi nodded. His fingers moved over Shion’s hand, and Shion looked down at it, watched Nezumi’s thumb rub over the back of his hand, then lift up, touch the tape that held down the IV.

Shion followed the line of his IV. It was connected to a bag on an IV stand filled with clear liquid. Shion pointed at it with his IV-free hand.

“Do you know what’s in there?” he asked. He liked asking Nezumi questions. He loved talking to this man. If he kept asking, then Nezumi would have to answer, and he could never leave.

Nezumi didn’t even look at the bag. His eyes were drifting over Shion’s body and face and never left him. “No,” Nezumi said, while he seemed to be looking at Shion’s neck, then his hair, then his lips. “They told me. I couldn’t understand them.”

“Were they speaking Russian?” Shion asked, tilting his head.

“No. They spoke English and your mother translated for me,” Nezumi said.

Shion looked around the room for his mother, but it was a small room, easy to see that he and Nezumi were alone.

“Why couldn’t you understand my mom?”

Nezumi just shook his head. Exhaled hard. “It sounded like she was talking from a long way away,” he finally managed, his voice a little shaky, and Shion sat up, was glad to find that it was painless to do so, easy to do so.

He reached out, thinking to touch Nezumi’s face, but then he settled on Nezumi’s wrist instead, wrapped his fingers loosely around the pale skin there. He could see Nezumi’s veins beneath his skin, rivers of light green, a map he’d traced before to see where it might lead him.

“I’m okay,” Shion insisted, even though he didn’t know why he was at the hospital in the first place. He didn’t need to know. He felt okay. Even if he wasn’t okay, he wanted Nezumi to believe he was. He wanted Nezumi to feel better. “Everything is going to be okay.”

Nezumi didn’t say anything. His eyes were flickering between Shion’s now, fast and wide.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Shion pressed. He didn’t understand how Nezumi was in Moscow. A plane, he rationalized. That was the way to get to Moscow from Tokyo. Nezumi must have gotten on a plane. Found the hospital where Shion was. Probably used the stairs to get to whatever floor Shion was, Shion knew he preferred stairs to elevators, preferred moving to standing still.

There was still the matter of how Nezumi knew Shion was in the hospital. He must have been watching the Rostelecom Cup. He must have seen Shion black out.

Shion felt better having pieced it together. He did not have to be dreaming. This could be real. There was a way it could all be real, and Nezumi could be sitting beside him, holding his hand with incredibly loose fingers.

“I don’t like hospitals,” Nezumi whispered, only once Shion forgot he’d even asked Nezumi a question.

“Why did you come?” Shion asked, even though he didn’t want to ask it.

He wanted it to be obvious. He wanted it to be expected, that Nezumi would come, but it wasn’t, it didn’t make sense even though Shion wanted it to.

It had been nearly four months since Shion had seen Nezumi. He couldn’t pretend it was normal to see this man no matter how much he wished it was.

“I didn’t want you to wake up alone,” Nezumi said.

Shion didn’t remind Nezumi that he had his mother, that there were other figure skaters at the competition Shion knew and liked who would have accompanied him to the hospital if his mother couldn’t, that Safu might even have flown from Tokyo as well if no one else could be beside him.

Shion did not remind Nezumi that he had so many people who could have been by his side because Shion felt selfish having so many people, and besides, he didn’t want any of them.

He wanted Nezumi.

“I haven’t stopped missing you yet,” Shion admitted, because Nezumi had admitted that he didn’t like hospitals, and even though Shion had already guessed that, he felt it was only fair that he admitted a secret of his own.

He thought Nezumi probably already knew his secret too, anyway.

Nezumi didn’t say anything, but his loose fingers tightened just a little around Shion’s hand.

Shion felt, from where they fell against his palm and the back of his hand, that Nezumi’s fingers were shaking just the smallest bit.

#nezushi #no.6 #no. 6 #if you're wondering how long this fic is gonna be #i can tell you i have no idea #it could go on forever #i could die before it's done #i probably will #it seems likely and also i'm living in gator-land now so it's likely i'll be eaten trying to save my dog from a swamp monster

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lethe-distillery-blog · 5 years

Text

The Philanthropist (4)

I met Rosa the next day, I was still surprised that Gage had gone to his meeting in nothing more than jeans and a tee given that he dealt in multimillion-dollar deals as commonplace as a cashier would handle five dollar purchases but I had to admit to myself, the man looked good in his relaxed attire. He looked, content. I'm sure he was content with the life he had back at home too but here, in the middle of nowhere Mexico, he looked it; I'm not sure how I thought it, maybe a glint in his eye, or the relaxed way he leaned over me to show me different sights and scenes. The local school he had helped rebuild last year after a fire ripped apart the old one, the library, the chapel, the small gathering point that constituted as town hall, senior meeting hall, and center for all festivals. It was really a quaint town, dusty roads that baked dry and cracked, a small convenience store that doubled as a gas station and a small restaurant that he swore he'd have to take me to because it sold tacos that were the best in the universe and he would prove it to me. It had been a nice trip, no mind games, no stress, just a content moment where of us being together as Charles drove us.

Rosa, was a loud, beautifully round woman who I liked immediately though I could only understand about every third word of her English, her skin was a deep caramel though she laughed as we compared shades of skin and I, as usual, looked nearly black. Still though, she was very kind and encouraged me to drink mojitos after I had made the mention I liked them. She was positively magic as she worked at my back. I felt like I was Rice Crispies. My back snapped, crackled, and popped as she worked masterfully with thick fingers on my oiled skin. I couldn't help but groan out in pleasure as she worked, grateful Gage wasn't here, if he felt one-tenth of the pleasure I did, I think I wouldn't have been able to resist the sounds of his own. "Senior Gage brought you?" Rosa had taken to using short sentences and had smiled understandingly as I apologized profusely for not knowing Spanish. I liked the woman and felt horrible for not knowing how to communicate with her properly so she didn't feel like a small child. Still though, there was a gleam in her eye as she spoke, and I had a feeling she liked that she could speak English, a showing off perhaps.

"Yes." I too tried to speak more simply, and perhaps put a little more emphasis on each word, clearly defining it as it's own standalone feature. "Gage brought me here, I have always wanted to visit."

"Much strange," I heard her mumble before she cracked my back and made me hiss out in a pleasured pain as I relaxed.

Oh gosh, that had been aching since I had helped Hannah pull her bike out of our small shed last summer. I practically melted into a puddle, I could see why Gage liked the woman, she was funny, kind, and had a talent like no other when it came to massages. Still though, what she said piqued at my curiosity. "Why," I moaned as she worked out a knot, oh gosh, could I kidnap this woman? "is that strange exactly?"

Rosa mumbled something in Spanish clearly troubled, arguing with herself over something. "Senior Gage said he come to be alone." Really? I felt odd about that, like I was somehow invading Gage's privacy even though he had invited me to come with him. Rosa shut down after that and wouldn't answer me as I pressed for details. After a few long minutes of fruitless attempts, I changed the topic, but still, I was only half there. Still trying to figure out the strange creature that was my brother-in-law.

Charles came and picked me up at around one, he smiled knowingly as I limped towards the car and he helped me in. He was rather spry for how old he was. "Don't worry, you'll feel better in an hour or two." I mumbled something that could vaguely be construed as a thank you before he set me in the chair. I felt drunk, and granted, I had drunk a half dozen mojitos but I knew that most of it was from Rosa, My muscles felt like loose rubber bands, barely able to support my own weight. It felt so damn good. Charles graciously helped me onto the sofa and handed me the remote, brought me a glass of water, and left. I assumed he had helped Gage with this many a time. I had asked to lie there with the intent of surfing the channels but before I could stop myself, and before I knew it, the world faded into blissful black oblivion.

I came awake slowly to the sight of Gage sitting and reading a book at the kitchen table. The domestic feeling was not lost on me and I moved quickly before that thought could take root any further than a brushing of consciousness. Gage set his book down immediately as I stirred and came over with a wry smile. "Rosa get her hands on you?" I groaned as I tried moving, everything felt heavy and impossible. He laughed at my misery. "Yeah, Charles told me he had to help you inside," of course he did, "she does the same thing to me, reduces you to a puddle. Honestly, I just sleep there for a couple hours, it beats trying to move afterward." I couldn't agree more, yet I couldn't even summon the energy to open my mouth. He lifted me gingerly to a sitting position and looked me over, "do you think you can move?" I moved, it took a great deal of effort but he nodded in satisfaction. "Alright."

Before I even knew what he was doing he picked me up with a startling amount of ease, and with the greatest care, to tuck me against his chest. I melted there, I could lie to myself and say that it was because I couldn't have refused even if I wanted to, that I was too tired, that there was no point in trying. But if I wanted to be honest with my feelings, to examine them closer than I actually wanted to, it was because I didn't want to move, I breathed in the scent of man and spice, a succulent combination of clean masculine power. He must have taken a shower when he got home, the clock read three as we passed it, good. I had only been out a couple hours.

I was honestly surprised when he set me down on my bed and a trickle of fear flashed down my spine, I looked up at him, mouth open but no words coming out. Gage smiled, the greens of his hazel eyes flashing like emeralds in firelight. "Later." He made it sound like a promise as he kissed my forehead with a tenderness that floored me. So instead, he sat me on the edge of the bed and went over to my suitcase. No, no no no. He opened it up and rooted around. My heart was in my throat, he couldn't find the lingerie, he couldn't. I made a sound to try and stop him but he completely ignored me. Instead, he came back and I was instantly relieved at the sight of the black fabric. Instead of my lingerie in his hand, he had my bathing suit, thank the gods I had considered using the mineral bath tomorrow so I had left it near the top of the bag. "Put this on, and don't worry, I won't watch this time." He winked, and set the scraps of material into my hand before he exited the room. No idea why it mattered to me so much that he hadn't seen the lingerie when he was likely going to get just as much of an eyeful with my bathing suit. Permission and societal ideologies I supposed.

It took a long few minutes for me to get myself undressed and I was exhausted by that alone, pulling on my bathing suit afterward was a brand new level of hell. I could even get the tie on the back, my arms were so weak they felt like jello, and it was starting to hurt. Tears pricked my eyes, my muscles feeling like they were on fire. I looked up at a soft knock and Gage pushing it open. "Are you decent."

"Yes." Holy hell, even talking was hard, and my words came out slurred. "I just can't tie the strap at the back."

"I've got it." He moved in slowly, the fabric was modest enough, not quite a one piece but not as revealing as a bikini. I didn't exactly have to tan and worry about lines. My eyes widened as Gage walked in, wearing his own swim trunks, and nothing else. Granted, I had gotten an eyeful when he had stepped out of the shower but in this moment I got an unobtrusive view of a body that had my wicked fantasies written all over it. Holy, good gracious of Mary and baby Jesus. He was an exquisite specimen of male creation. He was lean muscle, not quite a six pack set of abs but it was exquisite and toned features that drew the eye and captivated the imagination. His dark hair dusted his frame, a perfect softness to the hard muscle beneath. I positively licked him head to toe with my gaze, lost to this, to him. Nothing else mattered as he entered the room. The hormonal surges that drew me to him won out over my common sense and I watched the symphonic flow of movement with every step that brought him closer to me. His skin was a light tan, a rich creamy color that had me salivating for a taste of it beneath my teeth. What made it worse was the feral look he gave me, the tenting in his shorts that soothed a part of me that thought I was alone in this madness. With a long, shaking breath and a strength that awed me; Gage, as the perfect gentleman, came and tied the string behind my back. "Comfortable or do I need to adjust it?"

His thoughtfulness touched me. Somehow being, sweet. Behind the public image he presented to the world, I had a feeling that Gage Harrison was a very different creature. "It's good." He smiled knowingly as I paused, "Thanks."

He again lifted me, gentle and tender up against his chest in a bridal carry. I wrapped my arms around his neck with a heroic amount of effort to at least try and be useful, that, and if anyone saw us I didn't want them to think I had passed out or something, that would likely raise a few eyebrows. Gage carried me carefully through the house, resting me on the counter for a heartbeat as he opened the door to the backyard and carried me through into a warm afternoon. Honestly, I felt like a plant, as soon as the sun hit my skin, I felt, human almost. It seeped into my muscles, warming me, strengthening me. But as Gage kept on walking I realized he was heading to the water. I tightened subconsciously. "Sh," he soothed, a hand lightly stroking my back, "It'll help." He sounded so sure of himself that I wanted to trust him, wanted to believe that he knew what he was talking about.

And he did. I moaned out as he walked us into the water, the buoyancy of the water taking the unbelievable strain off my muscles and making me feel like I could finally take a full breath. Being surrounded by Gage there, it made me feel like I was lost in some fantasy. I felt valued here, cherished, that Gage would take care of me, listen to me, and I was wanting to be selfish and hold onto that, experience this man that gave so very much of himself to me and asked for nothing in return. “Gage?” He looked down at me, his eyes so vivid and bright in the sunlight that they practically glowed like a terrarium within the sockets. “Kiss me,” I knew I was wrong, this, was wrong, but I needed him, I needed this.

I saw the tortured look flicker across his features, the pain filling his eyes. “Don’t ask me that, when you know you’ll regret it later.” His denial was ice water on my nerves, quelling everything into sodden steaming embers. “When you want it, and you know that it is in fact what you want. What it is you desire, and not what you are craving.” His words came out raspy, like his voice was being dragged over sandpaper as it exited his mouth. “You’ll know where I am.” I looked up at him startled by his words; I did want him, desperately. But I also knew he was right, in this moment, I was caught up in a fantasy, a fairy tale of what could be and not thinking about the reality that was outside of here, in Mexico, part of me screamed that it didn’t matter, that I wanted to feel like a princess just once, the other part, the saner part, knew that Gage was right, that I could grow to hate myself for even taking that much from him in a moment of passion, or worse. I could grow to hate him.

“Thank you.” It came out as a mumbled whisper.

“Don’t thank me.” I looked up at him and frowned. His eyes flickered, “I want to kiss you Tessiah, I feel it too, but I don’t want you to regret this, me;” he looked down at me, his arms subconsciously pulling me a little closer. “I don’t want you to hate me too.” That simple plea, touched me, deeply.

“I couldn’t hate you Gage,” I reached up, feeling more invigorated but still, I didn’t want to move from his arms. It felt too good to be here, Carson had never really doted on me, in the darker moments of my married life, after we had yelled at each other and gone to bed, I had spent many an hour lying awake with silent tears trickling down my cheeks wondering if he even loved me or if he had stayed because of Hannah, and now Jeremy. The guilt was crushing, and I felt tears trying to form but I blinked them back, hoping that Gage didn’t see them. “I don’t think I could.”

He snorted at me, “You already do. You’ve made that rather clear don’t you think?” Ouch. Warranted, but, ouch. And though I wanted to be angry, to come back swinging with self indignation I realized something, this was hurting him too. His eyes were glassy as I looked into them. “You hate me for my money, for my success. You hate me for what I think of your husband and his family,” again, he didn’t refer to them as his family, his parents. “You hate everything about me, it isn’t hard to see that any time you look at me.”

“Gage.” I cut him off and pressed my fingers to his lips, his words slicing us both to the core, because it was true. Or rather, it had been; but, I was learning a lot about Gage. “I don’t hate you.” His eyes called me a liar but I pushed on. “Not anymore. I don’t think I ever hated you personally if I’m honest. I hated everything you stood for. Yes, I hated you for your money;” the truth was bitter on my tongue as I admitted that I was nothing better than the rest of his family, whether he claimed them or not. “I felt vindicated because you and I aren’t any different, we had the same choices, the same chances. I’m not saying you got lucky because I know you worked hard to get where you did, and I made choices that got me here. Some good, others not so much. See, I hated you because in my mind, I made you out to be perfect. You are hot, you are an asshole when you need to be, you cut off your family and I’m too soft.” I took a long breath, letting out my thoughts in a rush, feeling like if I didn’t get them out now I was going to shut down and not even look at them because I was afraid of what they could mean. “I judged you on my own predetermined facts about you, I saw what I wanted to see, what Carson, Sarah and Parker wanted me to see. But I don’t know you well enough to judge you Gage, I don’t know what your favorite kind of ice cream is, I don’t know if you snore, I don’t even know your favorite color. So who am I to judge you? And what scared me, what frightens me more than anything. Is I want to know you Gage, you fascinate me, intrigue me in ways that Carson didn’t. He was a bounce-back relationship that ended up becoming permanent.” Gods, it felt so fucking good to finally let that out to someone, anyone. “I convinced myself I loved him, and I don’t regret Hannah and Jeremy. I just,” I sighed defeated, “I guess I wanted more in my life that an ex-football star that can’t move on with his life.” I let out the harsh truth that nearly killed me to admit. The thing I didn’t want to see, and spent years ignoring, but as I was with Gage, and having a normal interaction that didn’t involve talking about bygone glory days, it was crushing me.

Gage simply pulled me closer to him, pressing me against his warm skin and holding me there for comfort, and like a true gentleman, not saying a word as I sobbed against him. My tears but drops of saltwater returning to the ocean. I felt broken, and yet I felt whole, feeling warm arms around me instead of cold blankets, I felt the surge of the ocean, a gentle to and fro that rocked me like a parent. And I felt the heartbeat, a strong reassuring thud against my cheek. A silent promise, a silent strength.

I don’t know how long we were there, my letting out six years of pain, shattered dreams, and silent fury out in sobs that felt like they were coming out of my very soul. I wanted to hate Gage for making me feel this pain, for knowing that everything I was doing was wrong. That I likely would be further ahead had I just become a single mother and raised Hannah by myself rather than trying to support Carson and his parents, and two children. I wanted to hate Gage for being so perfectly normal that he showed me what utter shit the people I had chose to surround myself with really were. I wanted to hate him, only because I was terrified that if I couldn’t bring myself to hate him, I would end up loving him.

After a long while, the tears stopped, but Gage didn’t let go of me, he didn’t abandon me to my heartache and lonely isolation. He stayed there and reached out a proverbial hand and said, ‘it’ll be okay, I’m here now.’ He rocked me with the waves, his lips to my forehead, his hand lightly stroking my back. I huddled into him closer, my weakness making me want to crawl inside him, to feel his strength surround me like the ocean water was now. To feel his power around me, and for once, knowing that I could be weak, and that was alright. I was breathing raggedly, my eyes feeling swollen and puffy but my heart, it had shrugged off the weights of responsibility, it had shattered the shackles of guilt, and now. I felt like I could fly. Gage’s soft words were but a murmur in my ear. “Chocolate, yes, and turquoise.”

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