Work Text:
Keiji’s still in the bath when Osamu gets home. He hears the door slam above the steady drip of the leaking showerhead, and he sinks deeper, closing his eyes.
“Keiji,” Osamu calls. His voice falls flat against the bathroom door, barely reaching Keiji where he’s huddled in the bathtub, lukewarm water sloshing over his legs. “Can I come in?”
Keiji draws his legs up to his chest, resting his chin on his knees. Osamu’s been trying to coax him outside for an hour, texting him on and off on his way over, and he can hear the strain rising in his voice. He’d called him after he got off work, worried and soft, but Keiji wasn’t doing any better. It would be easier for them both if he just got up and put on the suit. He’d hung his crumpled dress shirt on the door while he showered to try and get some of the wrinkles out, and now it slumps sadly against the wood, limp in the steam. He knows his cufflinks are on the dresser and his tie is clenched in Osamu’s fist, knows he’s already prepared everything, so why, why, why. Now he’s imagining Osamu’s voice turning frustrated, the tension he must be keeping from him. Why won’t you just get up. Why won’t you stop making a fuss, you’re being ridiculous, come on, Keiji. Stop wasting our time. Maybe dogs do start looking like their owners. Maybe Keiji could turn Osamu cruel, too. Take everything good and soft from him and turn it into something unrecognizable, make it look like himself.
The problem is, Keiji doesn’t know if he can get his feet under him, let alone get up, open the door, and meet Osamu’s worried eyes. Open himself up to the hands that’ll be reaching for him.
There’s no reason for him to act like this and he knows it. But he can’t get up, no matter how sweet Osamu’s voice gets when he pleads. Because he’s pleading now, begging him through the wood, putting his pride aside for Keiji’s mess. Dog at his door. Kind and coaxing.
Get up, he tells himself. Just get up. It’s just a little more.
He scrubs his hands through his hair. Pulls himself to his feet. Puts on the shirt. When he opens the door, Osamu jumps back to avoid being hit. Keiji won’t meet his eyes, gaze settling somewhere between his nose and mouth as he shuts the door behind him. The bath drains slowly behind him in the silence, drain gurgling because he didn’t bother to unclog it.
“You’re shivering,” Osamu says, eyebrows drawn together in concern. He takes a slow step forward, cupping Keiji’s face in his palm. “Baby. Look at me.”
Keiji meets his eyes with a narrowed look, hair dripping on his shirt.
“We don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”
“No,” Keiji snaps, shaking his hand off. “We’re going. It’s fine.”
Osamu just sighs.
“Your shirt’s getting all wet, you’re going to catch a cold.”
“I’ve got a jacket. It doesn’t matter, let’s just go.”
Osamu presses a hand to his side.
“Keiji.”
He doesn’t want to go. He can’t go. But Osamu’s waiting for him. Taking his stiffness, his silences, the cold weapon of indifference that he cloaks himself with. He can’t find it. The bottom of what he wants from Osamu. Just last night, he’d let Osamu hold him close: his open, wet mouth, his fluttering eyelashes, the careful press of his hands as he guided Keiji over him. He puts on his tie.
It’s not so bad after all, for an industry event for stuffy writers. Keiji stands rigidly at the bar, nodding and smiling when appropriate, swirling his wine and fighting the urge to loosen his collar, the itch to smoke. Osamu charms everyone as always, smooth voice and steady gaze. Keiji watches him make nice with his colleagues, tracking the graceful shift of his fingers, his habit of sweeping a hand through his hair. Everyone loves him. How could they not?
They’re quiet on the ride home. The night plunges Osamu’s face into shadow, passing headlights tracing the strong line of his jaw, his firm brow. Keiji doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He wants to reach out despite himself, smooth a thumb over his cheekbone, make him look at him, the way Osamu’s always looking at him. That was how it started, after all. Keiji looking up to find Osamu watching him over the counter of his restaurant, smile warm and pleased as he bit into the fragrant rice, eyes closing briefly with pleasure. Waiting until Keiji finally turned around. Got over himself enough to say, okay. Let’s try. Coaxed him into opening the closed door, pulling the curtains aside. Letting the warmth trickle in until one day he woke up and the room of himself was full of light, dust motes catching the sun between them, specks of fragile sky.
Osamu takes his jacket off for him, hanging it in the closet and brushing a curl of hair out of Keiji’s eyes. He’s still worried, soft mouth tense, so Keiji offers him a weary smile, and Osamu melts, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple.
“Let’s go to bed,” he says, and Keiji slumps forward, pressing his face into his neck, inhaling the clean scent of him.
“Okay,” he agrees, all of the night catching up to him at once. It’s just another day. Tonight, he’ll complain about being cold, and Osamu will complain about the chill of his skin, but he’ll get up to make some tea, and Keiji will drink it in bed while Osamu lays his head in his lap, and Keiji will marvel at the careless closeness of him. Maybe he’ll turn over for him, or maybe they’ll just sleep, curled around each other like commas. Maybe the feeling that he doesn’t believe he can have this goodness will go away. He’s tired of pretending he doesn’t want this. Because tomorrow Osamu will rise with the sun, will call his brother, will make coffee and breakfast, will wake him with a gentle hand in his hair, and the kitchen will be warm, and it’ll smell like miso and rice and fish, and they’ll start again.