Chapter Text
Tsugino has come to realize that Maeno Aki just might be the cruelest person alive.
Exhibit A: He takes showers with the door open. Unlocked, just barely ajar, steam spilling through the narrow gap, beckoning him like an unspoken invitation. Tsugino will be good and wait in the hallway, boring holes into the door handle with his stare as Maeno hums a little tune.
Exhibit B: He’ll exit all refreshed, hair a wet, sopping mess, towel hung loosely around his body. Too low—just barely concealing his pelvic lines. Maeno will throw him an easygoing smile then, cheeks still flushed pink from the heat, and Tsugino will imagine all the angles in which his teeth could imprint into his flesh.
Exhibit C: Maeno will dare to step closer, the sweet scent of shampoo trailing after him. Dizzying, intoxicating. He’ll make casual conversation about nothing and everything, as if catching Tsugino in the hallway is a mere coincidence while Tsugino stands there, fingers twitching, resisting the urge to shove Maeno onto the couch, rip that towel off of him, and tear a greedy chunk out of his thigh. Tsugino’s breath will hitch at the sight of him, just barely. Maeno won’t notice. Or maybe he does. Maybe he always has.
Maybe that’s the cruelest part of all.
. . .
He doesn't remember when it started—maybe shortly after they began living together—but Maeno insists on sitting down for dinner together every night. Most of the time Tsugino cooks while Maeno cleans. Sometimes Maeno will offer to assist with prep work in the kitchen and those are the nights Tsugino dreads the most. (Their kitchen is small and the close vicinity means Maeno is always within reach. He'll bump into him, apologize for it, and Tsugino will feel the lingering ghost of his body like some curse.)
Other times, they'll simply order in. Maeno will ask what he's in the mood for. The answer in his head never changes: Maeno on Sunday, Maeno on Monday, Maeno on every day of the week, but the answer that leaves his mouth always differs. He's gotten into the habit of noting Maeno's preferences and picking from the ever-revolving list of foods he's partial to.
One night they had hamburgers from the local joint and Tsugino came to learn of Maeno's hatred towards tomatoes. Childish, but also endearing, in its own way. The worker had forgotten to remove the tomatoes from his order as requested, and when Tsugino offered to take them off his hands, Maeno had accepted a little too eagerly. Tomatoes had never tasted so sweet and tender as when he bit into the fruit's flesh that day, savoring the slice as if it had been carved right from Maeno's body itself.
Today, they're having steak. A special occasion of sorts—Maeno has just gotten promoted at the research facility, which is great, except it means extra hours and an excuse for the government to have increased surveillance on Maeno. But extra hours also means less time spent at home with Tsugino, which is, again, great, because time spent with Maeno feels like a neverending test he's always one question away from failing, so sure—this is something to celebrate.
Presently Maeno's rambling about how medium-rare is the only real way to eat a steak. He finds it gross when the juices bleed but firmly believes the meat inside should be nice and pink. When Tsugino asks for his to be cooked well-done, though, Maeno prepares it readily without fuss or judgment. His consideration is a dangerous thing; it makes Tsugino feel special, even when he's not.
Maeno sets the plates down on the table while Tsugino handles the cutlery, and once settled, they sit across from each other, as they often do. The distance isn't nearly enough. Tsugino could still reach over and grab Maeno's hand if he allowed himself to. (He's envisioned it multiple times: how it'd feel to have their fingers interlocked, the slow pull as he brings Maeno's finger to his lips, then into his mouth. He'd lick the tip, make his way up to the ridges. And if he nibbles on it Maeno would allow it like he allows everything else. What is Tsugino even holding back for? He should just take what he wants. Maeno would let him, he would. Isn't that permission enough?)
"Tsugino? Are you okay?"
He accidentally drops his fork. It clangs loudly on the table. "Hm? Yeah, I'm fine. Why?"
Maeno doesn't look convinced. "You just looked... out of it," he says. He points at his hand. "And you're still clenching your fist, even though nothing's in it."
Tsugino resigns his hands to his lap.
"If something's up, you can always talk to me," Maeno offers with that friendly, understanding voice of his. "Not— as your doctor, but as your friend. You know that, right?"
Tsugino nods. The pleasant smile on his face feels almost natural; practice really does make a difference. "Of course. Thanks, Doc."
The rest of the dinner goes smoothly, or about as smoothly as it can go when every night feels like a war: the cutlery the cavalry, the plates the bombs, the food Tsugino's beating heart. Maeno slices into his steak with the razor-clean precision of a surgeon and there's something so oddly erotic about it Tsugino has to excuse himself.
When he returns, he finds that Maeno has left, leaving his dishes rinsed off in the kitchen sink. Tsugino stares at his used plate, the utensils, the bit of sauce leftover on his water glass.
He ambles closer and swipes his finger on the rim.
. . .
Maeno Aki is the devil—he’s the forbidden fruit that always makes itself known. He’s the apple dangling from the tree, the branches, the snake and the venom idle on its tongue. He’s everything Tsugino wants yet cannot have.
So Tsugino does the only thing he can do: he keeps his distance. Maintains a pleasant disposition. Pretends he doesn't crave Maeno like it's not some inherent, inexplicable need that keeps him up at night and jumpstarts his mornings.
If he wants to preserve this idyllic life then restraint, control, and decency must become his new normal. Maeno sure doesn't make it easy for him, though.
Point blank: the door to Maeno's room is open. Maeno’s been working late these past few days; the exhaustion must be making him careless, surely. It’s not an invitation, surely.
How exactly is he supposed to read this, anyway?
From outside his doorway Tsugino can hear Maeno’s soft snores. If he cracks the door open slowly it won't make a sound. (He should really grease Maeno’s hinges so he could avoid that step altogether—Tsugino will have to remember that for later.)
From the entrance, it’s seven steps to the foot of Maeno’s bed. His floorboards are quiet. Tsugino can close the distance in under a minute. Maeno will be peacefully asleep, mouth slightly opened, hair mussed about. He always sleeps with his limbs extended haphazardly, one leg peeking out from under his blanket while his arms remain outstretched like a starfish. It’s a fine sleeping position in the summer, but on colder nights Tsugino has to tuck Maeno under the covers—not that he minds, of course.
A second passes and he enters the room. It feels so natural, almost like it’s his instead of Maeno’s. To be fair, Tsugino’s familiarized himself with it pretty adequately: a few medical books that Maeno keeps on his desk, the pages dog-eared and worn. Chips and crackers and fruit-flavored jellies stashed away in a drawer for easy access. Clothes lazily tossed into the hamper Tsugino got for him, on the request that Maeno stop throwing his clothes onto the floor. It’s a work in progress, that one, seeing as a few stray socks still peek out from underneath Maeno’s bed now.
There are pictures of Natsu and Fuyu preserved and framed on the bedside table, too. Sometimes Tsugino wonders if Maeno would also have him memorialized like that if he were to die before him. Tsugino likes the idea of it, the permanence. Luckily, he likes being in Maeno’s presence even more.
He watches Maeno’s chest rise and fall once he reaches his bedside and it’s a curious thing, really, how hard the desire clutches at him. He’s so close it’d be easy. He could slice Maeno open: through the skin, through tissue, through fat, muscle, and bone. His ribcage would be presented like a silver platter, heart served raw and bleeding. Tsugino would grasp it in his hands and find himself in awe over how soft and warm it is as he presses a kiss to the center, right before sinking his teeth in and taking what's rightfully his—what has always belonged to him.
Something wet lands on Tsugino’s foot and pries him away from the fantasy. He looks down at his sock, at the wet spot growing there and realizes he's been drooling all this time. He wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt as Maeno mumbles nonsense in his sleep.
. . .
Life was simpler before he knew what love was. The revelation of its existence is both Tsugino’s greatest fortune and misfortune; it gives him purpose yet leaves him dry and wanting like nothing else.
He spent much of his life chasing it, desiring it, wanting to understand it, but now that love has taken shape, he has a need he's unable to satisfy. He loves Maeno. Maeno doesn't love him, at least not in the way Tsugino desires to be loved, so he possesses this entire mountainous love he’s unable to show or share and there’s nowhere for it to be packed and hidden away, either. Maeno’s existence serves as a constant reminder of what he wants yet cannot obtain, and maybe it’s pitiful that through it all, Tsugino's just grateful to be in his presence.
Even so, some days are harder than others.
As usual, Tsugino makes pleasant conversation and forces a pleasant smile. Maeno’s shirt collar is loose, one button unbuttoned to reveal the dips of his collarbone. The sight of his clear, unmarked skin is anything but pleasant. Tsugino imagines how it’d feel to have Maeno's bones held between his teeth. He thinks the shape would be perfect for his mouth, practically made for him. He’d teethe at it gently; Maeno would hiss—a sharp but sweet sound. And when he breaks skin, Tsugino would lick at the blood pooling to the surface, leaving the indentations of his teeth behind as a gift.
. . .
Maeno’s been coming back late recently. It’s gotten to the point where he now calls Tsugino to tell him to eat without him, so Tsugino will make himself a simple dinner and leave leftovers for Maeno to reheat when he returns home. Most of the time Tsugino’s still awake to greet him, but tonight, Maeno’s nowhere to be found.
Tsugino takes a seat at the dining table and glances nervously at the clock hanging in the kitchen. 12:04am. Maeno’s never been this late before. Has he even had dinner yet? Some snacks at work, at least?
Or did something happen to him? An accident, or murder, or…
The phone suddenly rings, shocking him out of his thoughts. He picks it up with tense fingers when a familiar voice greets him at the other end of the line.
“Tsugino? Hey, sorry to call you so late.”
“Doc?!” Calm down, relax… “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, just caught up in something at work. I actually have to stay overnight today but should be back by noon tomorrow, probably. Just wanted to let you know so you don’t worry. Sorry if I woke you up.”
Tsugino breathes a sigh of relief.
“It’s okay. I was awake anyway,” he says.
“You’re having trouble sleeping?”
Maeno’s voice changes into that slightly more formal tone he gets when he switches into “doctor” mode. That side of him is nice too, but it feels a little more distant.
“No,” Tsugino lies. “There’s a new book I picked up from the library and I’m almost finished with it. I’ll let you borrow it when you come back.”
“Sounds good! I’ll look forward to it. See ya tomorrow, then. Good night, Tsugino.”
“Good night.”
And when the call ends, Tsugino sets an alarm for early in the morning. He has a book to pick up.
. . .
The rented book sits cold and unused on Maeno’s desk.
He arrives the next day at 6:32pm, slightly sweaty and face redder than normal as he apologizes to Tsugino for being late. Then he coughs into his elbow, and keeping his distance, tells Tsugino he should stay away so he doesn't catch his cold, which is all nice and kind of him except Tsugino couldn't care less about things like that. He has more pressing matters at hand.
Like, for example, how if Maeno really is sick, then Tsugino could nurse him back to health. And if Maeno’s sick, then he'll be helpless, dependent, and unable to fight back in his weak state, which means Tsugino could do whatever he wants. The possibilities are endless. It would be Christmas and New Years and every other significant holiday rolled into one for him, except Tsugino isn't supposed to be allowed to celebrate.
For Maeno's sake, Tsugino hopes his sickness is just a measly, passing cold.