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Yotasuke pricks his finger against the thorn of one of the many roses in his hands. For a moment, the pain does not come. Instead, Yotasuke brings his thumb to his lips and presses a soft kiss against the wound. It smears his bottom lip red. Yotasuke smiles.
It is not often that such an effort is given to anyone in Yotasuke’s life. He vaguely recalls the passing of tears, the unconscious rhythm and quiver to his sobs at his mother’s funeral. That had been years ago. Years since the last time Yotasuke had dressed this nice and held such fragile things in the crook of his arms. With some childish demeanour, Yotasuke caresses the petals and parts his lips in an attempt to soothe the flowers. Shh, Yotasuke murmurs to nothing in particular, it’ll be alright.
The last stop is his. Yotasuke steps off the platform and misses a beat—trips on nothing and catches himself moments before impact. A silly mistake, really, but it is enough to send his mind reeling. Perhaps this visit is a mistake. If that had not been enough of a bad omen.
But Yotasuke continues anyways—continues far enough that his heels drag rigid against the wet pavement and his steps fatefully lead him to the studio door. There’s a slight pause before Yotasuke reaches for the handle and he feels as if he may throw up.
There’s no use in knocking. Yotasuke opens the door.
“Yaguchi. It’s cold.”
It’s a poor excuse for a greeting, but Yatora seems to accept it nonetheless. Yatora shows a smile that can only be described as hollow from behind his easel, tilting his head to find a better view of the doorway. Yotasuke has since set the flowers down on a nearby table. The empty vase has already been overfilled with bouquets of all kinds.
“Ah, really?” Yatora mutters, “I hadn’t noticed. It’s been this temperature in here all winter.”
They’re adults now. At least, whatever semblance of the word adult they’ve managed to replicate in the past few months. Graduation had passed as most things did. Yotasuke would not have thought much of it, if not for the sudden revelation that had made itself clear that summer afternoon.
“It’s been long, hasn’t it…” Yotasuke traces the outline of his palm unconsciously, running the same hurt thumb over the creases of his tensed fist. “I thought I’d visit. You know.”
“Or do you just feel bad for a dying man? Just kidding.” Yatora laughs. He’s not.
After those words, there is nothing. Yotasuke notices how empty the studio is—how devoid of personality it has become. When they’d first entered Geidai, had it been this way? Had the walls always bled such an awful shade of white?
“I was just… I was just curious. Curious how you’ve been. Is it a sin to care about you?” And perhaps it is. At least, with the way that Yotasuke laps his tongue over the words and is only just barely able to let go of them—perhaps it really is a sin.
“I only have a month, Yotasuke. Just tell me what you’re here for and leave me alone.”
It must be the first time Yatora has ever said anything this cold, because his voice still wavers with the uncertainty of an innocent child.
“Idiot. Idiot…” Yotasuke clenches his fists a bit tighter. He can no longer tell if the blood he tastes is old or fresh. “You can’t just say that to me. I just…”
…
Calling Yatora had been a mistake. Yotasuke walked the road alongside Yushima Tenmangu mostly alone, counting the number of seconds he’d be able to hold his breath for before giving up out of fear of looking pale (and on a second thought, dying). Student couples walked past in a hurry to put in their last-minute prayers before the start of the new year. Yotasuke caught a gust of perfume and curled his tongue against the roof of his tongue in disgust. Waiting for Yatora had become a chore too, it seemed.
Yatora caught Yotasuke by surprise. It was the boy’s grin that struck Yotasuke first.
“I didn’t expect you to actually come.” Yotasuke had said, truthfully.
“No problem. I would’ve come anyways, even if you hadn’t invited me.” Yatora had said, lying.
They walked like that for awhile, too afraid to say anything yet too frightened to settle with the growing silence. When Yatora had asked if they were friends in order to move the conversation along—what was it that Yotasuke had said? What was it? What was it again?
Ah, of course. How could he have forgotten.
“Not really.”
And what a grotesquely beautiful answer it had been! Yotasuke had only smiled to himself then. It was just like him to drive everyone around him away with just a few words. It was something only he could do properly.
So when the countdown had begun and Yotasuke expected nothing—knew that there would be nothing, anyways, it was almost a surprise to see that Yatora was still standing next to him. And those words—those words that seemed to have been made to fit the shape of Yatora’s lips alone—they wrapped their hands around Yotasuke’s neck and shoved their fingers down his throat. Yotasuke had been defenseless then. He was still defenseless now.
“I like you, Yotasuke. But I also hate you so much that it makes me sick.”
It almost felt like a sin to enjoy those words as much as Yotasuke did.
…
Applying for Geidai at the same time had been Yotasuke’s second mistake. What good would come from such intimate projection? Sooner or later, they’d have to work together for a school project. It only made sense that it would happen now.
“Yaguchi,” Yotasuke said, eyes trained on the ground. A bucket of plaster sat in front of him, untouched. “You remember Ayukawa, right?”
“Oh, Yuka. Yeah, why do you ask? We were classmates for a bit. Wonder what they’re doing now.”
There was something different about the way Yatora had said it. A hidden affection. A certain flair that resembled love too highly.
“Nothing. Just thought that maybe you liked her or something.”
“W-what?”
Yatora dropped his brush. The splattered paint only barely missed his white shoes.
“Well, do you?” Yotasuke had always been selfish. This proved as much.
“I…” Yatora didn’t need to continue. Whatever the answer was, Yotasuke was no longer listening. He picked up the bucket of plaster and began to work.
…
Yotasuke’s third and final mistake came in the form of unspoken words—a mix of longing stares and painful pining that would persist for the next few years. Nights alone were never truly nights alone; if the lust that Yotasuke harboured and hated could truly count as anything but just mere feeling. On the day of graduation, Yotasuke found that statement to be (regrettably) true.
“Hn, Yaguchi,” Yotasuke felt the harsh bite and hot breath on the crook of his neck, “Get up, please. We’ll miss graduation at this rate.”
“Mmm, no. Let’s just stay here. Who cares about graduation?” Yatora smiled. Yotasuke’s skin had already begun to flush a lovely shade of blue.
“Do you even hear yourself right now?” Yotasuke felt a bit sick. “Get up. Please, get off me.”
In the empty halls of Geidai, the only witness to the two’s love affair was god alone. Yotasuke placed a gentle hand around Yatora’s waist—felt a movement of soap-softened skin and blushed at the thought of it all. Was it truly a sin to love like this? To place his passions into something other than art itself?
Yatora took Yotasuke’s lips in his and smiled wildly. It did not matter what any of the two said (although, they both would not dare to disagree)—this was love. That was undeniable.
…
“I just don’t know what to tell you anymore.”
Somewhere along those blurred lines of love, Yotasuke crosses the room and grabs Yatora’s wrist in a bout of anger. An anger that is only justifiable with the greed, hatred, and selfishness that Yotasuke is all too used to betraying as romance. When Yotasuke looks into Yatora’s eyes, there’s this: Yatora is pathetic and tired. How long has he sat here waiting to die?
“You look scared,” Yatora finally says when Yotasuke’s heart is no longer the only thing beating in the room. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault.”
“No, I…” Yotasuke thinks that Yatora’s skin is somehow as rough as the dry canvas. “I’m just worried.”
Yatora says nothing, but the paintbrush in his hand manages to say whatever words unspoken. Yotasuke looks towards the frontside of the easel and can’t help but suck in a shaky, wilted breath. He isn’t sure if he should be counting down the seconds to when he can breathe in next.
“Vanitas. It’s a vanitas painting.” Yotasuke only says. It’s like this that he’s made painfully aware how comfortable Yatora is with his own death. And is Yotasuke willing to accept this as an answer? Is this what he’d come for, all this time?
“Come here.”
Yatora’s smile is empty when he places his free hand on the back of Yotasuke’s head and pulls him close. There’s a kiss on Yotasuke’s closed eyelids and then a gentle swipe to wipe away his tears. Yotasuke’s ears buzz with white noise. He almost wishes that Yatora should die then and there, while his arms are still wrapped around him tight in this odd embrace.
“I hate you so much.” Yotasuke says and lies, “I hate you more than anyone else in the world. Don’t leave me now. If you’re gone, who else could I ever hate as much as you?”
Yatora laughs. It hurts.
“You’re right. Who else?”