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“Yatora.”
There’s a boy in my head. He’s in my hands, in my art, in my dreams. When he first showed up, poking around my brain, it was an unfamiliar, unkind intrusion, like a pin bone in the back of your throat, or a hangnail, or a stomachache. Something that didn’t necessarily hurt, but ached. Slowly, over time and time and time, I think he set up shop permanently in the forefront of my mind. He moved right in, making himself comfortable and refusing to pay rent, with those stubborn wide eyes. Now, there’s no removing him even if I wanted to. I could’ve called him a parasite, but at this point, he might be something closer to a muse. Maybe not. He’s here, and there’s no getting rid of him.
“Yatora, hey.”
There’s a boy in my heart. He wasn’t there originally., but he was there too soon. Back when we weren’t even friends, and we went to the New Years celebration together, and I told him I hated him so much it made me sick. I barely mentioned the second part, which was that I liked him so much that it made me sick. Or, no, rather. At that point, it was less of ‘I liked him” and more of a he had made a home inside my chest, this boy who was basically a stranger, and I had ta sort of pull to him. A desire to know him. A desire to grab him firmly and explain very gently that, hey, when you rip my heart out, please put it back when you’re done, because I didn’t even know I had it in the first place.
“Yatora, are you even paying attention?”
“What? Oh, hey,” I blink back into consciousness to feel a weight on my back. That same boy was right behind me, leaning with his entire chest onto my back, resting his chin on my shoulder, in what would look like an adorable domestic display of affection to any passerby.
There are a few complications with Yotasuke. Unspoken rules, if you will, that I leave alone like a piece of fragile glass art that might shatter if I poke it too much.
Number one. He can call me whatever he wants me. His boyfriend, his best friend, his lover, his classmate. It doesn’t matter. How he refers to me is entirely up to him and depends, apparently, on his whims and the situation. I’m his boyfriend when Murai tries to hit on me. I’m his best friend to his mother. I’m his classmate to my mother. And when we’re alone, I’m anything from a moron and a fucking creep to his.
Number two. Rule number one does not apply to me. I don’t get to refer to him as anything. I’ve asked, and he looks at me like I’ve grown three heads. Anything I do call him is wrong. That’s fine, though. This is all fine. This is all new, so I can’t expect him to have it all figured out, right?
Number three. Similar to the two prior. He can touch me. I can’t touch him.
This is the worst rule because all I wanna do sometimes is grab him and push him against the cabinets and smash our lips together until time and space fall apart and we forget all about weird labels and romance and Geidai and mothers and pressure. Sometimes I wanna hold hands on my terms. Sometimes I wanna do normal touchy couple things, not whatever weird human contact he’s decided is ok for the day.
However. It’s ok. Because if I get to touch Yotasuke at all, it’s better than anything I could possibly ask for. Really, I’m lucky. His touch is liquid silver, some sort of precious metal that I eat right up like a starving beggar. So, if my options are to ask for more and risk ruining whatever it is that we have going on here, or just suck it up and take what I can get, I’ll gladly choose the latter.
Right now is one of those moments. I don’t dare breathe, don’t dare arch my back into his embrace and lean my head back into his shoulders even though I want to so badly that it hurts, out of a fear that he’ll move away. Finally, after holding my breath for an eternity, I slowly start to release it, until I can take tiny, painstaking breaths, hoping he doesn’t notice.
“Y-e-s?” I reply in the most normal voice I can muster. I can feel him furrow his brow, just based on the way his chin moves, but his entire body stays leaning against me, like a snake on a warm rock.
“I want to go out now.”
“Now?” Without moving my head, I tilt my gaze downward to my watch. Ah, I see he’s right. Class ended five minutes ago, and we’re done for the day. I’m the only one who hasn’t packed up my stuff, and the classroom is mostly empty. “All right,” I relent as if I could ever say no. “Where to?”
“There’s a new coffee shop in Shibuya,” he murmurs. “Mom didn’t want to try it, but…”
“You want to go? Of course,” I answer immediately. He nods.
“Let’s go, then.” Just like that, his weight vanishes from my back, and I can breathe properly again. I’ll never get used to that. Any of it, really. How quickly he makes and agrees to plans. How casually he can touch and then not touch. How I let him get away with all of that. Because I do, inevitably, without a doubt. My oils are packed up and in my bag before I can think twice, and I’m following him out of the door, trailing to the side as he does his awkward little shuffle when he’s aware that other people are around, only walking normally when we hit the cool outdoors.
We idly chat about some art project, as if we are really friends. I ignore his brutally honest remarks, and we reminisce about prep school. Once we get onto the subway, I’m reminded of that time we fell asleep on each other after that day in Shibuya. One of the days he said he’d remember ten years from now. I remember how his shoulders felt against mine, how his eyelashes pressed against his cheeks, how peaceful he looked. It’s not a painful memory, for sure. It’s just sort of like him. It hurts, but it would hurt ten times more to see it go.
Maybe I’m making this sound more awful than it actually is. Being with Yota- in whatever sense of the word this is- is one of the best things to happen to me. The day he flat-out told me that he liked me romantically, I couldn’t think straight for a week. I still catch myself staring at him, zoning out, trying to memorize the curve of his cupid's bow or the light glimmering against his collarbones. I know now, that I find him beautiful beyond the way I would find an art subject beautiful. I don’t want to paint him. I want to devour him. And it scares me, and it scares him, I think, so I have to look the other way. It’s not like we’ve been doing this forever. It’s not like either of us has done this before. Well, I’ve done the mindless making out and hooking up. And I’m pretty sure Yota’s been in love before. It only makes sense that coming together wouldn’t go too smoothly.
The train comes to a screeching halt at a station that is not ours, and as he leans against the sudden movement, mittens curled up in his lap, looking fully displeased, I can’t help but want him anyway. This world is so full of fake that sometimes Yotasuke feels like the only real thing in it. He’s never been anything but his authentic self. Never tried to hide his feelings, never tired to pretend to be someone he’s not. Even his flaws, the way he can’t read the mood, his bluntness- he’s aware of them, and he’s either working to fix them or he’s not. It’s not his fault that I often can’t read him, that I often have no idea what he’s thinking. No idea what he would do if I leaned over and kissed him, right here, right now. In front of everyone.
It’s not worth the risk.
***
It isn’t until we are actually on the sidewalk of the Star-Star Cafe that I remember that it is 3pm on a Thursday afternoon, and I am on a daytime date (?) with Yotasuke at a coffee place. Coffee. I am about to reveal my true nature as some sort of freakish bean alcoholic to him, out in the middle of the day, and it’s far, far too late to turn back now.
“What’s wrong? You look sick.” Yotasuke glances me up and down. I hesitate and then shake my head. I can’t say anything now.
“No, no, it’s no problem. Cute cafe. Let’s go in,” is all I manage to choke out. He shrugs and then heads on in, holding the door open with one outstretched hand bhind him. I follow him in, the scent of coffee beans hitting me like a wall. Oh man. This is not going to be good.
The shop is surprisingly crowded, so it takes us a minute in line. I’m not really sure what to order- normally, if I have to get coffee with friends, it’s just at festival booths where there’s only one watered-down option. I don’t know what all these words that end in ‘-ino’ mean.
“I don’t know what to order,” I lean over and whisper. He wrinkles his forehead.
“Eh?”
“I just- I don’t normally- ah, can you just order for me? Whatever you think I’ll like,” my explanation falls flat. He shrugs.
“Ok.” With that, the worker in a purple apron beckons for us to step up. Yotasuke leans forward and gives a complicated set of instructions that I mostly miss. Then, we step off to the side, and I peer over the counter in an attempt to see whatever hell is waiting for me. It’s definitely too late now. Hopefully the drink isn’t too coffee-based, or otherwise, I’m about to get wasted.
“Um, what did you order?” I ask when I see the worker write my name on a cup and begin preparing it.
“I just ordered what I got. Americano with two extra shots. I added caramel to yours” My entire body sags as I watch the worker dump shot after shot into my giant styrofoam cup, too busy wallowing in my own inevitable self-pity to realize that Yotasuke diagnosed me with Sugar Addict. I’m so royally fucked.
At least it tastes pretty good, my addled mind thinks as we grab our drinks and head over for a counter seat, sitting right across from each other. Yotasuke takes off his mittens and delicately folds them on the table, blowing off his drink and wrinkling his nose when a gust of steam hits ihis face. My heart melts a little bit, and I glance back down at my drink. It’s all right. Worth it. At least I have a travel toothbrush in my bag so if I puke it all back up, I can cover the evidence.
Things start blurring together about ten minutes in, a third down with the coffee. It’s so much coffee. I didn’t even realize a human being could produce, sell and then consume this much coffee. It doesn’t even taste good at this point, but everything gets a little bit funnier and a little bit harsher, so I keep drinking.
“Hey. Yatora. You don’t look so good?” I glance up to see Yota’s face spinning in my vision. I giggle at the sight.
“What are ya talking about, silly?” My voice doesn’t even sound like my own.
“Your face is all red…” He genuinely looks at least a little concerned, setting his drink down.
“Maybe I’m just blushing because you’re suuuuuuuuch a sweet boyfriend,” I drawl, wagging a finger at him. His face darkens by a fraction. Uh-oh. I broke rule number one. An alarm goes off at the very back of my mind, but it’s ignored.
“What the hell is wrong with you? What is this?”
“Why? You don’t like me saying that?” I hiccup, putting on a fake pout. My face is starting to feel fuzzy, so I take another big drink. Oh, that doesn’t help. “Oops, I forgot. We’re only allowed to be boyfriends when you say it’s ok.” With that, I lean over and poke him, hard, in the shoulder. He flinches. “Oh, I forgot again. We’re only allowed to touch when you say it’s ok.”
“Yatora, I-”
“Does that seem fair, Yotasuke?” I take another drink, my cup dangling at the tips of my fingers, hiccuping again. “I don’t think it’s fair.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His eyes glisten and his voice is dark and carefully controlled and I don’t think there’s a more foreboding background in the world than Star-Star Cafe at the moment.
“Can’t I just-” I lean across the table, not enough to actually touch him, but close enough where I can smell the coffee on his lips and the taken aback look in his eyes. “Can’t I just touch ya? What’s wrong with that, huh? Do ya not want my dirty hands on ya, or something? I mean, Jesus, Yotasuke, I-”
***
When I come to, I’m clutching the rim of a dirty toilet, vomiting my guts out, so hard I think I can taste it in every pore of my body. I retch again, and by the looks of it, I’ve been doing it for a while. I try to get a grasp of my surroundings, another retch distracting me from my observation. A shiver runs through my body, but then something warm places itself on my forehead. I close my eyes, too busy trying not to collapse, until finally, finally the heaving in my stomach subsides enough for me to wipe my mouth and blink my eyes open. Standing above me, one hand holding my hair back and the other placed on my forehead, is Yotasuke with a grim look on his face. I smile weakly, still holding myself upright.
“Oh. Hey,” I mumble. He gives me a single nod.
“Are you done?” I blink back down at the toilet, and a wave of shame rises over me as I realize I’m actually kneeling on the floor of the fucking bathroom, holding on for dear life to a toilet with vomit still on my mouth. It’s all so gross.
“Uh. Yeah. Sorry,” I whisper, and pull myself up. Like always, my energy is slowly coming back to me, so I make my way out to the sink with minimal help from a resigned Yotasuke as I rinse out my mouth and wash my face. Thank god for the portable toothbrush. When I turn the sink off, I stabilize myself against the counter, taking a deep breath.
“I didn’t know you were- um, allergic to coffee?” He says quietly. “Sorry.” I shake my head.
“No, it’s my fault. I’m not even allergic, I just get like… drunk. I definitely should’ve told you. Sorry. Um, what happened…?” My mind races as I ty to remember. That happens sometimes. Not only can I get super drunk, but I’ll actually black out, and then have little to no recollection of what I said or did, only coming to once I’ve got it mostly out of my system. This was such a terrible idea.
“How much do you remember,” he asks flatly, refusing to meet my eyes. My head is pounding, but I press my fingers to my temples and try to remember. Class… Star-Star Cafe… the drinks.. Then. Oops, I forgot. We’re only allowed to be boyfriends when you say it’s ok.
“Um- I-” I try to find the words while also still trying to remember. It all feels hazy, like a bad dream. Yotasuke wraps his arms around himself, looking anywhere but at me.
“It was pretty obvious you were drunk,” he replies softly. “You got pissed. That we aren’t… proper boyfriends, I guess. Then you got pissed that we only touch on my temrs. You sort of blew up, actually. Saying, um. Saying stuff about rules, and how you feel like you don’t have any control and you hate it. All of this.” There’s a long pause.
“Oh. Oh,” I breath, feeling a burst of shame spark inside me. “Yotasuke, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it-”
“It’s fine,” he brushes me off curtly, as though there isn’t real hurt in his voice. “I get it. I’m- it’s- obvious you did mean it. I just. Sorry. We shouldn’t have tried anyway.” Wit that, he turns sharply, heading for the exit, but I move on instinct, reaching out and pulling him back.
“Yotasuke-!” He freezes, glancing down at my arm on him, and I drop it quickly. “I. Sorry. Please let me explain. Please.” He looks torn, hesitating, but then fianlly, nods and turns back into place, watching me with cautious eyes. I take a deep breath, my head still pounding. “I don’t hate all of this. I love all of this. But oh my god, Yota, I like you so much that it’s driving me crazy, and-” I don’t know if there’s still a little bit of alcohol left in my system or if the exhaustion is just making me particularly brave. “I’m fine with this however you want it. But I want. I want more.”
“More how,” he draws out the question slwoly, and then suddenly, like something struck him, looks away panicked. “I don’t know how to give you more, I can-t”
“No, no,” I shake my head quickly. “Yota. I want. I don’t want to overstep anything, in fact, I’m terrified of that, but I want to touch you.”
“You do touch me,” he grumbles, face shifting into a scowl. It’s a defense mechanism, I know.
“Not like that.”
“Like how?” The word falls out in between the two of us, hitting the ground with a gentle thud. I take a deep breath, and then, lean forward, pitching myself at an angle to fall direcly on him, pinning him between myself and the wall. Tiredness flooding every bone of my body but electricity sparkling along, I sag into him, burying my face into the crook of his neck. I always imagined that, if I ever got to grab him like this, he would feel like art, like a living, breathing sculpture. He doesn’t. He just feels warm, all bone and muscle beneath my hands.
“Like this?” I ask gently, my face muffled by his shirt, wrapping my arms around his back, half-for support, half as just a normal hug. He freezes, stiffening up, and I can feel him arging with himself, the strong urge to pull away, to take back control. “Yota, please,” I choke out. “I gotta, ok?” I know it’s pathetic. I know that it’s so fucking pathetic, this entire encounter, but I cant help it, because he smells like paint and his body is warm and I’m freezing cold, and it’s the first time that I’m actually controlling something between the two of us.
“Oh,” he breaths, his breath tickling my ear, and then his arms come up awkwardly behind me, wrapping around, fingers digging into my shirt. He’s so freaking small.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any of it. It’s just been so fucking frustrating, you know? Like, what’s going on? Are we a thing or not? Do you want me or not?” I pull away a little bit just to wipe my face with my sleeves, crying openly now. Yotasuke’s face is unreadable, but he does stretch up and wipe some of my tears away with his thumb, his eyes peering up into mine.
“I do,” he answers carefully. “I just didn’t know how to do it. I was giving it my best shot. I’m sorry.” I hold back the urge to laugh, because, of course, that’s such a Yotasuke answer. Why would he take any relationship advice from anyone? I’m sure he was just going at it blind, his best if not shitty attempt.
“I need this, ok?” I try to take the pleading tone out of my voice, but it doesn’t work. I grab his shirt a little tighter, re-planting my face into his shoulder. “Ok?”
“All right,” he whispers, and I can feel him rubbing a careful design on my back through my shirt with his fingers. “All right.”
With that, I finally, finally melt fully into his embrace, and he finally holds me with no restraint.