Dolce far niente (with me and you)

Sometimes, Tsukiyo felt like he was losing himself.

It wasn’t always this way. Back when he first left the team, all he’d felt was overwhelming relief. Even by his fans, he’d always hated being recognized, being pinned down by excited gazes. Hated having to tease out the emotions on other peoples’ faces when all he’d ever wanted was to focus on the matches. He remembered his first major tournament, the crowd blurring into a screaming, gaping void all through the long walk to the stage. It had been all he could do to keep his eyes forward, his face like stone, hummingbird heart beating a frantic staccato against his chest that faded only when he put on his headphones. His teammates jostled for the attention, teased him for making his pretty face so scarce, but they hadn’t understood that it had been so easy to let himself fade. Disappear. To hold it all in, because Tsukiyo was a strategist, a tactician, but more than that he was part of a team whose success hinged on the whims of its PR and sponsors — on being seen. It had been enough, until it hadn’t been. 

(None of it had ever mattered in the end.)

No one should have been surprised when he’d left, cutting off all of his contacts and starting again. It was just easier, to lose himself in his own little world, surrounded by all of six HD screens and an executive desk. He was anonymous. No one sought him out, and he had no obligation to reply to them if they did. He kept his own hours, slept away the whole day if he wanted to; this had been happening much more often recently, but he couldn’t muster up the effort to care. And then one day he woke up and realized he felt just as empty now as he’d been when he’d let himself be one with the lights and the noise. 

The only times he felt like himself nowadays was when Shion dropped in — a rarer occurrence than when they were children, but still common enough that Tsukiyo sometimes forgot to pick up his clothes before the other Fleuros knocked on the door. Unlike many childhood friendships, they'd never drifted apart, and Tsukiyo was glad for it. Shion didn’t mind his silence, never scolded him for his selfishness in making him do all the talking. His honey-sweet voice filled up the quiet, easy and unhurried, punctuated by a grounding touch to his shoulder or cheekbone. In these moments, Tsukiyo could imagine that it was just the two of them in the world, and instead of dread or numbness the thought brought him unprecedented comfort. The idea of asking Shion to move in with him rose and fell like the tides, warmth blooming in the corner of his heart at the thought of him in the next room, just a phone call away. To have him here always. 

The impulse always faded before it could reach his lips, though. Surely even Shion had a limit to his selflessness. And, though he hated admitting it to himself, Tsukiyo was afraid, less of the possibility of rejection than of what might happen if he accepted. He’d been alone for so long, and the logistics of introducing Shion to the small space he’d carved for himself frightened him. It was far too close, far too personal. After all these years of loving him, it hurt Tsukiyo that he would, could, still dash Shion against his flaws — his need for solitude, the coldness and inertia that always pushed others away. He’d resented everyone else in his life, but he never wanted to resent him, too.

The truth was that Tsukiyo did want his freedom. He knew how selfish he was being, in keeping Shion near, but he could have never brought himself to give him up. Instead he told himself not to ask for too much when the other Fleuros came over, pretended that he didn't look forward to the soft susurrus of his flowers as he walked through the door, and carefully never asked why he wouldn't play the violin. If he leaned into Shion's gentle touches, if he ever signalled that he wanted to spend more time with him, Shion would give up everything else until he was sure Tsukiyo was happy. That was just the kind of person he was. How could he, knowing that, tell him: I think I'm forgetting who I am without you? Tsukiyo wished he could go back to a time before he'd started having these thoughts, when he'd truly believed that his success was sustainable and that other people had his back. That he could be, if not entirely satisfied, at least ignorant of all the ways he'd failed. He wanted to believe that he deserved an untainted happiness. 

But he couldn't, and he didn't, and so Tsukiyo did what he did best: he watched as Shion walked away, and ached.