in things we never said.

If you’d asked him after the fact, Teruo would have told you he had too much to drink.

Yes, it was an answer that would have been a half-truth, a not-quite lie that still felt like one because of how much information had been omitted, but it was an answer nonetheless. ‘Too much to drink’ implied it had been a mistake of the moment, like a glass that had been knocked over with its contents spilled, or a cruel comment that would always have been better left unsaid and spat out mid heated argument.

‘Too much to drink’ would imply that he regretted it, but it was not that simple.

Nothing ever was.

That night was another typical one, at least at first—one of many in their apartment. As a place that was meant to be affordable to college students, it was about what you’d expect—a semi-shitty box apartment barely big enough for two people, which came with a bunch of annoying quirks that may as well have been compulsory at the price point they paid at. Not the worst for a bunch of kids their age, but not much better than that, either.

At least the alcohol was pretty good. One of the handy benefits of having a family that owned a bar, which meant that he always had access—within reason, of course. 

And that night, that night—

Teruo’s pretty sure his hands have never shaken this badly in his life.

The prickling of stubble is the mildest of abrasions against his palm. It’s an odd but not unpleasant sensation, yet it is one both glaringly new and revealingly familiar—at least in the imaginative, fantastical sense. 

Because he’s thought about this. He’s thought about this a lot. In moments where he did not want to. During times where he should be thinking about something else. And most especially in the depths of night herself, where secrets grow in magnitude of presence and dreams, both waking and sleeping, rule. 

Now, undeniably in fact and in front of him: Teruo wants—

An empty bottle of sake remains a lone overseer, long forgotten. Teruo had knocked it carelessly aside earlier, around about when the seemingly lengthy bridge from desire to action was knocked down, ends yanked together. 

Zenkichi tastes like alcohol. 

It’s the sort of realisation that’s heady in nature, one only possible in the sultry realm of tongue and teeth. Teruo’s been here before, of course, in the midst of the intimacy where breaths and bodies intermingle, but this feels different. Never like this. Never so unbearable.

In a niggling restlessness that squirmed inside him, a wordless, terrifying thing of beauty, Teruo could not decide if he feared it bursting out or smothered forever. He could not, and the indecision was one that somehow writhed and burnt in equal measure. 

But he did not want it gone.

Even amid the heavy density of brain fog, the one that made it impossible to think beyond the here and now, he at least knew that much. Perhaps if there were more room, he’d wonder what this meant—for the future, for them, for him.

Perhaps if there was—but there wasn’t, not when whatever little mental function he had left was spent processing the fact that Zenkichi hadn’t pushed him away. There’s a slight hesitancy in the way he kissed him back, but it wasn’t one of reluctance, instead registering as the kind of attentiveness one would give to something new. Something budding. 

He would know if Zenkichi was unwilling. Hell, Zenkichi would probably straight up tell him. But that he wasn’t, and that he isn’t, felt a harder pill to swallow, and Teruo had to wonder when he’d become such a pessimist. (Maybe because optimism required a bravery he did not have yet.)

They had to part at some point. In the light of the living room lamp, dark blue meets dark gray. Zenkichi looks dazed, pupils blown and cheeks flushed, breathing about as breathlessly as Teruo felt. Shit. Shit. 

Then… the doorbell rang. 

In an interruption that Teruo still had yet to decide was well or ill timed, the sound had scattered the haze far quicker than it had settled. Right. They had ordered food to go with their alcohol. 

The sudden lucidity left Teruo feeling bare. It wasn’t regret, not quite, but neither could he think about what just happened, at least not yet, at least not then, so he shoved any and all thought aside. He did, getting up from the couch and clearing a quick space on their coffee table, all without looking at Zenkichi. 

‘I’ll—’ an abrupt cut off. His voice, far huskier than he’d thought it would be, is something he quickly rectifies with a throat clearing. ‘I’ll get it.’ 

Zenkichi hadn’t responded, but then again, Teruo hardly gave him any opportunity to. 

Maybe things would have changed if he did. Or if Teruo had said anything else. Maybe, but years down the road and college years a distant past, that answer would remain lost to time.