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Since graduating high school, three things have remained the same, despite everything else changing in the way that things do when you grow older.
The first is that Issei still lives in sleepy Miyagi, the pace of things much easier on his anxious mind and the skies filled with endless stars.
The second is that Issei still sees his best friend Hiro every day, this constant fueled by the fact that they’ve shared the same apartment since graduating.
The third is that Issei is rendered completely lonely by the second fact, because he’s a selfish man who has been in love with his best friend since the day they met on their first day of high school.
“Issei!” Hiro barrels through the front door like he does every day, smelling of cigarette smoke and exhaust from his car that looks only a few kilometers from giving up. Issei looks up from his book, his eyes peeking out from behind the thin pages of whatever trashy romance he grabbed from the free books bin at the library. It’s not bad so far, but the characters are a little hard to like. He’s hoping that once he passes the exposition slump it’ll get into something interesting beyond the main character being lonely.
There’s nothing unique about being lonely.
He doesn’t bother responding to Hiro’s greeting past raising his eyes from the pages. He never needs to.
Two loud thumps indicate Hiro’s daily ritual of kicking his shoes off at the wall, the crinkling of his dumb iridescent jacket as he shrugs that off as part of the routine too.
He flops on the opposite side of their couch and starts picking absentmindedly at the lint balls that litter it. Hiro had found the green abomination on the side of the road, and convinced Issei to come by with the funeral home’s van only after he treated it with an anti-flea powder. It still smells like the bitter powder in his opinion, even two years later.
“Ask me how my day was.”
Issei immediately snaps his gaze from Hiro’s listless hands to his face, where barely-hidden yet giddy amusement dances across his expression.
“How was your day?”
Hiro only greets him this way if something truly exciting has happened. He isn’t disappointed.
“Remember Yamato? From my independent art class?” Issei nods. “Well he knows this guy Takeshi, and Takeshi lives in America, and he has this place in New York, right, and Yamato and Takeshi go way back, really, they met back when they were -”
“Hiro.”
“Sorry!” Hiro blinks out of his ramble. “Yamato showed some of my paintings to Takeshi and he said they would be perfect in his gallery. He wants to meet with me to see if I’ll do some pieces for the spring gallery.”
The room goes white and grey.
“Issei?”
“Hiro.”
His best friend’s face is slowly smoothing out into a careful blankness as he waits for Issei’s reaction. Hiro never rushes him, lets him process and compartmentalize and then, once he’s organized all of his thoughts back into their proper boxes, he can finally react.
This time is no different. Issei is terrified of what boxes his thoughts are being organized into this time, boxes with labels like, Hiro is Leaving and It’s Already February.
“That’s amazing!” He slams the boxes shut as he throws down his romance novel, jumping up from the couch and opening his arms.
The relieved smile on Hiro’s face fills his vision before he has an armful of warm, soft Hiro in his tye-dye croptop and ratty jeans that Issei wants to burn.
“I’m so excited!” Hiro’s voice is in his ear, alive and thrumming with obvious anticipation.
Issei swallows the disappointment in his throat, focusing strongly on the beige walls of their apartment to try and calm his wildly circling mind.
“I’ll make dinner,” Issei says to give himself an excuse to pull away from their embrace. Otherwise, it could last for minutes or hours more. Their longest hug record is currently 2 hours and 3 minutes. “To celebrate.”
Hiro beams at him and Issei melts in turn. “Then I’ll pick the music.”
He bounces off to his room to presumably grab his bluetooth speaker and phone charger, since his phone is always running low on battery, while Issei opens the fridge to see what he can make. They have the things for a simple green curry with boiled eggs, one that his parents made often when they were low on groceries, so he grabs the things he needs from the fridge and tries to calm his shit. He opens and closes the fridge door a few more times to make sure he grabbed it all at first before turning back to the ingredients, breathing deeply. Breathing. Breathing.
Just because the guy wants to meet with Hiro doesn’t mean that Hiro has to go to America. It’s likely that they’ll meet over the internet, do everything that way.
Just because Hiro might be going to America doesn’t mean that he’s going to stay there. It’s likely that Hiro will go over for this one event, then come back.
Just because Hiro is growing and finally getting the chance that he so rightfully deserves doesn’t mean that Issei can ruin it for him. It’s likely that one emotional slip-up could ruin everything.
So Issei forces his face back to its impassive resting state, then warms oil in a pan and chops an onion on their cutting mat. As he does that, Hiro slides back into their kitchen on his socks, refusing to walk when “sliding is much more convenient, Issei! And I look badass as hell doing it. Do you think I should get a pair of Heelys?”
There’s already some unidentifiable EDM beat thrumming through the speaker. Hiro’s music taste ranges from polka to SoundCloud rap to Jpop to American rock n’ roll to a few Beatles songs that Issei made him add and even a few songs from Junoon, Issei’s younger brother’s favorite band.
The onion is done, so he slides it into the pan and sighs at the satisfying sizzle. He taps the cutting mat on the side of the pan before putting it back down on the table so he can mince the garlic.
“Can I help?” Hiro doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s grabbing a wooden spoon from their utensil drawer to stir the sizzling onions.
Everything that Hiro does, he does with a complete freedom. There’s a freedom in the way he speaks as he quips fondly at their friends, his smirk running wildly on his face and his fingers running messily through his brightly-colored hair. His rants go on for hours, seamlessly switching between whatever topics pique his interest in that moment to topics that piqued his interest moments before.
There’s a freedom in the way he sings throughout their apartment, letting his hands reach towards the ceiling and his face turned upwards too, feet moving and sweeping Issei into his lilting melodies strung with silly facial expressions in the hopes that he can make Issei laugh and dance with him.
There’s a freedom in the way he draws. He grabs the nearest writing utensil when inspiration hits, scribbling with highlighters on napkins, with pens on the backs of receipts, with knives on cheese, if the moment calls for it. His tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth and his face contorts to match the piece he’s working on.
Right now, he’s dancing with a freedom that Issei himself has never known. Hiro’s thin frame does not lend itself to the booty shaking that he is so intent on emulating, but he doesn’t care that he’s a little offbeat, or that the song has changed to something a little more mellow, or that Issei is trying to record this scene with his mind so he doesn’t forget it.
He brings the wooden spoon to his mouth like a microphone, even though he definitely doesn’t know the words to this song. Issei finds his weird half-singing, half-mumbling terribly charming.
Let it be said that no one has ever claimed that Issei has the best taste in men, himself among them.
“Stir,” Issei commands, adding the garlic, and Hiro gives him that indulgent smile of his and turns back to the cooking food. At some point during their cooking Hiro disappears back into the bedrooms, leaving Issei alone with the music and the food, before he reappears with a crumpled sheet of paper.
“Look what I found!”
Issei turns and immediately dissolves into a fit of restrained chuckles, and Hiro starts to laugh too, tears in his eyes from his huge guffaws at the memories that the paper brings forward. The paper has a drawing of a horse on it, if the weird array of squiggles and lines could even be called that. Issei remembers sitting at their table, years ago, laughing as Hiro tried to draw a horse from memory. Obviously, if this relic is anything to go by, he never got it. Hiro still maintains that a horse is the only thing he cannot properly draw, and it sends Issei into a mess of hysterics every time he remembers it, let alone looks at it.
“Imagine,” Issei manages between the maniacal giggles, “that you get commissioned by the owner of the gallery to do nothing but horse paintings.”
“Oh no,” Hiro snorts in return, wiping tears from his eyes, “that would be so bad.”
Their laughs taper off, clinging to the kitchen walls and hanging heavily over the drawing. “Where the hell did you find that anyways?”
“I was looking for the charger to my speaker and it was in one of my desk drawers!” He points to the playing speaker, and Issei realizes that the red battery light is blinking, indicating that there’s not much battery life left.
Issei shakes his head, amused by his friend. “Go set the table, dinner’s almost done.” Hiro salutes him and does as he says, Issei’s rolling eyes following him.
After a dinner of Hiro talking with his mouth full and getting up twice to change the song, they settle on the couch, curled against each other. “Which one should we watch tonight?” Hiro has one hand wrapped around the remote, the other resting gently on Issei’s arm.
“You pick. We’re celebrating you, after all.” Issei manages to make his voice sound light, and he holds back a sigh when Hiro picks a mindless action movie, something about spies. Hiro settles closely into Issei’s side, pulling his knees up to his chest. Issei’s arm is flung over the couch, behind Hiro’s shoulders, as he sits splayed out and comfortable.
Hiro’s hand on his arm. Hiro’s breath on his neck. Hiro’s thigh pressed against his. Even years later, it’s still intoxicating to be sitting this close to his best friend.
Halfway through the movie, Hiro’s head falls onto Issei’s shoulder. His hair smells like tobacco, dyed a bright pink to match his mood this month. The rise and fall of Hiro’s chest indicates that he’s almost asleep, and Issei lets himself have this moment, brushes his fingers through Hiro’s hair, heart singing when Hiro lets out a happy little sigh.
He wonders if there will ever be a moment when being this close to Takahiro won’t hurt. Issei must be some kind of masochist. He swallows, trying to keep his heart from jumping into his throat.
“Hiro,” he calls out softly as the credits to the movie roll. The sound is turned down and the only light is from the white words on the dark screen and a light post that shines in through their window from the street.
Hiro shifts and mumbles something, eyes blinking awake. He’s not completely coherent, but Issei is used to this. “Come on, it’s time for bed.”
“Carry me?” Hiro whines. Issei is too weak. It’d be funny if it wasn’t so fucking pathetic. He places one arm under Hiro’s bent knees and Hiro’s arms automatically wind around his neck. His other arm goes on Hiro’s back as he hoists him up from the couch. Hiro’s face buries itself into Issei’s neck, his friend’s murmurs becoming incoherent where they touch his skin.
“Hiro,” Issei starts, brave in the cover of the moonlight, “do you ever feel lonely?”
Hiro hums sleepily. The sound of it buzzes on his lips and tingles Issei’s skin. “No, I have you.”
He swallows his guilt. Why can’t he be content with what they have, like Hiro is? Why does he need more? How can he be so selfish?
Issei brings Hiro to his bedroom, letting him tuck himself in as he curls tightly into the blankets. Hiro hums happily, a soft, “Love you, ‘sei,” falling from his lips.
Issei’s heart stutters, like it always does. “Love you too,” he leaves before his voice can catch. It’s pathetic, really, pining hopelessly after his best friend and getting excited at every murmured declaration of love. It’s pathetic because they’ve been saying it for almost their whole friendship. Hiro throws around “I love you”’s like they’re overproduced and he has to find a way to get rid of them.
Issei always found it more difficult to express his love verbally. But never for Hiro. For Hiro, he’ll say those three words until he loses his voice.
“Issei!” Hiro bangs through the door in his usual greeting. Two thumps for his shoes against the wall. Crumple of his jacket.
“Hi,” Issei mumbles back, and he can hear the stutter in Hiro’s movements. It’s usually not a good sign if Issei responds to his greetings, Hiro knows this.
“Hey,” Hiro’s voice is uncharacteristically gentle as he pads his way into the apartment, easing himself onto the couch next to Issei. “Bad day?”
Issei presses his lips together so tightly that he knows his jaw will hurt later tonight. “I don’t know why,” he releases the confession as a long exhale.
“That’s okay,” Hiro grabs the knit blanket from the back of the couch and brings it down to wrap around Issei’s shoulders. Issei takes hold of the blanket and wraps it even tighter around himself. “You don’t have to know. That’s what your therapist said, right? Some days are just bad.”
“Bad. Yeah, some days are just bad,” he repeats. Some days. Like today.
Issei wants to crawl out of his own skin. He hates it when it’s like this, when he can’t get comfortable in his own body, when air feels crushing in his lungs, when he objectively knows that there’s nothing wrong and yet his brain is still telling him RUN! It’s funny, though, because you can’t outrun loneliness. If you try, there’s nothing but more open-armed loneliness to greet you.
“Can I?” Hiro reaches for him, and Issei nods, letting Hiro envelop him in a loose embrace, easy to escape from if necessary.
These days don’t happen as often as they used to, and for that he’s lucky. Hiro learned quickly to adapt, something Issei never asked him to do but is grateful for all the same. It takes someone who truly cares about him to sit with him on his bad days, however infrequent they are.
The loneliness can’t suffocate him when Hiro’s here to hold him up.
Sometimes, in Hiro’s arms, he can even forget that the loneliness exists.
“Would you like a distraction or just some tea?” Issei shrugs. Hiro purses his lips. “Tea it is, then. I’ll be right back.”
Hiro ruffles his hair gently when he stands, and Issei can hear him move around their kitchen carefully, as if any loud noise might startle him. He thinks, maybe, that there’s also a kind of loneliness in being known.
It’s only hours later, when the tea is gone and the sky is dark, when Hiro tells him.
“I’m going to America.”
At the words, the world stops spinning. Issei thinks that being thrown violently against the walls of their shared apartment would hurt less than those four words.
When? For how long? Are you coming back? Will you forget me? Will you miss me? None of those questions make it out of his mouth. His questions all condense into one word: “Oh?”
Hiro rubs the back of his head bashfully, a pleased smile dancing on his face. “Yeah. I would have waited until tomorrow to tell you, you know, but I leave soon, so I wanted to let you know.”
“When?”
Hiro’s grin is a little embarrassed. “Next week?”
Oh. “Oh.” It’s soon. “For how long?”
His eyes are alight with excitement. “A few months while we get ready for the exhibition! Maybe even longer, if I’m lucky!” His grin slips off his face as he studies Issei. “What are you thinking?” Issei holds back a laugh of despair. Hiro always knows when something is wrong.
“I’m happy for you,” Issei manages a frozen smile. It doesn’t make Hiro relax fully, so he tacks on, “Does this mean that you’re gonna send me an annoying amount of tourist pictures?”
Hiro’s grin is back, thank god, and he punches Issei’s arm lightly. “Who do you take me for, a pleb with no social media like you? I’m legally obligated to take tourist pictures for the clout.”
“The clout,” Issei repeats, obvious teasing in his tone. Hiro looks at him righteously.
“The clout!” He announces loudly to their apartment. “It’s all for the clout!”
Hiro continues justifying his obsession with social media while Issei watches him with a distracted smile pasted on his face. As Hiro’s expressions melt seamlessly into each other, outrage and embarrassment and amusement and excitement, Issei realizes that the pit in his stomach is devastation.
What is he supposed to do without Hiro’s easy love? Sure, he might just be visiting America for this gallery, but what about afterwards? What about when he’s asked to do another? And another? And then it’s not worth it to keep flying back and forth and so he moves to America and leaves Issei behind, and he no longer has time to call and Issei only hears his voice in his dreams, but even that fades too?
“Hey,” Hiro cuts himself off, peering at Issei with a gentleness that doesn’t show itself often. “You tired?”
Issei takes it for the excuse it is, but as he and Hiro gather up their tea cups and bowls of rice, he realizes how true it is. He’s exhausted from the long day, from his overly-anxious mind making him shut down and then from Hiro’s news. They say goodnight and Issei goes to his room while Hiro stays behind to do the dishes, so beautiful in the low lighting of their kitchen that it physically hurts to look at him. To look away from him. To look at him.
When he gets to his room he grabs his phone and presses 3 on the speed dial. There’s a click and then a soft, “Hello?”
“Hiro’s leaving,” he says into the receiver, fast and breathless and without any inflection.
Iwaizumi is shocked into a silence that feels heavier over the phone. Issei resists the temptation to drop the new weight that now rests in his hand.
“Where is he going?”
“America. For at least a few months. Maybe forever.”
It sounds like it’s a dramatic exaggeration. It’s not.
“Are you going to tell him?” Iwaizumi finally gets out.
Issei cocks his head, the weight of the phone forgotten in his confusion. “What do you mean?”
“Are you going to tell him about your feelings?”
His heart drops to his stomach, settling there like a lead dumbbell.
“I think that you already know the answer to that.” Yeah. Yeah. Yeah, they all already know the answer.
Iwaizumi’s heavy sigh tells him that his friend already knows the answer.
“Why not?”
Why not, huh? It’s a good question in theory.
Why not tell his best friend that he’s in love with him? It’s quite obvious. But Issei doesn’t say the real reason.
“I think...I mean, I think. I think we’ve just been friends for too long, you know? We’re too comfortable with the way things are. We’ve known each other too long.”
Iwaizumi sighs quietly. “Is that really what you think?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “If Makki asked you right now to go on a date with him, you would say no?”
Issei lets out a frustrated huff. “I didn’t say that.”
Iwaizumi laughs. It’s a sad-sounding huff. “You two are ridiculous.” Silence, for only a short moment. “But then again, you’ve always danced around each other.”
Issei isn’t good at dancing. Not like Hiro. He doesn’t ask Iwaizumi what he means.
The conversation ends, but Issei’s mind is too far away to register their goodbye. He misses Iwaizumi, who’s off being successful and enjoying his life and sometimes checks in on him (if sometimes means every week) and is still a great friend, even hours away.
He plugs his phone in on his dresser and goes back to his bed, shifting one, two, three times before finding a comfortable position. Checks to see if his phone is really plugged in. Shifts. Peeks over at the phone one more time. Flips his pillow.
When Issei finally falls asleep, hours upon hours later, he dreams of dancing with Hiro.
Issei floats through the rest of the week. Logically, he knows it passes like time always does: in a flurry of wasted hours and clocking in and out and Hiro’s singing and the neighbors banging on their walls whenever he gets too loud and off-key. But this week, he counts it in heavy moments between himself and Hiro, in the nights he can’t fall asleep, in the plates of food he throws out because eating loses its appeal.
It’s two days before Hiro is scheduled to get on a plane and leave for America when he suddenly slams his hand on the kitchen table while they’re both eating (well, Issei is picking at his food and waiting for Hiro to get up so he can throw away his plate). “Dammit, Issei, what’s the matter?”
Issei blinks at him, hand stilling around his spoon. “What do you mean? Nothing’s the matter.”
“That’s fucking bullshit.” Hiro’s jaw is set, his eyes blazing with emboldened righteousness. “Your compulsions have been crazy recently.” He isn’t going to let it go. His stubbornness is one of Issei’s favorite things about him, but right now he wishes that anyone else in the world was sitting across the table from him.
“It’s nothing,” Issei insists firmly.
“Why are you lying to me?” Hiro’s voice ticks up on the last syllable, indicating that he’s feeling hurt. Normally, Issei would feel guilty about making Hiro upset. Tonight, he feels vindicated. He glares down at his plate, his jaw working soundlessly for a moment.
“Because you wouldn’t care anyways.”
A broken noise makes its way out of Hiro’s mouth, and Issei can’t stop the knee-jerk reaction that he gives, snapping his head up to look at his friend’s expression. Whatever it was when he made that noise is gone now, replaced by a hardened mask of indignation. Issei sighs and averts his eyes. “I don’t want to fight. Not tonight.”
“So you’re just going to let it fester? You think that’s sustainable, do you?” A huffed laugh escapes from Hiro. “This is just like you, you know?”
Issei blinks rapidly, not sure when the hot prickle of salty tears appeared behind his eyes but angry that it has. “And what is that supposed to mean?”
“You never tell me what you’re really thinking! You think I haven't noticed? That I don’t care? Well fuck you. My problem has never been not caring enough about you. And whatever your fucking problem is, it’s not my fault.” Hiro stands jerkily, grabbing his plate and storming over to the sink, rinsing it off.
“Fuck you,” Issei’s voice is controlled and steady, though he’s not sure how long it will stay that way. “You couldn’t understand what I’m thinking or going through.”
“Maybe if you fucking told me, Issei!” Hiro turns back around, his face open and vulnerable, still full of anger but also riddled with hurt. Hurt that Issei caused.
The guilt makes the hot feeling in his throat intensify, and he swallows thickly. He isn’t sure if it’s the tears or his heart working its way up his throat, but he isn’t eager to find out. “I can’t,” his voice breaks a little, and Hiro’s anger flickers to shock.
“I’m your best friend,” Hiro says. His voice is small. “You can tell me anything.”
Can he? How can Issei articulate how Hiro makes him feel? How can he look him in the eye and tell him that without him, Issei doesn’t know how his world is supposed to continue? That warmth doesn’t exist outside of his gaze? That comfort means nothing without his nicotine-stained fingertips? That laughter that isn’t shared with him doesn’t feel the same? That colors are more dull, that food is tasteless, that music lacks any joy, if Hiro isn’t there to share it with?
“I can’t, Hiro.” Is what comes out instead. Hiro gives him an unreadable look, and it’s been a long time since Issei hasn’t known what he’s thinking. It’s beyond alienating.
“I’m gonna have a smoke.” Hiro pushes past him to go out on their balcony. It’s a clear dismissal. Issei is left standing in their kitchen, alone, and he takes a steadying breath, eyes closed. It’s for the best. This is for the best.
For the best.
He can almost believe the lie.
Hiro apologizes the next morning, and Issei does too. Neither clarifies what they’re apologizing for, but they decide that they don’t want Hiro’s last few days in Japan to be tainted by their fight. But it’s different, the entire day. It’s a Saturday, Hiro’s flight leaving early Sunday morning, and they’re both avoiding each other in the apartment, saying very few words to each other and mostly hiding in their rooms. Issei knows that Hiro is packing in his room, and the thought sends a shooting pain through his chest.
It’s not until night starts to fall again that they find themselves in the kitchen together, heating up leftovers and avoiding eye contact. They watch their food circle in the microwave, the silence new and discomfiting.
“Look, I’m sorry,” Hiro blurts as the kitchen fills with the sound of the microwave beeping. It’s a stark contrast to earlier in the week, when their dinners were permeated with Hiro’s playlists.
“What are you apologizing for?” Issei looks at him with confusion.
“I don’t know!” Hiro throws his hands in the air, then settles them on top of his hair. “But something’s obviously still upsetting you!”
Issei chews his lip. “You’re leaving, Hiro.” He meets his friend’s eyes. “Of course I’m upset.”
“I’m coming back! It’s not like it’s forever!”
Issei turns, opening the microwave and retrieving their food. “You don’t know that. It could be, and you don’t even know it.”
Hiro squints at him. “So what, you want me to not go?” He asks.
Issei turns back to face him. “Of course I want you to go! This is an incredible opportunity for you. You’ve been waiting for this for the longest time. You deserve this.”
Hiro hears everything Issei left unsaid. “But you’re afraid.”
Issei wets his lips. “This could be it. The start of your career. And I’m so happy for you, Hiro. I want you to be recognized for the stunning art you make,” he says.
“You think my art is stunning?” Hiro asks reverently.
“Everything you do is stunning.” The surprisingly honest words shock him.
“Fuck, I love you,” Hiro breathes. Issei squeezes his eyes shut, grounding himself.
He shakes his head. “Please, don’t.” When he opens his eyes, Hiro’s eyebrows are furrowed.
“Don’t what?”
Issei shakes his head. “You’re my best friend, you know that?” He says instead of answering.
Hiro nods slowly. “I’m sorry.”
Issei blinks. Huh? “Sorry for what?”
“I made you uncomfortable. I’m sorry.” Hiro looks rueful. “I just...wow, Issei. You say stuff like that and you expect me to just bounce back and give some kind of normal response. Sorry.”
Wait. “Wait.” Wait. What? “What are you talking about?”
Hiro looks like he’s bracing himself. He laughs humorlessly. “Are we really doing this now?” He rocks back on his heels and laughs again. “I guess so. Uh,” - is he nervous? - “you know how you have to check three times to make sure we turned the stove off before you leave the apartment? Or that you have your wallet? Or that I have my wallet? Or that the lights are off?”
Issei cocks his head at Hiro. “Um, yes?”
Hiro sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I’m fucking this up. Uh. I just...dude I’ve had the biggest crush on you since high school.” He says it one rush, a word vomit that leaves a charged silence in the kitchen.
“You what?”
Hiro is quickly beginning to start on damage control. “And I get it, you value our friendship and I do too! It’s just dumb feelings and I’ll get over them but I just really don’t want you to feel uncomfortable so let me know if you want me to move out or something! I promise I’d never do anyth-”
“Don’t leave,” Issei blurts out.
Hiro pauses, effectively cut off. “Okay, I won’t move out then.” He still looks unsure.
“No!” Issei says, frustrated. “Don’t leave tomorrow. Don’t go to America. I know that I’m supposed to be happy for you and let you fly and grow and be successful, but I’m selfish, Hiro.” Issei can feel a lump of emotion creeping up his throat, but he can’t stop talking long enough to swallow it down. His voice cracks with the weight of it. “I’m so selfish and I can’t stand the thought of you not being here.” His voice is getting louder, the prickling in his eyes almost overwhelming, but he doesn’t move his gaze from Hiro. He doesn’t let the tears welling in the corners of his eyes drop.
“So fuck it. Fuck letting you go. Please, please stay here. I’m so in love with you Takahiro, I’m so lonely without you here, please don’t leave me.”
He can’t decipher Hiro’s current expression, and for one horrible minute he thinks that he just asked Hiro for the impossible.
“I cancelled my flight.”
“What? But...your gallery.”
Hiro lets out a breathy little laugh, and Issei is sure that Hiro is made of stars, that every inch of his skin is a galaxy just waiting to be discovered. “I was going to go through with it, but then I- I thought of you, and I knew I just didn’t want to go if you were still going to be here.” His eyes shine with unshed tears, too. “Did you know that we haven’t been apart for longer than a week for the past seven years?” His laugh is watery. “That’s a long fucking time to be stuck with one person, Issei.”
Issei laughs, too. “Is it bad if I say that I want to spend even longer stuck with one person, if that one person is you?”
“Fuck you, you sappy bastard.” Hiro opens his arms, and Issei falls into them, finally letting the tears in his eyes spill over. He grasps wildly at Hiro’s face, cupping it with a gentle urgency and letting their eyes meet for one second, two seconds, three seconds, before surging in and kissing Hiro like he really was getting on that plane tomorrow.
Hiro tastes like cigarettes and altoids, and Hiro’s hot tears drip over Issei’s trembling fingers.
“I love you,” Hiro murmurs against his lips. He pulls back slightly. “We’re idiots, aren’t we?”
Issei laughs, and Hiro wipes his tears away gently. “Iwaizumi and Oikawa have been telling us that for years.”
Hiro grimaces. “Don’t tell them that they were right.” Then he captures Issei’s lips on his own again. They pause to catch their breath, foreheads pressed together in a moment of intimacy Issei never dared dream of. Every moment before this one, Issei is sure he’s been living life underground. The sunlight feels so good against his skin.
“I won’t let you be lonely ever again,” Hiro whispers to him. “Unless you want to be lonely together. I think that might be nice, too, sometimes.” Issei smiles.
“I’ll hold you to it.”