Chapter Text
The wind is getting stronger. In the span of only a few minutes, it’s gone from teasing gusts to intermittent gales. Adachi’s hair whips at his eyes, the roar of the leaves around them growing louder, more ominous with each passing rush. Too preoccupied with worry over Kurosawa’s sudden dizzy spell, it seems he’s misjudged the proximity of the storm.
Since Kurosawa is laying on him, he’d anticipated that he could gauge Kurosawa’s readiness to walk.
Instead, he’s unintentionally grounded them at the bench— possibly long enough for the impending storm to have caught up with them, because Kurosawa’s fatigue hasn’t abated at all. Flickering pangs of vertigo wash through him each time Kurosawa shifts in his lap.
He’s going to have to make a hard choice.
“Kurosawa,” Adachi says, glancing down at his boyfriend’s pale face. “I think we need to get up. It’s going to start raining if we stay here any longer.”
“Mm?” mumbles Kurosawa from his resting place on Adachi’s thighs. He takes in the urgency in Adachi’s eyes and steels himself, pushing out a shallow breath as he sits up. Both hands are splayed over his face, shielding his expression as he works through the rebalancing of his equilibrium. He seems unaware of how Adachi is hovering at the small of his back, poised and ready in case he starts to waver.
“Still dizzy?”
“I’ll make it okay,” Kurosawa assures, palms braced against his knees as he comes to a shaky stand. Another gust of wind blows in, stirring up stray leaves on the sidewalk. They swirl in the glow of the lamplight, then disappear as the wind carries them farther into the night. Adachi raises an arm to keep his hair from hitting his eyes. Beside him, Kurosawa folds in with a shiver.
That’s hardly promising, thinks Adachi in lieu of a retort, frowning.
“It looks like you don’t trust me,” Kurosawa chuckles. “Carry me instead?”
Flashing back to their time in the sauna, Adachi blanches. He doesn’t work out like Kurosawa does, and Kurosawa is much taller than him, broader and more built. His muscles strain at the mere idea of it.
“I’m not very strong. I’d probably drop you,” he muses, cheeks warming at the thought of Kurosawa in his trembling arms, long limbs tumbling out of his hold, “but if you need me to, I can try.”
In the middle of the pathway, Kurosawa stands with a hand cupping the lower half of his face.
“What’s wrong?” Adachi circles back to where Kurosawa is, “is your fever getting worse?” and as the words leave his lips, he realizes that Kurosawa is blushing.
It still catches Adachi by surprise, that he can draw an expression like this from someone like Kurosawa without meaning to. There’s something delicate about the intensity Kurosawa feels from even the slightest of Adachi’s affections, like each one is something to be savored and teased apart, held close to his heart like something precious. Adachi has never known love at all, much less like this. He doesn’t know how to return Kurosawa’s intensity, only how to collect these moments and mull over them, slowly and steadily letting them meld together into an unshakable fondness.
“No,” Kurosawa says, shaking his head, bringing Adachi back to the present, “nothing like that.” He takes a step forward, and Adachi monitors it carefully, not realizing until he exhales that he’d been expecting Kurosawa to stumble.
When that doesn’t happen, he waits for Kurosawa to catch up, then lets him set their pace as he leads towards the other end of the park and into the start of the residential blocks.
There’s a corner store looming in the distance, and Adachi wonders if he should pay it a visit once he’s gotten Kurosawa settled. He’ll have to see what Kurosawa has already stocked. He has to remember that Kurosawa was the one who filled his medicine cabinets with supplies the last time he had a cold. The chances that his own are empty is slim. Either way, it’s nice to know that the option is there if need be.
A glowing orange hand waits for them on the other side of the street. A few cars pass by, headlights illuminating the asphalt, but the sidewalks are largely empty. Adachi tilts his head up at a fractured rumble of thunder, quickly followed by a distant flash of lightning.
In charged anticipation, they wait.
At the same time the sign flips to green, a single bead of rain splashes onto one of the crosswalk’s thick, white stripes. The first of the storm, it comes with friends. A cool drip of water strikes Adachi across the cheek, followed by another on the crown of his head. By the time they’ve crossed the intersection, steady rainfall has begun over their corner of Tokyo.
Fortunately, just as Kurosawa predicted earlier, he does recognize the area.
He scans the streets for any awnings to walk under, finding none. Of course. Just his luck. Or maybe he’s spoken too soon, because the rain is starting to pick up, falling heavier and faster around them, reminding him that it’s never too late for things to get worse.
Turning back towards Kurosawa, who’s flinching in the battering wind, Adachi shouts, “I think we should run.”
Kurosawa’s expression is hard to decipher. To be honest, Adachi isn’t sure if Kurosawa has even heard him at all.
Sorry, Kurosawa, but you’ll thank me later.
He takes Kurosawa’s rain slick hand in his and starts to run, gripping his palms as tightly as he can. Puddles are already starting to collect on the sidewalk, reflections of blurry lights shimmering amidst the constant disturbance of new rainfall. Their footsteps tear through each watery likeness of Kurosawa’s neighborhood, their single, unbroken form rippling in reflections.
-
Paused in the middle of the stairwell, Kurosawa sneezes. He gives a weighted sniffle, and then repeats the motion of drawing in a great inhale and pitching forward into both hands, flinging beads of water from the ends of his damp bangs.
“Ah,” Adachi frets, finding that once again, his hands are suspended in the space around Kurosawa. Close enough to touch him, but not quite. “You’re completely soaked.”
One hand blocking the lower half of his face from view, Kurosawa fumbles in his pockets for his keys. They’re coming up on his unit.
“So are you. It’ll feel good to dry off soon,” he agrees.
“I can run a bath for you,” suggests Adachi. He glances down and catches a glimpse of Kurosawa unsteadily trying to fit his key into the lock. The urge to step in and offer to do it in his place rises in his throat. He imagines that that’s something Kurosawa would do without question.
“I’m sorry, Adachi.” Kurosawa says ruefully, and with the new acoustics of shelter, Adachi can hear as Kurosawa talks that he’s still out of breath. “I don’t know if I’m feeling well enough for that.”
“That’s okay.” Adachi’s expression softens. Even though it was his idea that got shot down, Kurosawa is the one who looks upset. His downcast gaze is full of remorse, like he’s just said something awful.
Kurosawa pushes the door open and flicks on the main light. Leaning his forearm against the wall, he starts to toe off his shoes. As Adachi is doing the same thing, accomplishing the same goal at twice the pace, he hears Kurosawa gasp with quiet urgency and then flinch with another clipped sneeze.
That’s no good.
Still wearing his wet suit coat and his wet socks, Adachi ventures further into Kurosawa’s apartment, leaving a trail of damp footprints in his wake. It’s been a few months since he spent the night here, but he still remembers the layout.
Once he finds the bathroom, he pulls the nearest towel from where it hangs on the railing and rushes back to where Kurosawa is.
“Here,” he drapes it over Kurosawa’s hair and begins to dry him off, gently patting away all the rivulets of rainwater streaming down Kurosawa’s flushed face.
Instantly, he feels all of Kurosawa’s discomfort. How cold he is. How sick he feels. How uncomfortable and heavy his wet clothes are as they stick to his skin. An apprehension he can’t place. And through all that, his feverish, affectionate wonder.
Adachi is being so gentle with me. The way he’s touching me, it’s like I’m dreaming.
Adachi works with careful diligence, fluffing the towel around Kurosawa’s hair, then against the nape of his neck, and then lightly against his soaked shoulders and back.
“Come sit down,” Adachi instructs, taking Kurosawa’s hand in his. He leads him to the low table in the center of the main room, helping to ease him into a sitting position.
Shivering underneath the towel, Kurosawa glances up at him with glassy, unfocused eyes. His nose is running. A slow, small stream of it escaping his pink nostrils and glittering across his philtrum. He looks so small like this, helpless in a way Adachi had always considered outside the realm of possibility.
It makes Adachi want to wrap him up. Siphon the chill from his bones and watch over him until he’s feeling like himself again.
His mental image of Kurosawa has changed a lot in the past few months. He’d never imagined someone like him would feel such a strong pull to protect someone like Kurosawa either.
“I’ll be right back,” Adachi assures. He places a hand on Kurosawa’s shoulder, letting it linger longer than he intended because Kurosawa’s begun to lean into it.
What? Kurosawa looks at him like nothing else in the room matters, a subtle, wanting shift in his features playing out right before Adachi’s eyes. I don’t want him to go.
“I’m just going to get you a change of clothes,” explains Adachi, withdrawing. He takes a step back, starting to angle himself towards the hall. “You shouldn’t sit in these any longer, it can’t be good for your cold.”
“Oh,” Kurosawa nods after a beat, then he smiles. It reaches his eyes, albeit weakly. “Thank you. Ah, Adachi, wait.”
Tilting his head, Adachi does just that.
“Don’t forget to dry yourself off, too. Otherwise, we’ll both be sick. You can wear anything you find in my closet.”
Adachi’s heart twists. Kurosawa always thinks of me first. He reaches out to give Kurosawa another reassuring squeeze before making good on his words.
Adachi would look so cute in one of my sweatshirts… If the sleeves were too long for his arms, I don’t know if I could take it. Or maybe he’ll wear those pajamas again? I still think about the last time!! He looked just as cute as I thought he would. I still can’t believe-
Right.
He gives Kurosawa a small smile. It’s a good sign that he can still muster this sort of intensity.
He walks towards Kurosawa’s room, and two things happen at once.
Behind him, Kurosawa starts to cough. It’s ticklish and heavy, no doubt something he was waiting for Adachi to leave before indulging in. At the same time, with a wistful heaviness in his chest, Adachi thinks back to the face Kurosawa made just before they entered his apartment.
He realizes it’s the first time Kurosawa has ever told him no.
-
Adachi flicks on the light, letting his shoulders droop. He’s on edge, and fighting the need to shiver himself. He’s been so preoccupied with making sure Kurosawa was alright that it seems all of his own feelings had forced themselves to lie dormant, waiting for the right moment to catch up with him.
This is the first time he’s seen Kurosawa’s room. It’s the first time he’s been over to stay the night since they started dating, and it’s a shame that he can’t drink it all in slowly, spending time figuring out how all of these things fit into who Kurosawa is.
There are potted plants near the windows, lush, well cared for and real. He’d noticed the first time he spent the night that Kurosawa had quite the green thumb. The plants in his room seem even more vibrant somehow, like they’d been tended to for quite some time. There’s a desk with some pictures that Adachi can’t quite make out, and a chair with several shirts slung over the back. In the corner is a bookshelf with a gap in one of the shelves, the nearby volumes slumping towards the empty space.
It’s messier than he expected it to be.
Continuing his cursory assessment, he notices that Kurosawa’s bed is unmade, gray blankets twisted with an empty, curved space on what Adachi can only assume is where Kurosawa sleeps. There’s a broken blister pack on his nightstand, a few mostly empty glasses of water, and a stack of old volumes of Zombie Dead. There are also piles of clothes scattered across the floor. Yesterday’s pants at the foot of the bed, the day before’s a few feet away. Stray socks here, there, and there, lying in limp, black piles near the plants.
Adachi wonders if Kurosawa’s room is always half managed like this, or if the disarray is just another symptom of his oncoming illness.
Speaking of which, Adachi has a job to do. He pulls open the closet door, revealing all of Kurosawa’s neatly arranged clothing.
Instantly, he recognizes Kurosawa’s usual work attire. The outfit Kurosawa wore on their first date. Other stylish pieces that fit him, but that Adachi has never seen. For some reason, that makes Adachi feel self conscious. It reminds him that Kurosawa has an entire life outside of the office that he’s only barely begun to understand.
And you’ll keep learning more, he tells himself, the steady beat of the rain murmuring against the glass behind him. Bit by bit.
He picks out a dark blue sweatshirt for Kurosawa, and an ivory one for himself, followed by two sets of gray sweatpants. Figuring it’s easier if he changes now, Adachi starts to strip out of his wet clothes. He grimaces at the resistance the damp fabric puts up as he peels it off of his skin. It’s madly unpleasant.
There are extra towels near the top, so he reaches for one to dry off better before he slips on Kurosawa’s clothes, catching a glimpse of the pajamas Kurosawa got him. A pattern he’d never thought he’d recognize anywhere, in teal blue and purple.
Wait. Adachi hesitates as he’s pulling the towel down. Purple? He doesn’t remember that. Did Kurosawa get him two? Or had he - Adachi blushes, concealing his face with his palm - had he bought them as a matching set?
Kurosawa is so ridiculous. And Adachi… maybe he’s just as ridiculous, because he’s gone and fallen for Kurosawa anyways.
Once he finishes changing, he gathers Kurosawa’s change of clothes in his arms.
The scent of Kurosawa’s detergent surrounds him, the same one he catches hints of each time they embrace. It’s immensely comforting, something he unabashedly wants to bask in. He pauses just before entering the hallway, bringing his own sleeve closer, just so he can indulge a little longer in the scent.
It’s pure bliss, broken when Kurosawa starts to cough again.
Flinging his arm to his side, Adachi remembers himself. He’s thankful that Kurosawa wasn’t around to see him doing that.
He hadn’t understood Kurosawa very well when they’d first started talking, but he thinks that he gets it a little better now. How silly, how beautiful it is, to love someone.
-
Adachi finds Kurosawa leaning back wearily against the arm of the couch with his knees drawn up. When he notices Adachi getting closer, he smiles.
“You look nice,” says Kurosawa, swallowing with a subtle wince. “That color suits you.”
“You can admire it more after you’ve changed too.” Adachi huffs, holding out the new clothes for Kurosawa. Only the topmost two buttons of his shirt are undone. A half hearted attempt seems to have been made at undoing his tie as well. It loosened at his neck, sitting in a half tangled mess. “Do you need help?”
“If you’re offering.”
Gently, Adachi kneels on the ground and draws Kurosawa’s slender fingers away from his chest.
“Your hands are so cold,” he observes sympathetically. “No wonder you were having a hard time.”
Kurosawa just sniffles and nods.
“Maybe I wanted you to undress me,” he says with a joking flourish that lacks its usual energy.
Adachi hooks a finger into a loose fold of Kurosawa’s tie and starts to pull the ends apart.
Am I really that helpless right now?
Unraveling the rest of the short end from the loop, Adachi whisks Kurosawa’s tie off and sets it on the table. Then, he turns his attention to the rest of the buttons on Kurosawa’s shirt, easing them open, one by one.
Adachi is so close. I can’t believe how careful he’s being. My heart is beating so fast. I… I… ohno-
Despite recognizing the hairpin trigger warning that Kurosawa is about to sneeze, Adachi hardly has time to prepare. He still jolts with surprise when Kurosawa palms him back, hurriedly burying his nose in his shoulder. The concerted, unsuccessful effort at suppressing the intensity of them is something else that isn’t lost on Adachi either. That’s always been a running theme in their courtship- Kurosawa trying and failing to be collected.
Adachi scans the room for a nearby box of tissues after Kurosawa sniffles and it’s heavy enough to indicate their necessity. Being out in the rain certainly hasn’t done him any favors.
Kurosawa coughs from behind his hand, sniffling profusely.
“Those don’t sound very good,” comments Adachi. He sets a box of tissues in Kurosawa’s lap.
“Sorry,” Kurosawa says sheepishly. Their fingertips brush as he grabs the box from Adachi.
What a terrible display. I feel so self conscious. I can’t even look at Adachi right now. I hope he isn’t put off by me.
A swell of vulnerability, as if Kurosawa is preemptively expecting to be hurt, transfers through Adachi’s touch. It feels awful.
“Don’t be,” mindful of how Kurosawa is looking away, Adachi shakes his head. He aims for the gentlest voice he can muster, “Your cold is getting worse.”
The silence that sits between them is uncomfortable.
He isn’t sure what the best course of action to take is. Stay by Kurosawa’s side? Or give him the privacy to change and clean himself up? When he thinks of what he’d want, there’s no question that he’d prefer to be left alone. There are other ways he can make himself useful.
“Where do you keep your medicine?” he asks.
“Ah, in the bathroom cabinet.”
“Okay. Give me a second.”
“Okay.”
Adachi makes his way back to the bathroom. He pulls the cabinets open and scans the small shelves in front of him, feeling once more like he’s peeking into Kurosawa’s private life. He finds an already opened, mostly full package of cold medicine and frowns.
How long has Kurosawa been sick then?
The not so muffled sound of Kurosawa productively blowing his nose reaches him through the open door, a pang rippling through Adachi’s chest in the moment after. There’s something so sad about how hard Kurosawa is trying not to take up space in his own home.
It was the same way at the office, wasn’t it?
With a weary glance back at the hall, Adachi splits off a section from the blister pack, curling his hand around its sharp, plastic edges. He returns to Kurosawa, whose wet clothes have been cast unceremoniously to the side.
“Hey,” he says softly, heart fluttering at the way Kurosawa looks up at him from the couch. Seeing him with a flushed face and a sickly pallor in comfortable clothing feels vulnerable. An unfamiliar need takes root in Adachi’s chest. He aches to have Kurosawa in his arms.
“I brought something for your fever.”
Falling into place beside him, Adachi brushes a hand through Kurosawa’s faintly damp bangs. He leans forward until their foreheads rest together, noting that Kurosawa tenses briefly at the contact before leaning in.
He can’t explain why he does it, where the sudden burst of bravery comes from, but he nuzzles against Kurosawa before pulling away with a solemn announcement.
“Still warm.” He fiddles with the medicine in his hand. “It’s better not to take this on an empty stomach, do you feel up to eating anything?”
“I think so.”
“Alright, good. I’m not even half the cook you are, but I can make you something simple.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Kurosawa murmurs. He lays his arm across the top of the couch and slumps against it. Despite how exhausted he is, warmth for Adachi still shines through his gaze. “Anything you make for me will be good, because you’ll have put your heart into it.”
Amazing. Adachi thinks. Kurosawa really never misses a beat.
Still, he knows that his intuition in the kitchen is lacking.
“You’ll have to get better soon.” Adachi stammers.
“Hm?”
“You’ll have to get better soon,” repeats Adachi, clearer, “so that you can give me some pointers.”
Kurosawa smiles.
“Okay then. It’s a deal.”
The moment makes Adachi feel as if he has the permission to be bold. He squeezes Kurosawa’s hand before getting up once more, for the most part feeling exactly what he expects. Exhaustion, affection, and above all, relief.
-
It comes as no surprise to Adachi that Kurosawa’s food pantry is well stocked. He sees that Kurosawa has dashi packets, miso, and dried wakame, and allows himself a small sigh of relief. Miso soup had always been his plan, and he’s glad he doesn’t have to resort to a back up.
While Adachi is collecting everything he needs, he takes care not to make too much noise. He doesn’t know why it’s so important to him, but he doesn’t want Kurosawa to think he’s making a mess of his kitchen. It matters so much to him that it’s painful to retrieve bowls, chopsticks, even the pot he needs just because of how much sound it creates to do so.
His nerves, it seems, keep resurfacing each time he finds a moment to be alone.
He wants to remind himself that it’s fine, but he can’t even pinpoint the source of his worries. Maybe it’s just the newness of it all. Every touch feels experimental, even Kurosawa overflows with joy at each one. Maybe he’s afraid of how it would feel if Kurosawa were ever to react otherwise. Maybe he’s terrified of his own greed.
He startles when Kurosawa starts to cough again, slowly breathing out through his mouth. Right. That’s right. He can worry about these things later.
-
“It’s delicious,” Kurosawa praises, absolutely delighted after taking his first sip. His entire face is lit up, absolutely beaming with adoration.
Adachi smiles and nods.
The soup is mediocre.
Unfamiliar with Kurosawa’s burners, Adachi had let the broth boil. Consequently, the flavor had evaporated as penance. It’s not like he’s messed up something as easy as miso soup, but still he knows he could have done better.
He doesn’t have the heart to tell Kurosawa about his mistakes, so he just offers his thanks. There’s a small part of him that wonders if Kurosawa is just trying to boost his ego, so he sneaks glances in between his own sips.
Kurosawa, despite looking weary and a little tender, happily spoons the soup to his lips. It’s a slow process, but ultimately he seems at ease with each sip
he takes. Faint smiles ghost across his lips every so often, as if Adachi isn’t in the room with him.
Adachi doesn’t have much to say. He doesn’t want to break Kurosawa from this trance. There’s something mesmerizing about it. He hadn’t realized how rewarding it was, to see someone he loves enjoy a meal he’s made with so much earnesty. No wonder Kurosawa had always wanted to cook for him so badly.
It touches his heart when he gathers their bowls and he notices the flower painted on the porcelain at the bottom of Kurosawa’s, as if it’s telling him job well done.
-
“It's getting late,” Kurosawa starts, sniffling, “I can lay out the futon for you.”
“What are you talking about?” protests Adachi, “You’re the sick one here. Don’t worry about me.”
“You’re still a guest in my home.” Kurosawa pushes his hair back, leaning forward to rest against his knees. There’s a bit more color to his face after eating, but that doesn’t mean he looks well.
“Adachi?” Kurosawa says when Adachi takes too long to respond, a nervous edge in his voice.
Adachi can only blink as he considers what to do next. Truthfully, he wants to spend time looking after Kurosawa. He wants to care for him through the night the same way Kurosawa did for him, but admitting that directly feels too vulnerable somehow, like he’d be pressuring Kurosawa into wanting that too. He’d never even considered that they’d sleep in separate rooms.
He smiles apologetically, not wanting to worry Kurosawa any further.
“You must be getting tired then.” Adachi rounds the table to where Kurosawa is, then extends his hand. “Let’s go to bed.”
“Ah, together? Are you sure?” Kurosawa furrows his brow, following up with a soft, unsure, “You know I have a cold.”
“Yeah,” Adachi nods. “I want to be there if you need anything.”
Color floods Kurosawa’s face. Adachi is sure it has less to do with the fever, and more with Kurosawa’s own bashfulness. Or maybe it is the fever, blurring the lines of Kurosawa’s emotions, forcing them all to the top.
As Kurosawa reaches for his hand, Adachi tells himself that if he finds that Kurosawa would prefer privacy, that he’ll respect it. He’ll make sure Kurosawa is comfortable and then find the right time to slip out. No hard feelings.
Kurosawa’s grip, usually cool and dry, is feverishly clammy.
I’m so relieved that Adachi still wants to stay with me. I was so worried he wouldn’t… I just want him to be next to me. I don’t want to sleep alone. Is that childish? Everything feels better when Adachi is there.
Heart jumping to his throat, Adachi stifles a gasp. Kurosawa’s insecurities are like a vice in his chest, heartbreaking and not meant for him. He squeezes Kurosawa’s hand harder, afraid that if he doesn’t he’ll feel like crying.
-
“Sorry, my room isn’t always this messy,” Kurosawa sniffles, turning away from Adachi to cough. “I’ve been too tired to pick up.
“It’s fine,” Adachi assures him. He waits as Kurosawa gravitates towards the bed, crawling over the impressions left in the sheets to leave room for Adachi to sit down. Adachi shuts off the main light before heading over, leaving them bathed in the soft glow of Kurosawa’s bedside lamp.
“So you’ve been under the weather for a while then?” Adachi pries while Kurosawa settles underneath the covers, half heartedly tugging them up to his chest.
It’s still storming outside, thunder warbling in the distance while the rain whispers at the window. Kurosawa winces as he turns to face Adachi.
“A few days,” Kurosawa admits softly. Unable to help himself, Adachi leans over to fix the blankets. He pulls them over Kurosawa’s shoulders, tucking the edges in. He leaves his hand on the curve of Kurosawa’s back, absently rubbing it up and down as he frowns.
There was so much work to do with that new client. Maybe I’ve pushed myself too hard.
“I’m sorry,” continues Kurosawa, “I know I should’ve told you. I didn’t want to worry you if it wasn’t serious.”
I hope Adachi isn’t upset with me.
“I want to know these things.” Swinging his legs over, Adachi pulls the other end of the blankets over himself, tentatively shifting until he can feel Kurosawa’s knees brushing against his shins. He’s still half sitting, leaning against the headboard.
This is the first time they’ve shared a bed. The first time their bodies have ever been close in this way. He feels stiff, desiring closeness and unsure how to approach it.
“If you’re tired or not feeling well,” Adachi starts, pulling his hands into his lap. He starts to twist the sheets, nervously weathering the silky fabric between his fingertips. He has that tightness in his chest that he gets when words are about to start falling out of him.
“Then I want to make things easier for you. I know you work really hard, Kurosawa, and it’s rare to see you down, but if you are then I want to be there for you. I don’t like to think of you pushing through things alone because you’re afraid you’re going to worry me. I’m your boyfriend now and I really care about you,” Adachi inhales, glancing over to meet Kurosawa’s wide eyes, “so please tell me these things from now on, okay?”
In the few seconds of silence that follow, Adachi feels like he’s hyper aware of every muscle in Kurosawa’s face. He’s ready to overanalyze any subtle shifts, ready to collapse at the first indication that he might have overstepped.
“Okay,” Kurosawa finally breathes. “You’re right.” Weakly, he grasps at the folds of Adachi’s sweatshirt, pulling until he can rest his forehead against Adachi’s shoulder. The pounding ache in his temples translates through his touch.
Hesitant and intentional, Adachi pulls that same arm back and away, wincing with guilt when he feels the flash of Kurosawa’s alarm. He moves closer, placing his arm around Kurosawa’s shoulder to draw him towards his chest. It’s an awkward attempt, and the awareness of that has Adachi’s heart beating faster.
Thankfully, Kurosawa adjusts them. He shifts so that his head is tucked underneath Adachi’s chin, throwing one leg over Adachi’s so that it’s easier to turn his body in. It’s not the first time that Kurosawa has slept with someone like this, Adachi is sure, but he can feel Kurosawa’s nerves, his awareness of their bodies and his unsureness of how they’re meant to fit together, just as clear as his own.
He pulls Kurosawa into him, relaxing as Kurosawa snuggles into him. The urge to kiss every part of Kurosawa within his reach shouts inside of him. The crown of his head, the skin near his lips. His uncertainty is louder. He resists.
“I don’t know why I get so self conscious.” Kurosawa murmurs into Adachi’s chest. Wanting to do something with his hands, Adachi pets Kurosawa’s hair. The movements are gentle and timid, like he’s stroking the wings of a butterfly, perched on his fingertip and liable at any moment to flutter off.
That feels so nice. Adachi is so nervous, I can tell. I love him so much I feel like my heart could burst.
“It’s okay.” Adachi continues to stroke Kurosawa’s hair. People always pay so much attention to Kurosawa. Any tendency to hide these parts of himself would make sense to Adachi. Kurosawa stands out naturally, but that doesn’t mean the spotlight is always welcome.
Kurosawa nods, and then he pulls the collar of his sweatshirt over his nose and jolts with a sneeze in Adachi’s arms.
Adachi flinches in surprise, and then he hugs Kurosawa tighter as he starts to cough. He waits for Kurosawa’s embarrassment to ebb away, then frowns when Kurosawa starts to shiver.
“Are you still cold?”
“A little. Pull me closer?” The familiar, teasing edge to Kurosawa’s tone makes Adachi feel more at ease.
“Closer than you already are?” he smiles. “Come here.”
The moment is so sweet that Adachi almost doesn’t notice the way that Kurosawa’s head spins from such a minimal shift. The heat from his fever burns where his forehead rests against Adachi’s neck.
“Are you tired, Adachi?”
“Not really. Definitely not as tired as you. You should try to get some sleep.”
“Mm. I would’ve liked to entertain you more. It’s not every day we get to spend the night.”
“I can entertain myself.” Adachi says, eyes flicking over. “You left all those copies of Zombie Dead.” He grabs one and starts to flip through the pages. Volume 7. It isn’t his favorite, so he’ll probably swap it out once Kurosawa falls asleep. “I’ll just read these.”
“Oh, which one is that?” Kurosawa perks up, tilting his head so he can peer over at the cover. “One of my favorite arcs is in the volume after this.” He shimmies deeper into Adachi’s hold, straining so that he can see the panels.
“We can read it together, if you want?” suggests Adachi, setting the book lower so that it’s in Kurosawa’s line of view. “Until you fall asleep.”
“Yeah, okay. I’d like that.”
It’s easy for them to slip into a cadence as they read, though Adachi suspects Kurosawa isn’t paying as much attention as he is. At first, he slips his finger under the next page once he’s ready to turn it, and Kurosawa gives a short nod as a go ahead. Then those become few and far between, and the quiet commentary Kurosawa’s been offering starts to taper off, his head growing heavier on Adachi’s shoulder.
“Kurosawa?” Adachi whispers, looking up from an action sequence in the manga panels.
Kurosawa’s eyes are shut, his eyelashes fluttering gently. His breathing is heavy and even, coming in soft wisps through his mouth. Adachi takes a second just to admire how gentle Kurosawa looks in his sleep, how peaceful. He wants to kiss him so badly.
Okay, he steels himself, just one. Just one won’t hurt.
Slowly, Adachi lowers his lips to Kurosawa’s forehead and presses a shy, chaste kiss to his fever warm skin. He tenses, waiting for the whirlwind onslaught of Kurosawa’s affections to let him know that he’s been caught, and it doesn’t come. Kurosawa’s breathing remains steady and undisturbed. Light with relief, Adachi kisses him again, more confident as he leans in, intoxicated by the faint scent of Kurosawa’s shampoo and the feeling of Kurosawa’s skin against his cheek.
–
The copy of Zombie Dead is still strewn across his chest when Adachi wakes up. He’d meant to set the book back on the nightstand before falling asleep, but it seems he was too lost in the novelty of holding Kurosawa and didn’t get to it. There’s a crick in his neck and a vacancy in his arms. Kurosawa has twisted away from him, curled at the opposite edge of the bed with the covers thrown off. The rain is beating a steady rhythm on the roof, having gone from a roar to a drizzle in the time since he’d nodded off. Adachi blinks slowly, wondering through a drowsy haze just what it was that roused him. Perhaps it’s the unfamiliar mattress, or maybe he’s gotten too hot.
It’s not a big deal. After he fixes the covers for Kurosawa he can forget all about it. He stifles a yawn into his fist, sets the book aside, and carefully reaches over, aiming not to disturb Kurosawa.
A choked gasp resonates from the other end of the bed, immediately grabbing Adachi’s attention. Brows knit with concern, he freezes, uncertain, as if what he’s just heard might have been no more than a trick his still half asleep mind is playing on him. As he tries to focus on the silence, he realizes that it’s not just the rain creating the room’s ambient noise. Kurosawa is panting, his breaths coming in short, ragged bursts.
“Kurosawa,” he whispers, one hand hovering just above Kurosawa’s exposed form. Eyes having adjusted to the moonless light, he notices that Kurosawa is shaking, his hands bunched tightly at the corner of his pillow.
“Kurosawa,” Adachi says with more urgency, gently starting to rub Kurosawa’s back. He’s too warm. His clothes are soaked in sweat. When Adachi’s hand brushes against his neck, the skin there is damp and hot to the touch. Even without his magic, Kurosawa’s fear is palpable. To touch him at all transfers feelings of anxiety and despair so raw and strong that it’s nauseating, clawing at Adachi’s own throat and making his blood feel cold. “Hey,” Adachi murmurs, sitting up now. He starts to shake Kurosawa’s shoulder with a fearful vigor. “Kurosawa, wake up.”
And eventually, Kurosawa does with a sharp, desperate inhale. He starts to pant, chest heaving from the comedown, and then dissolves into a fit of quiet coughs.
“Adachi?” he says in a small, hoarse voice once he’s caught his breath. “You’re still here?”
“What are you saying? Of course I’m still here.” Adachi turns on the lamp, squinting at the abrasiveness of the new light. Kurosawa sniffles, still facing away from him. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah,” Kurosawa’s voice is shivery and thin. He clears his throat and sniffles again. “Just a bad dream, I’m okay.”
“Okay.” Adachi sighs. “I think your fever is up again.” He retrieves the sheet of medicine already on Kurosawa’s nightstand by sliding it into his palm, breaking the room’s silence with the sound of its quick, grating resistance. “You should take something for it.”
“Alright,” Kurosawa agrees, gingerly sitting up. His hair is covering his eyes, but Adachi can make out the thin, hard line of his mouth. Something is wrong, but Adachi doesn’t want to press. He breaks out another small pill, then grabs some water for Kurosawa to wash it down with. When he turns back, Kurosawa is rubbing the cuffs of his sleeves across his cheeks, sniffling quietly. The sound is thick, like his sinuses are swollen. His fingers are trembling, and there are dark, misshapen freckles of moisture at the head of the blankets.
Quickly, Adachi sets everything down and rushes towards Kurosawa. He knows he should be doing something, but again, he’s in new territory. He’s never seen Kurosawa like this.
“Hey,” he says softly, “What’s wrong?”
Kurosawa shakes his head with a breathy, incredulous laugh.
“Sorry. It’s silly.”
“No.” Uncertain of himself, always always so frustratingly uncertain of himself, he circles his arms around Kurosawa’s waist and drops his head onto Kurosawa’s shoulder. “It’s not silly if it upsets you.”
Kurosawa’s lower lip starts to quiver, fresh tears wending down his cheek when he blinks. His eyelashes are dark, clumped together from the moisture. Beautiful.
Why am I still so worked up? I keep remembering how it felt when Adachi looked at me like that and getting so sad. It was just a dream. It’s okay. Stop freaking out.
The memory of Kurosawa’s nightmare fills Adachi’s thoughts, and with it, a taste of Kurosawa’s unspoken fear and insecurity. Adachi feels his own chest clenching at the false visage of his disappointment. The echo of a door closing and Kurosawa slumped against a wall with his head in his hands. It feels horrible to witness. Wrong to see. The more Kurosawa tries to calm himself down, the more Adachi can feel him spiraling.
“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” Kurosawa sniffles and nods, and Adachi balls up the sleeve of his sweatshirt around his fist, gently wiping at Kurosawa’s teary cheeks. The faintest tremor is still present when one of Kurosawa’s hands grasps at Adachi’s forearm. Adachi nuzzles into Kurosawa’s neck, slowly running his thumb over Kurosawa’s knuckles, holding him until his damp, involuntary sniffles start to peter out.
The time that they stay like that feels immeasurable, but it’s tender and important. It’s late and sleep is starting to pull at him again, but Adachi doesn’t mind staying like this. He’ll do anything if it helps Kurosawa.
He leans over and grabs some tissues for Kurosawa to clean himself up, face falling in sympathy as Kurosawa leans away to blow his nose. He does it with the difficulty of a good cry, filling the room with an ugly, vulnerable sound. When he’s finished, Adachi tugs him back. He brushes his lips against Kurosawa’s forehead, tightening his embrace at the rush of affection that it earns.
-
The next time Adachi wakes up, there’s an arm slung over his torso and Kurosawa’s face is buried deep in his neck. He’s snoring gently. Adachi can’t help but smile, finding the whole thing endearing.
Moving as imperceptibly as he possibly can, he reaches for his phone and messages Fujisaki that both he and Kurosawa will be out today, but that the documents for the higher ups should be sitting on Kurosawa’s desk.
After she confirms that she’ll let everyone know, Adachi sets his phone down and starts the careful job of extracting himself from Kurosawa’s hold. There’s mild protest as he removes Kurosawa’s arm, a frustrated, sleepy whimper that Adachi needs time to sit with. He watches with tender curiosity as Kurosawa’s brow furrows in his sleep before his expression fades once more into serenity. It’s too cute.
Once he’s out of bed, he makes sure that Kurosawa is still adequately covered by the blankets, and then begins to pick up some of the stray things on the floor. He folds Kurosawa’s dirty clothes over his arms, setting them near the hamper in his closet. He straightens out the bookshelves and collects stray scraps of plastic scattered across his desk.
“You don’t have to do that,” comes Kurosawa’s groggy voice as Adachi is stacking empty cups.
“Oh, you’re awake.”
“Mhm.” Kurosawa mumbles, sleepily rubbing his eyes. Adachi walks back to the bedside as Kurosawa starts to sit up.
“How are you feeling?” He snakes a hand under Kurosawa’s bangs, finding the cool, clammy trace of a fever that’s been sweat out. “You don’t feel as warm.”
“A little sore, but better.” Adachi winces at the way Kurosawa’s voice grates on the way out. “What time is it? Are we-” Kurosawa starts to sit up, eyes widening with confusion when Adachi places a halting hand on his chest.
“I called out for you. Don’t worry. I think you still need another day to rest.”
“Oh…” Kurosawa says, before yawning into his fist. It looks like he can hardly keep his eyes open. “I see.”
A few moments pass, and Adachi can tell that Kurosawa is already starting to drift off again, right where he sits.
“You’re not much of a morning person, are you, Kurosawa?”
Sluggishly, Kurosawa shakes his head. He slumps over onto Adachi, his breathing immediately growing even and slow.
“Come back to bed,” he whispers, congestion rounding out his already soft consonants.
And Adachi is more than happy to oblige. He falls back into the mattress with ease, like a space there had always been carved just for him.