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—-
They say summer nights are cool, but it’s so warm that his shirt sticks stubbornly to his back. The door to their balcony is kept open. Taichi lies flat on the ground, the fan on high and sweat cooling on his skin.
At some point, the blotchy surface on the ceiling blurs into a mish-mash of circles and cracks and lines and X’s. A splitting image of his marked exams.
Sora’s skin doesn’t have marks on them.
There is something intangible about the way her face is free of blemishes, free from the most telling signs of adolescence. Her cheeks must feel so soft; malleable like dango. Mimi and Miyako badger for her “ultra secret skincare routine” sometimes, and Taichi wonders if it’s normal to keep his ears peeled, too.
He wonders. A lot. What would it be like to balance her chin between his fingers, to tip and observe the perfect face of an imperfectly perfect girl? He wonders what it would be like to run a thumb over the seam of her lips, to brush their noses and whisper her worth to him in a moment that is uniquely theirs.
His hand raises to the ceiling, fingers straight and separated. A shadow casts over his eyes.
Whenever I’m with you, I feel seen, because it feels as if you’re the first to ever figure me out.
Taichi doesn’t think much when he mumbles, “What do you think of Sora?”
“Sora makes the best onigiri!” Agumon says simply, because love occupies zero-percent of thoughts in the mind of a monster.
Taichi reaches over to pat his head. The scales feel nice beneath his fingers, comforting. It’s not Sora, but it’s just as good.
When his back starts to ache, Taichi shifts to lie on his side. Thirty minutes past, and Taichi’s freshly restocked snack pile had dwindled to a sad bag of shrimp chips. Crinkled wrappers and empty packets circle Agumon like some weirdly successful monster-summoning ritual.
Taichi smirks. “Look at you. Three hours back into the human world and you’re already freeloading as usual. Never change.”
Agumon claws four more chips into his mouth. “I never change, but Taichi… you change all the time!”
He hums, “Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?”
“It’s good, it’s good!” Another munch. “Isn’t that what makes humans great? You evolve, but you stay that way! You become so different, but no matter what you’ll always be my Taichi.”
“Of course,” Taichi curls his fingers into a fist, “We’re like brothers, aren’t we?”
Agumon blinks at the hand in front of him, and does the same with his claws. “And partners, too?”
Taichi nods. “Partners.”
His knuckles softly bumps against Agumon’s.
The fan whirls and whirls, circulating air around the room.
Taichi reaches over to the last snack, and tips the bag upside down. “Agumon,” He glares, “You ate all the shrimp chips.”
Crumbs stick guiltily to the lines of his teeth… jaw? Jawed-teeth. “But Taiiichiiii…” Agumon pouts, “They were soooo good. I haven’t eaten human food in years!”
“Then the digital world should really keep up with the times.”
The door creaks open. Hikari comes in with Tailmon trailing close behind. And that’s where this conversation ends.
—-
When Sora is revealed to be following her own path, Taichi tries not to think much of it. He overthinks anyway.
Time progresses, the sun sets, and life goes on.
—-
The setting streams of sunlight colors the office in hues of orange. Taichi feels as if he could just melt, eyes fluttering close to the monotonous tip-taps of typed keys. The clock that hangs above the entrance ticks, ticks, ticks.
Taichi leans against the corner of the desk. Half the tabletop is covered by empty bottles of oolong tea. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. Taichi had swung by to clear his desk just yesterday.
The words ‘just five more minutes’ had been uttered eight times alone in the past hour. If Taichi were a stronger man, he would’ve stepped his foot down seven ‘just five more minutes’ ago.
But he isn’t. Not when Koushirou looks as if he belongs.
The thin copper frame of his new glasses sits on the bridge of his nose. It’s a scientific anomaly why he hadn’t needed those before now. His tie is slightly skewed and his hair tousled from exhaustion. Dark circles line his eyes, yet it’s clear his vision had blotted out everything that wasn’t glaring blue light.
A pause, then a quiet sneeze into the crook of his arm. Koushirou wrinkles his nose before diving back into the lines of code.
Taichi stares, a weightless feather drifting in his chest. Cute.
When Koushirou’s slender fingers hover over the keyboard, uncharacteristically hesitant, Taichi’s breath falters.
“Taichi-san?”
Taichi swallows. For the first time that evening, Koushirou met his eyes. Round like the shape of a yen coin, so dark it could draw you in like a black hole to light. Damn, and double damn.
“Is something the matter?”
Nah, Taichi thinks, I don’t think it’s necessarily wrong but sometimes— a hitch of breath —I can’t stop thinking of you.
“Taichi-san?”
He does not think of how his hand reaches out to touch him. He doesn’t remember when he began to see Koushirou in this light, when his heart drifted from one shade of red to another. It’s almost instinctive at points, his emotions wrenching the wheel and speeding straight into a dicey cliché.
“It’s getting late,” Taichi says, a press of his thumb to Koushirou’s temple.
When Koushirou colors so prettily in his hands, Taichi feels his mouth dry. When he’s so close, Taichi could spot the faint dots speckled about his cheeks. Maybe piece them together to create a constellation. The seam of his lips are chapped and bitten, the line of his cupid’s bow wet and shiny, his—
Taichi leans in.
Unlike Sora, Taichi thinks this would— will work.
—-