Work Text:
Saegusa Ibara isn’t a moron . Or rather, he harbours no disdain towards his limits, he understands them. In fact, he catalogues them, scrutinises them with means of most optimal understanding. Limits are not flaws, he thinks; just structural truths. The body tires, and the mind skips. He’s read studies, he understands exactly how many hours it is that an individual can go without proper rest before the beginning of cognitive decline. Ibara knows too, the symptoms of burnout, and the clinical progression of stress disorders. Of course he understands such things, especially having seen the signs in himself for so long.
However, recognition does not equate to permission.
Understanding the working limits of flesh and thought couldn’t possibly mean he’s ever felt inclined to surrender to them. Work doesn’t wait, and work doesn’t beg for emotional indulgence. He simply cannot afford it.
And so, his watch sits tight around his wrist. Tighter, he’s sure, when the days are long and the air of his office is particularly suffocating. He finds it helpful, counting ‘one, two, three’, and so on, tethering his pulse to the tick of the minute hand, forcing scattered thoughts into a steady rhythm. He cannot control the limits of his body, no, but he can exercise discipline over them.
There’s a now ever so persistent ache in both his neck and shoulders that desperately implore the producer to sleep in spite of his best efforts as his fingers jut over the keys of his laptop for a few minutes longer, before finally willing himself to stop after cracking a half glance at the time, and for a moment fretting over what standard the document may amount to in the morning with all his sleep deprivation considered. With the understanding that it would become something to revise in the morning — likely littered with typos, the not so fruits of his efforts — Ibara shifts in his seat before promptly saving his progress and pressing down the lid of his laptop, eyes shutting for a moment as he recovers from the lighting change in the dimly lit room of his office.
It wasn’t that work had been particularly vexing recently. There was nothing that prompted any real upset from the producer, and perhaps that was even more irritating, given that, in his mind, he hadn’t a definitive reason to be struggling to keep up in recent days. Perhaps it was more so that he’d encountered a myriad of trivial little things over the course of such a short period of time, ones of which that shouldn’t have been of any concern. When paired with more demanding work, however, particularly an upcoming live performance at a venue he recalls having practically fought His Eminence Eichi for, everything had begun to pile up. It was almost daunting, he supposes he’d claim if there were any merit in acknowledging that he needed a break.
The following morning is no improvement.
He wakes thirty minutes late, first of all, dragging a hand down the side of his face as he heaves himself from his bed, no longer any time allowed for breakfast. And then, he almost totally dodges today’s shift in his usual schedule, thankfully receiving a calendar reminder on his phone a meager ten minutes before the meeting.
Such an impudent break in routine had been demanded by His Eminence to convene on behalf of what he recalls the conglomerate’s heir having referred to as a “discussion regarding collaborative spatial logistics and mutual respect” following Eden’s uptaking of a fine venue (which, in Ibara’s world, is simply what happens when one secures a perimeter before the enemy awakens).
In spite of it all, Ibara arrives promptly, four minutes before the meeting start time at 10:30. Being late is a liability and it sets a precedent. Ibara wouldn’t allow for it, dissimilar to His Eminence, who had not yet arrived.
The door opens before Ibara has to reach for it, and he scoffs as he steps into the room.
“Have you been demoted to doorman, Yuzuru? That’s quite the downgrade, even for you.”
Ibara had half expected Yuzuru’s presence, though he decides in the moment he’ll chalk up his half-second surprise to the lack of sleep derailing his anticipation as places his folder at the head of the glass table.
“I’ve simply come to ensure that Eichi-sama’s latest whim isn’t detonated in his face, is all.”
“I suggest you remain very close then! His Eminence has a knack for stepping onto minefields barefoot. I will say though, it’s quite admirable how committed you are to being an extension of his will as of late.” Ibara hums, loosening the strap of his watch just slightly as he takes his seat, adjusting it in accordance to the opposite chair twice before continuing, “I suppose he does need someone to press the elevator buttons for him, though.”
Yuzuru clicks his tongue, nodding.
“Well, someone has to manage the vertical traffic while you claw at the ceiling tiles.”
Ibara ignores him, allowing them to lapse into silence as he checks his watch.
10:28.
His pulse doesn’t quite sync with the second hand as easily as it usually did. He counts, anyway. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two.
The room is awfully quiet now. He’s unsure if the silence he initiated had aided him in any peace of mind.
When His Eminence finally glides in however, the air shifts with him. Livelier, yet colder.
“Ah, what a picture of punctuality from you both,” He muses, setting his own folder down as he sits, smiling as though having orchestrated a symphony as opposed to a complaint, “now, to get to the point, I believe you’re of understanding as to how significant it is to preempt your live bookings. I noticed that Eden has once again reserved the central venue for an upcoming live concert without prior consultation. While I respect your efficiency, I do hope this wasn’t another oversight on your part.”
Ibara keeps his tone steady as he replies. “Naturally, Eden’s booking was entirely within scheduling regulations, I would never intentionally circumvent collaboration.”
He notes Yuzuru shift ever so minutely at this, almost imperceptibly, though Ibara’s eyes are on him for a moment before he can stop himself. He’s irritated. It shouldn’t matter whatsoever. Ibara’s fingers twitch over the edge of his folder, glance shifting down to his watch as he counts again.
One, two, three. One, two—
A finger brushes the face of his watch, noticing a barely visible smear upon the glass before slipping under the wrist-strap to tighten it ever so slightly as his mouth twitches in vexation. The meeting is ongoing, he’s sure to nod at the right moments, retort with polite war rhetoric when necessary, repetitive measures that match with the way he begins to rub over the patch of glass with the pad of his thumb. His expression is dry, and measured, just as it’s meant to be, though every word His Eminence utters slowly becomes harder to track. Every time he blinks he feels like he’s missed something significant. He wants to pull out a cloth. Or excuse himself. He wants to return to the dorms and bleach the smear off his watch, the dirt from his skin.
Though, he can’t do that. So he sits, and he counts, and he absentmindedly wipes at invisible dirt.
And when Eichi speaks again, something about understanding the way Eden operates, thinly veiled ugly comments under the guise of politeness, Ibara isn’t sure he hears all of it. He thinks he hears it through the layers of several pillows, or from underwater.
Ibara thinks he might die if he doesn’t rid of the dreaded stain in a moment.
He shifts awkwardly in his seat, tightening his jaw as the smear upon the glass of his watch begins to demand more attention than any of the words uttered to him. Dragging his thumb over it again, he continues to trace invisible circles into the now warm surface. His eyes flicker up for a moment, catching the faintest glint of Yuzuru’s unyielding gaze. He blinks, collecting words of His Eminence’s ever-pressing spiel and piecing them together lazily, phrases colliding quite nonsensically, he now finds as it becomes increasingly harder to do. His breath grows shallower with the notion, the ticking of his watch’s second hand now pulsing in his ears.
One, two, three.
Swallowing hard, he forces himself to stay seated as his vision narrows. It was bearable, he’d thought until his chair began to dissolve beneath him—
He stands, too frantically for his liking as his hand shoots to his watch again. The legs of his chair scrape across the floor so nauseatingly that Ibara almost heaves.
“I admit the venue to you, Your Eminence, I will remove Eden from the registry,” he says, because he has to, at the very least trying for flippancy, “I will be StarPro’s samaritan for this week.”
The last comment is uttered under his breath as he leaves, a pit coiling in his stomach. He does not wait for mock approval, as he usually would, but instead turns on his heel and leaves with uncharacteristic urgency, brisk and silent. Ibara does not, however, miss either gaze that lingers upon him until clicking the door closed behind him. Only then does he stop, shoulders rising and falling heavily, loosening the strap of his watch as though it restricted his breathing.
The corridor is quiet, glaring lights piercing through his skull and aiding to a headache that begins to pry at him further now. He’s not quite sure where he’s going, either, which is odd, because Ibara doesn’t tend to walk without purpose. His chest tightens. Something claws at the base of his throat, and he longs to tear it out.
Stopping at the edge of a junction in the corridor, he groans as he presses his fingers curl quite fruitlessly into the wall with means of finding purchase.
One, two, three. One, two— one. He can’t feel the numbers now, they dissolve the moment he reaches them.
The walls seem to lean inwards, and Ibara drags himself into a near side corridor filled with cabinet files, dimly lit due to its lack of use. It’s not quite private, but it’s sufficient. Then he crouches, or well, curls in on himself, knees bent and back bowed. He wipes at his watch again, skin squeaking against the glass as his vision tunnels. His pulse hammers in his ears with this, head dropping between his knees as he opens his mouth, choking around the shape of words he can’t find. The next time he opens his mouth, he clamps a hand over it, barring himself from making any noise he might lament hearing.
His body shudders so hard for a moment his ribs ache. He thinks all of him aches, actually, lungs folding inwards like everything else around him. Every breath he takes is so cold and bitter it’s as though glass is being dragged across his teeth.
Above the commotion of his own upset, he doesn’t quite hear the footsteps at first. Or perhaps he does, he can’t quite label the beginning or end of them.
Yuzuru rounds the corner, unhurried, as though his presence were coincidental.
“You left your folder,” he trails off, though calm as he takes in everything with a neutrality Ibara is almost offended by. It’s like pressure on a wound.
Ibara doesn’t look up back at him at first, breaths shallow, not quite reaching his lungs as they should be.
“Why are you here?” He manages, after a moment.
A sigh meets his ears, and if Ibara was looking, he’d likely notice the softening of Yuzuru’s gaze as he lowers himself.
“Someone has to make sure you’re not clawing at the ceiling tiles,” he pauses for a moment, “or the floor, as it were.”
Then, Ibara lifts his head ever so slightly, eyes glassy with the mockery of tears, catching Yuzuru’s own eyes with a recognition that made Ibara feel even sicker.
“I don’t want—” Ibara starts, then stops as his voice wobbles, swallowing as he intends to add, “You don’t do that anymore.”
Yuzuru sets the folder down beside him, “I didn’t think you did, either.”
Shaking his head, Ibara refuses to meet his gaze until he’s forced to by his own paranoia as he watches the other glance at his watch.
“You used to get upset when you hadn’t rounded an even number for that piggybank of yours after a night.”
Silence.
“Once, you stopped talking for two days because your things were moved.”
Yuzuru tries again, and this time, Ibara flinches as though offended by his remembrance of the fact. Ibara swallows, remembering exactly who sat beside him every time in silence, who waited for him every time till he felt that he could speak again. He frowns, as if perturbed by the reminder.
“That was a long time ago.” Ibara retorts — or attempts to.
The other nods, letting the words linger for a moment.
“If you’re going to fall apart in public, Ibara, it’s good practice to choose ones where I’m able to find you.” He murmurs, with that same neutrality. It’s warmer, ever so slightly. Ibara’s not sure he understands it until he blinks a few times, heart tightening at how irritatingly tender his gaze felt.
It felt familiar. His response was almost habitual. As though it were something they’d done before.
Ibara leans forward into the arms that had opened only a fraction for him — an invitation likely imperceptible to anyone but himself — and his head thunks into Yuzuru’s chest, exhaling in a half sob. His breath catches, and then shudders out again. It hurts. Yuzuru however, doesn’t startle, nor hesitate. He wraps one arm around his back, whilst the other comes to rub into his nape with practiced ease, as though retuning a frequency he hadn’t heard in a while. He doesn’t speak, because they never did.
For a while, it’s just breathing, or Ibara’s struggle to do so paired with Yuzuru’s calmness.
Then, with no prompt or ceremonious display, he shifts, pressing his lips to Ibara’s forehead.
It’s fleeting, and is not particularly loaded. Ibara sobs again as his hands twist in Yuzuru’s shirt, the familiar contact having startled something loose in his chest. He feels the other draw back slightly, as though hesitating, leaving—
“Don’t—”, don’t leave , he thinks, “Don’t be stupid—”
It’s a dejected request, Yuzuru hears every wordless part of it, and his heart strains with the effort to breathe evenly. Though he stays, the hand on Ibara’s nape now lost in the back of his hair as his chin rests on the producer’s shoulder.
Neither of them retort. There’s no deflection, or snarling.
Ibara stays where he is, eyes shut, chest shaking ever so faintly with the effort of breathing evenly.
Yuzuru stays, as though never having left.