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"Good morning." It's as soft as anything, just a breath ghosting across Ryunosuke's face as his eyes twitch, shudder open. His vision is a bit blurry—fogged over with sleep—but he doesn't need it, not really. It's Kazuma; it's always Kazuma.
"Mmm."
"Oh, come on," Kazuma chides him. "You've slept plenty."
It's always like this. You've slept plenty, or don't get whiny now. But Kazuma likes it when Ryunosuke plays into it, plays it up, groaning and burying his face back into the pillow; says he thinks it's cute, even if—especially when—Ryunosuke's being a brat. Eventually they'll move so that Ryunosuke's face is buried in Kazuma's chest instead. Not much progress made there, but it's nicer, isn't it? Feeling Kazuma's heartbeat against his cheek—that heavy, never-ending ache.
He likes to think he's memorized it by now. Well, of course he has; but he likes to remind himself. Likes to test himself, likes to pull it up from his memory, and listen. It's never as good as the real thing, but Ryunosuke likes it still. Likes to pace his breaths with the thud—thud—thud. Likes to imagine his pulse falls into time, too.
I wonder if its effect is halved if you share it with someone, he'd said. It was a joke; thoughtless, purely to keep the conversation going, just to hear Kazuma's voice a bit longer. Maybe he'd smile, too, or laugh, whole-bodied and rich—
And as easy as anything, Kazuma returned, That still gives us five-hundred years each. And, yes—there—he'd smiled, the private kind, like he was amused by Ryunosuke's childishness but didn't want to say so. Or maybe he wanted it, too. Maybe he wanted it, too, even then.
It's the kind of thing that's impossible to notice at first, you know. How would you? Your hair hasn't gotten as long as you'd expect by now, no, but maybe you're just misjudging, misremembering. You shrug it off and forget. But the months turn to years and you still don't have laughter lines, your skin is still tight around your bones; you really never change, do you, Ryunosuke, Kazuma jokes, but neither does he.
So: "Good morning." It's as soft as anything, just a breath ghosting across Ryunosuke's face as his eyes twitch, shudder open. Every morning. Sometimes Ryunosuke looks over Kazuma's shoulder—out the window, to the skyscrapers, neon signs; the world passing them by, or maybe it's the other way around—and inevitably his gaze tugs itself back to Kazuma, Kazuma, Kazuma.
"Mmm."
"Oh, come on," Kazuma chides him. "Don't get whiny now."
But Kazuma likes it when Ryunosuke plays into it, plays it up, groaning and burying his face back into the pillow; and Ryunosuke likes it, too. Likes this—likes these endless moments, the ones that stretch on and on, so vast he can't possibly hope to hold them all in his memory. But he holds this—that heavy, never-ending ache—
That still gives us five-hundred years each. That still gives us something like forever. As close as we'll get.