Vulnerability is discouraged -- punished -- by the Shindos. Vulnerability is a weakness that is thoroughly stamped out, choked out, and stunted, along with any sense of frivolity or childlike wonder (even when Ainosuke was only a child). It was a thing to be hidden away behind closed doors and in dark corners, silently nursed and never acknowledged. A severe upbringing comes bundled with its own brand of triumphs and tribulations, but in Ainosuke's case, it only managed to create a monster.
Love has always always meant pain. Even loving Tadashi was anguish, sweet though it tasted for a short time. Tadashi was different, gentle; Ainosuke could openly carry that wounded part of himself, and Tadashi honored it without question or shame. His love was kind, soft, infinitely pleasurable, and Ainosuke should have known he was bound to pay a hellish price for something that felt like paradise.
Then Tadashi turned away, put a wall between them, and Ainosuke learned.
Still, Tadashi had a stranglehold on him, coiled tight and fangs buried deep, his venom coursing through Ainosuke and poisoning every piece. Ainosuke hated and loved it in equal measure. It was closer to the love he'd always known. Distant. Cold. Suffering. And at times, he was content to embrace that pain; other times -- seldom, but too often -- he ached for the pleasure of Tadashi's gentleness. Moments of weakness, when Ainosuke reached out, lashed out, clawed at Tadashi, utterly gripped by desperation to pull him back in. Chaos, violence, anything to break Tadashi's stoicism. To make him think, make him feel, to drag him back.
Ainosuke does not feel vulnerable. But he does feel weak -- so incredibly broken and needy and wrong, and moreso now than he's felt in so long -- and maybe that's exactly the same thing. But stranger still, this weakness feels safe. Bared and raw though he is, it doesn't feel dangerous to press these moments into Tadashi's waiting hands. And that--
It's impossible for Ainosuke to know what to do with that. But Tadashi's hand rests low on Ainosuke's spine, and his body instinctively remembers the cadence of that touch. Like an afterimage suddenly lighting up after a sunburst, like cooling embers fanned to life. One touch arrests thought, breath, heart, and Ainosuke's shoulders stiffen to a hard set.
There's more to this; Ainosuke knows there is, and the shiver it sends down his spine is as much terror as it is anticipation. He huffs, tamps down on a swell of incredulity, and pushes a hand through his hair. What he speaks is assent, but subdued, guarded: ]
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Vulnerability is discouraged -- punished -- by the Shindos. Vulnerability is a weakness that is thoroughly stamped out, choked out, and stunted, along with any sense of frivolity or childlike wonder (even when Ainosuke was only a child). It was a thing to be hidden away behind closed doors and in dark corners, silently nursed and never acknowledged. A severe upbringing comes bundled with its own brand of triumphs and tribulations, but in Ainosuke's case, it only managed to create a monster.
Love has always always meant pain. Even loving Tadashi was anguish, sweet though it tasted for a short time. Tadashi was different, gentle; Ainosuke could openly carry that wounded part of himself, and Tadashi honored it without question or shame. His love was kind, soft, infinitely pleasurable, and Ainosuke should have known he was bound to pay a hellish price for something that felt like paradise.
Then Tadashi turned away, put a wall between them, and Ainosuke learned.
Still, Tadashi had a stranglehold on him, coiled tight and fangs buried deep, his venom coursing through Ainosuke and poisoning every piece. Ainosuke hated and loved it in equal measure. It was closer to the love he'd always known. Distant. Cold. Suffering. And at times, he was content to embrace that pain; other times -- seldom, but too often -- he ached for the pleasure of Tadashi's gentleness. Moments of weakness, when Ainosuke reached out, lashed out, clawed at Tadashi, utterly gripped by desperation to pull him back in. Chaos, violence, anything to break Tadashi's stoicism. To make him think, make him feel, to drag him back.
Ainosuke does not feel vulnerable. But he does feel weak -- so incredibly broken and needy and wrong, and moreso now than he's felt in so long -- and maybe that's exactly the same thing. But stranger still, this weakness feels safe. Bared and raw though he is, it doesn't feel dangerous to press these moments into Tadashi's waiting hands. And that--
It's impossible for Ainosuke to know what to do with that. But Tadashi's hand rests low on Ainosuke's spine, and his body instinctively remembers the cadence of that touch. Like an afterimage suddenly lighting up after a sunburst, like cooling embers fanned to life. One touch arrests thought, breath, heart, and Ainosuke's shoulders stiffen to a hard set.
There's more to this; Ainosuke knows there is, and the shiver it sends down his spine is as much terror as it is anticipation. He huffs, tamps down on a swell of incredulity, and pushes a hand through his hair. What he speaks is assent, but subdued, guarded: ]
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