[ The breath that leaves Ainosuke is closer to a sob than a sigh; a hurried rush of air, tremulous against Tadashi's waiting lips. I love you. I never stopped. There's no ambiguity there; nothing to misinterpret, nothing left to chance. Nothing to question or argue.
There's so much that comes with those words. Love has never been unconditional for Ainosuke; it has always hinged upon an expectation, like some alchemical exchange. Ainosuke's skin still carries the reminders of it, and his arms faintly ache with Tadashi's confession. For a moment, Ainosuke hates it. He hates that he's like this, he hates everything that has made him this way. In another life, in another time, he could hear these words without fighting the urge to flinch. Why can't he have that now? Why can't he just keep and love Tadashi without this subtle undercurrent of horror?
Ainosuke's grip tightens on Tadashi's shirt, clawing him infinitesimally closer, even through a short and violent shake of his head. ]
You don't know what that means.
[ To love Ainosuke -- really and truly love him -- is to embrace all these shattered parts, and chance the thousand bone-deep cuts along the way. He'll leave Tadashi in ribbons like this, he'll tear him to pieces. And worse still, Ainosuke wants to do just that. He wants Tadashi to hold him despite his razor blade touch, wants Tadashi to kiss him through his knife-sharp tongue. He wants Tadashi to bleed for him, as Ainosuke's heart has bled for Tadashi since the very beginning. And he wants it so badly, he's finally -- at long last -- crying for it.
The tears are hot and wild. They spill down Ainosuke's face through a silent shudder and a hitched gasp, and though Ainosuke's grip on Tadashi doesn't loosen, he slowly sinks to his knees. It feels like begging, like silent supplication, with his forehead pressed to Tadashi's hip. He can't ask for it. He doesn't have the words. Love is a foreign tongue that hurts to speak, but perhaps this is enough.
Tadashi's always understood what Ainosuke needs; surely he can interpret this plea as well.
Need me. Love me. Show me love. And never, ever stop. ]
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There's so much that comes with those words. Love has never been unconditional for Ainosuke; it has always hinged upon an expectation, like some alchemical exchange. Ainosuke's skin still carries the reminders of it, and his arms faintly ache with Tadashi's confession. For a moment, Ainosuke hates it. He hates that he's like this, he hates everything that has made him this way. In another life, in another time, he could hear these words without fighting the urge to flinch. Why can't he have that now? Why can't he just keep and love Tadashi without this subtle undercurrent of horror?
Ainosuke's grip tightens on Tadashi's shirt, clawing him infinitesimally closer, even through a short and violent shake of his head. ]
You don't know what that means.
[ To love Ainosuke -- really and truly love him -- is to embrace all these shattered parts, and chance the thousand bone-deep cuts along the way. He'll leave Tadashi in ribbons like this, he'll tear him to pieces. And worse still, Ainosuke wants to do just that. He wants Tadashi to hold him despite his razor blade touch, wants Tadashi to kiss him through his knife-sharp tongue. He wants Tadashi to bleed for him, as Ainosuke's heart has bled for Tadashi since the very beginning. And he wants it so badly, he's finally -- at long last -- crying for it.
The tears are hot and wild. They spill down Ainosuke's face through a silent shudder and a hitched gasp, and though Ainosuke's grip on Tadashi doesn't loosen, he slowly sinks to his knees. It feels like begging, like silent supplication, with his forehead pressed to Tadashi's hip. He can't ask for it. He doesn't have the words. Love is a foreign tongue that hurts to speak, but perhaps this is enough.
Tadashi's always understood what Ainosuke needs; surely he can interpret this plea as well.
Need me. Love me. Show me love. And never, ever stop. ]