Chapter Text
Ritsu could kill Natsume—like actually kill him, tear out his throat and leave blood strewn everywhere, soak the front of that stupid goth pendant that he wears everywhere. He’s angry enough to do it, what the fuck, but it feels a little predictable?
He knows. He knows as soon as they do it, like they’re just flaunting it in front of him. They smell like each other, like sex and skin and each other’s laundry detergent. Even after Mao showers, it’s pressed into his skin. He doesn’t stop at Ritsu’s house in the morning, but Ritsu can smell it on him, sitting next to Ritsu in class and squirming in his chair while Ritsu stares at the side of his face.
“Um,” he says.
“You didn’t come to my house this morning. It was real~ hard to wake up on my own, you know?”
“Sorry,” Mao says. “I’ve just been really—” avoiding you “—busy.”
It’s somehow easy to be honest with Natsume, who he barely knows, and impossible to be honest with Ritsu. Maybe it’s the simple fact of there being more of a stake in Ritsu. He cares about Ritsu in a way that’s hard to quantify. They grew up together. He loves Ritsu. Which is why it hurts so much, which is why the words all stick in his throat.
It’s hard when you love someone. There are so many things that you need from them, so many ways that you need them to keep seeing you. He doesn’t want to be someone that that happened to, in front of Ritsu. Ritsu doesn’t bring it up, just looks at him through those sleepy cats’ eyes that make Mao nervous in surprising new ways.
“Okay,” Ritsu says, surprising Mao most of all. “Sorry. You can, like. Tell me if you need stuff, you know.”
“Oh.” Now Mao is staring, blinking rapid-fire at him. “Thanks? That’s really nice.”
Ritsu huffs. “I can be nice.”
He leans his head on Mao and loops his arm around Mao’s, and Mao doesn’t tense up. He doesn’t remember Ritsu wrapping his hand around his dick, he doesn’t.
Ritsu digs his fingers into Mao’s arm just a little—reflex, habit—but tries to relax them when he says, casual as anything, “So you and Nakkun, huh?”
Mao tenses guiltily.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about?”
“Don’t act like I’m stupid.”
“I don’t think Natsume likes me.”
It’s not a lie.
“Duh. But apparently you like him enough to do it with him.”
Maybe it’s a mistake that Mao’s first reaction isn’t to deny it but to look around the room trying to see if anyone’s heard. No one seems interested. Koga is doodling aggressively in his notebook, and Arashi is checking her makeup in a hand compact. Ritsu certainly doesn’t miss it. Not that he thought he was wrong, but the possibility would be nice.
“Not so loud,” Mao shushes him anxiously.
“Why, are you afraid everyone’s going to think you’re gay?” Ritsu yawns. “Newsflash, basically everyone in this school is some flavor of gay.” His sharp grin turns a little pointed, a little nasty. “Most of them have even done it with Natsume. You know the business he runs, riiight?”
Mao frowns. “He does fortune-telling, right?”
Ritsu snorts. “Sure, fortune-telling. That’s what they’re calling it these days.”
Mao turns a little red, and it would be cute if it didn’t remind him of Natsume’s hair.
* * *
Mao thinks about it later, watching Natsume’s lips wrap around the lip of a bottle, water sliding down his throat.
“What?” Natsume asks.
“Nothing.”
He can’t help picturing it, people fucking Natsume. He wonders if it’s anyone he knows, although he tries hard not to. Ritsu and Natsume have—he knows. He assumes. He’d seen the puncture marks on Natsume’s neck, and they’d been… with him, together, so it’d be weirder if they hadn’t.
He knows, already, some of the sounds Natsume makes when he— He wonders if Natsume was on his back, or on his hands and knees. He pictures Natsume’s face and wonders if he’d liked it. If it had felt good, or if it had been as joyless as they time they’d fucked in that dusty, underground room filled with the smell of old books around them. The idea of Natsume fucking other people—lots of other people, other boys—makes Mao feel weird.
“You’re being weird,” Natsume says.
They’re sitting in the courtyard. The weather is nice today, and the fountain burbles pleasantly. They’re sitting shoulder to shoulder, their arms and legs pressed together casually. They’re usually touching somehow, if they can be.
“Can I take you out for dinner?” Mao blurts.
Natsume slowly recaps his water bottle and stares at him. “What, like a date?”
“Yeah, exactly like a date. Like. An actual date. Do you want to?”
“Why?”
Mao doesn’t answer right away. He doesn’t answer at all. He doesn’t have any answers that Natsume will like. Neither of them pull away. They’re still touching everywhere they can be in public.
Natsume looks up toward the cloudy sky with a pinched expression that says that Mao is an idiot.
“Okay,” he says. “Don’t take me somewhere stupid.”
* * *
He doesn’t know what constitutes stupid, in Natsume’s mind. Him, probably. He knows Natsume thinks he’s stupid to keep hanging around him. Mao thinks he’s stupid for that, too.
(“It’s not like you aren’t busy,” Natsume snaps at him in the hallway.
“What does busy have to do with it? I can make time for you.”
“Fucking why?”
Those conversations never end well.)
But more relevantly, he doesn’t know what Natsume likes. He doesn’t actually know how to plan a date. He’s never made one before.
There is literally no one he can ask and no one he wants to ask.
“Take him somewhere nice,” his sister says in all her preteen wisdom. She’s got a candy stick hanging out of her mouth and big slouchy socks on her feet to match the big slouchy sweater that tries to fall off her thin shoulders.
He covers up his computer screen, clicking out of tabs like he’d been caught looking at porn instead of restaurant reviews. He crosses his arms, trying to act casual. “What’re you talking about? Also, what have we said about coming into my room without asking?”
Aiko shrugs her shoulders. “I knocked, but you didn’t hear me. You talk about him in your sleep, you know.”
Well that’s—horrifying. It fills him with a sense of dread that feels unearned.
“Don’t listen to me when I sleep. That’s kind of creepy.”
She huffs another shrug. It’s becoming a habit with her. It’s cute on her in a way it would never be if Mao tried it. He really does love his sister, which is why he wants her so far away from any of the stuff that goes on with him.
“It’s not like I do it on purpose. You just get really loud. Sooo…”
“So,” Mao sighs, clicking open the tab he’d hidden. “Help me pick a restaurant, then. I’m no good at this.”
She clambers onto his bed with him. She’s gotten so big, all legs and elbows, apparently when he wasn’t looking. She drags the lollipop out of her mouth, round face illuminated by the glow of his laptop. “Not that one. That one seems stuffy. Jeez, oniichan, are you guys, like, fifty?”
“That’s why I need your help, huh?”
“Uh-huh.”
Aiko is focused when she’s on a mission, and her candy-painted nails clatter over the keys, flicking away Mao’s suggestions and pulling up new ones. She has the looks for it and definitely the voice, but Mao is glad, he thinks, that Aiko never decided to be an idol.
“You’re looking at me weird.”
“Sorry,” Mao says.
“Here,” she says after a few minutes, turning the laptop back toward him. “Pick from these.”
Three choices blink up at him from the screen.
“That one’s fun. That one’s cool, and that one’s romantic.”
They’re not too expensive either, which helps. Aiko is a smart kid.
“Which one should I pick?” Mao asks.
She huffs. “I can’t tell you that. I don’t know him, remember? Pick whichever one you think he’ll like best.”
Natsume would probably hate the romantic one, but he doesn’t need to say it out loud.
“You’re being pretty cool about this,” Mao says.
Aiko shrugs. “It doesn’t bother me if you have a boyfriend. Why would it?”
“Don’t tell mom and dad?”
She rolls her eyes. “Duh.”
He suddenly—he loves her so much. These moments come over him these days, moments when everything feels liquid and overwhelming. Mao grabs her in a big hug, the little stub of one pigtail tickling his neck, and she tosses her arms back around him so easily.
“Oniichan needed a hug, huh?” she asks softly.
“Uh-huh.” He tells himself that his voice doesn’t sound stuffy.
“Well,” Aiko says. “You can always have one of those. Hugs are free.”
She pats him on the head when they pull away, like she’s the older sister and not the other way around. There’s a sweet, lingering moment before she scrambles back off his bed and breezes toward the door.
“I’ve gotta go. I’ve got homework. Unless—” She stops in the doorway, tilting her head and studying his face much too closely.
Sometimes she’s too smart of a kid, and Mao arranges his face into a smile. “Nah, go do your homework. And thanks for all the help. If the date’s a success, it’ll be all because of you.”
“Mmhm. Try to sleep less loudly.”
She leaves in a flurry of knitwear, and Mao lies on his bed, staring up at the ceiling with his head pillowed on his arms. He always tries.
He can feel the nightmares pushing behind his eyes, threatening him with their existence, so he rolls over and grabs the volume of manga on his nightstand. His eyes are already starting to droop, but he can read to keep himself up a little longer.
* * *
They really are busy, is the thing. Ever since their win at the DDD, Trickstar has been busier than ever, and Eichi’s return hasn’t lightened his student council work one bit. Natsume isn’t faring much better, scrambling to make a name for Switch himself.
So dinner gets put on hold, an idea that Mao clings onto, tracing it in the back of his mind like a well-worn icon. It’s nice to have things to believe in.
He can’t… avoid Ritsu forever. He isn’t even sure if he wants to.
Ritsu’s been showing up late, again and again, and if he keeps missing classes, he’ll be held back another year. The idea weighs on Mao’s conscience, and he finds himself outside the door to the Sakuma household accordingly.
It’s not like their door is ever locked, a strange choice in the middle of the city that Mao has long-since stopped questioning, and it’s not like Mao doesn’t have a key even if it was. But it’s like a few weeks of being anywhere but here have erased any claim he once had to the space. He stands on their front steps dithering. Should he knock? Should he just go in?
It’s not, he tells himself, fear, no matter what the sour feeling in his stomach has to say about it.
He’s about to give up, to come back tomorrow. The sweet scent of black hellebore creeping up the trellis is starting to make him sick, when the door creaks open, the cool, dark air wafting from inside making Mao freeze all over, guiltily, like a prey animal.
It’s only Rei, standing tall and pale in the doorway, his hair expertly tousled, looking down at Mao with sleepy eyes. The flash of teeth when he talks makes Mao nervous, although there’s never any reason for it. Rei had helped Trickstar, and after all, Mao has known him as long as Ritsu. And still.
“Isara-kun.” Rei blinks a little at the harsh morning sunlight, then sneezes, then yawns, and he’s suddenly human again, not whatever terrible thing Mao’s mind had conjured up. “Come in. I think—” another yawn “—Ritsu is still sleeping.”
He wonders why Rei hadn’t bothered to wake Ritsu up himself if he knows that, but he keeps it to himself. Actually, it’s weird that Rei is still around. He’s usually gone by the time Mao comes to pick Ritsu up, and he looks a little bleary himself this morning, although it’s hard to tell anything in the dim light.
“Are you sick?” Mao asks.
“Hmm? No, I’m fine. You know how it goes, sometimes these old bones need a little extra help getting going in the mornings.”
Mao actually has no idea how that goes, and he sincerely doubts that Rei does either, but he keeps it to himself and nods.
“Feel better, Sakuma-senpai,” he says, and races up the stairs to Ritsu’s room as fast as he can without making too much noise. The path is familiar, and so is Ritsu, and spending time peeling Ritsu out of bed sounds much better than hanging out with his weird older brother.
Ritsu is sleeping, and he doesn’t wake up when Mao pushes the door to his room open. He makes no sudden movements, doesn’t bite Mao or try to make him cry. He’s just. Sleeping.
“Hey,” Mao says, shaking his shoulder gently, keeping his voice soothing and low. “Ritsu, wake up.”
The sound Ritsu makes plucks at all Mao’s heartstrings, something sleepy and soft, a small animal whining before turning its face back toward comfort.
“Ritsu~”
When Ritsu grabs onto Mao, it isn’t violent. It barely even makes him flinch. He grabs onto Mao’s reaching hand, warm from the heat of his bed, soft and rumpled and smelling like sleepovers and linen.
“Mm, Maa-kun, I thought I dreamed you.” He blinks open his eyes slowly.
“Nope,” Mao says. “I’m here. You should get up. We’re going to be late.”
“Or,” Ritsu says, grinning up at Mao and tugging him down. “You could get in here with me. Skip with me, Maa-kun, we can just be cozy and comfortable and warm all day.”
Alarm-bells blare in his head that weren’t there before, replacing the bone-deep, fond exasperation that had been in its place every time before. He pulls his arm back from Ritsu too hard.
“We don’t have time for this. Come on, get up or I’m leaving without you.”
Ritsu stares up at Mao like wondering what happened. Mao usually lets him tease.
“Okay,” Ritsu says. “Okay, okay, I’m getting up.”
“I’ll wait outside so you can get dressed,” Mao says, standing up, and that’s new, too.
Ritsu doesn’t like this new distance between them. It fills him with something sticky and grasping. Something with the worst claws, and his black mood sinks lower and lower as he tiredly rips the sheets off and yanks his shirt over his head.
Standing outside Ritsu’s room makes Mao feel weird, so he goes to wait downstairs. Ritsu’s parents aren’t around, but his brother still is, draped over the longest couch in the sitting room with a hand splayed over his eyes. Mao will just go wait in the kitchen, it’s fine, but Rei starts talking to him at his approach.
He freezes guiltily. How do they always seem to know, even when he’s walking as quietly as possible?
“Thank you for taking care of Ritsu,” Rei says. “I know he can be a handful. It’s no small thing. I’m in your debt, so let me know if you ever need assistance, hm?”
“Sure,” Mao says, the words sticking in his throat. “It’s no problem.”
And then there’s Ritsu, slumping down the stairs, toppling so heavily at the bottom that Mao has to get under him to hoist him up because he’s really afraid Ritsu is going to hurt himself. It’s not—the worst, to be touching Ritsu, but Mao still has to fight the urge to yank his hands back like it burns.
“Bye, Sakuma-senpai,” Mao says, and Ritsu doesn’t say anything to his brother at all.
Rei barely moves on the couch, a statue in marble, lifting a wan hand in farewell.
Mao doesn’t offer to carry Ritsu today, and Ritsu doesn’t push it, like maybe he knows. He follows quietly along beside Mao, slumping into a seat beside him on the train like he’s used up the very last of his energy. His pale skin glitters faintly clammy in the bright train lights. Mao feels very guilty.
* * *
Rei peels himself off the couch eventually. He drags himself to school and spends most of the day hiding out in the comforting coolness of the Light Music Club room. He eventually does need to have the conversation he’s been putting off, though his heart sinks when he finally gets his chance, coming across Natsume in one of the lesser-used hallways.
“Sakasaki-kun,” Rei says, calling out to him, and Natsume’s heart speeds up. “Can I talk to you?”
Natsume could run. Running is, in fact, the only thing he can do. He can put his legs in motion and trust them to carry him out of Rei-niisan’s orbit before his mind catches up. His heart picks up, a fight-or-flight response, gearing up to do it, to save him. Bodies are good that way.
Not like stupid brains and even worse hearts. He doesn’t run, and Rei comes closer, a look of martyred concern on his face. It dooms Natsume to having this conversation as soon as it’s in sight.
He swallows, tilting his chin up, gathering all the scraps of his dignity while his spine turns to water. “I suppose. What did you need, Rei-niisan?”
Rei hesitates, choosing his words with delicacy, and Natsume hates that.
“About the other night…”
No. No thank you.
“…you left in such a hurry, and I just wanted to make sure you’re alright.”
It sure took you long enough, didn’t it? Natsume swallows those words down. He could never dream of saying them.
It took too long and also not even half long enough. Natsume wants Rei to have stopped him from leaving his bedroom, to have tugged on his arm and pulled him back into bed, to have said wait and asked him not to go. He wants Rei to lean closer and scoop him in his arms and kiss him right now.
But he didn’t, and he won’t, and he didn’t come and find Natsume in any of the days after, and Natsume knows exactly why. He doesn’t want Rei-niisan’s pity.
Rei is looking at him with those red, red eyes, waiting for Natsume to say something, and Natsume thinks of pomegranate seeds. He thinks of kings of the damned, of queens in low places, and he swallows it all down, along with the bile. It all burns.
“I’m fine,” he says, pasting a cool smile on his face. “Why would something be wrong?”
He buries himself in Mao later, nose in the soft fabric of Mao’s hoodie, clinging to the material. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t want to speak. He shouldn’t have to. If Mao is going to follow him around everywhere like a shadow, he can at least be good for this.
Mao’s hands hover, at a loss. Natsume is clearly upset, and Mao doesn’t know what to do with this.
Natsume is usually upset, but he’s usually angry, annoyed, loud, snapping at something or someone (Mao). This seems completely different, and when Mao eventually settles his hands on Natsume’s back, pulling him even closer, Natsume makes a huff that at first he thinks is upset.
“About time,” Natsume mutters, twisting his hands further into Mao’s shirt and snuffling against his chest. He looks up at Mao with eyes that are certainly not red-rimmed, certainly not puffy. “You said something about a date,” he says, willing his lip to stop wobbling.
* * *
The restaurant has shiny, bleached wood tables stacked in rows beside each other. Mao hadn’t picked somewhere too fancy, but he picked somewhere that seemed nice. It was the “cool” option on Aiko’s list, but maybe he should have just taken Natsume to an arcade. Everything about the space is bright and trendy, and there are more people here than he thought there would be. He had made up that it would be quiet, but maybe this is better. Too much quiet would probably make them both nervous.
Or not.
He watches Natsume’s face anxiously, looking at his narrowed eyes for signs of displeasure or approval.
“I would’ve just taken us to an arcade or something, but I wanted it to be… nice.”
“It’s fine,” Natsume says. “Don’t be weird about it.”
He doesn’t actually know how to be normal about it, though.
He acts like a parody of himself all throughout dinner, making jokes at odd times and dropping his menu. When finally Natsume gives up, snatches it away, and orders for the both of them with an exasperated sigh, it’s a certain kind of sheepish relief.
Their food is good, but it comes slowly, and in the meantime Mao has the chance to just… look. He likes looking at Natsume. It fills him with a feeling that’s hard to put his finger on, one that’s overwhelmingly peaceful over the bubbling roil of sickening emotions. That’ll be the conditioning, he’s pretty sure. It’s not like he hasn’t tried to look it up. It’s not like he doesn’t know, broadly, what Natsume did.
Looking is easy, and talking is harder.
Natsume squirms surreptitiously in his seat, fidgeting because that had seemed like a good idea at the time. He had been upset, and Mao had been there. But he’s always kind of upset, and Mao is always kind of there, and that never really makes this a better idea.
“How’s your unit?” Natsume asks.
It’s not like he doesn’t know. It’s not like anybody doesn’t know. Everyone had seen the meteoric rise of Trickstar. Most people had helped.
“We’re doing well,” Mao says. He smiles hopefully.
“Of course you are,” Natsume sniffs. “You’re all talented. Even you.”
The backhanded compliment makes him feel warmer than it should.
He pays the bill, although Natsume huffs about it. Natsume doesn’t try as hard as he possibly could to prevent it. A tiny little kernel of him is secretly pleased. They walk back out into the balmy evening air. Everything feels humid and close, and the signs of restaurants and businesses reflect off every nearby surface.
It’s just a whim.
“I think I saw something…” Natsume says, taking off behind the restaurant and leaving Mao to trail after him, a hook and a lure.
“Huh? Wait, Natsume, don’t run off—”
“Gotcha,” Natsume says, his eyes sparkling when he wraps his arms around Mao in an alley behind the restaurant.
It feels familiar, when Natsume pushes him up against the wall, kissing him hotly and pushing his cold fingers up Mao’s shirt, against his skin. His body jerks against Natsume’s when Natsume pinches a nipple, when he touches the sensitive, warm skin of Mao’s belly.
He pins one of Mao’s wrists to the wall by his head, pinching hard into a pulse point that makes Mao feel floppy and weak in a way that makes his blood fizz. It’s hot enough to make him gasp, and isn’t this what he wanted, after all? All of Natsume’s attention on him?
They could get off like this. He could get off like this, kissing Natsume sloppily and grinding up against him.
I had wanted this to be nice.
“Will you let me fuck you?” Natsume asks, eyes heavy-lidded, and there is so much wrong with this.
He cups his hand over Mao’s dick, and Mao twitches and whines, blushing as he nods. “Here?”
“Sure,” Natsume says, sucking on his neck. “Why not?”
Because I didn’t want to fuck you in an alley. I wanted to— I wanted to do something nice—
But Mao is nodding, and he’s gasping out, “Yeah. Yes, okay.”
He’s letting Natsume take down his pants, shoving them down to his thighs, and holy shit this is a crime. They’re going to get caught. They’re going to get arrested. Natsume is slicking his fingers from a little packet of lube that had apparently been in his pocket all night, and Mao flushes, feeling stupid, feeling used. Why would this possibly have been nice, but maybe this is just what Natsume is like, what he likes, and Ritsu had said—
He gasps at the first touch of Natsume’s cold, blunt fingers to his hole. Natsume is urgent but gentle, teasing just enough so his fingers manage to slip inside without pain, stretching him open.
“Is this what you want?” Natsume asks lowly beside his ear, kissing Mao’s earlobe before sucking wetly on it. “You want to be my whore, is that it?”
Natsume really, truly has no idea what’s possessed him. What’s driven him to decide to be, honestly kind of an asshole.
Leave, he’s thinking with all his might. What the fuck, get away from me.
“Yeah,” Mao mutters, pushing back against Natsume’s fingers and trying not to wince at the stretch. “W-whatever you want.” He clutches at Natsume’s face, spreading his legs wider, as much as he can while they’re still trapped in the confines of his pants. He kisses him sweetly, hellbent on making this as nice as humanly possible.
Haha, fuck. Natsume’s starting to feel. Really bad about this again.
Natsume puts his hand on Mao’s hip to get his attention, to still him. “Relax,” he murmurs like it’s a secret, this care. “Relax your body and it won’t hurt so much, okay?” He kisses Mao on the lips, something sweet and lingering, and Mao tries.
He takes a deep breath and lets it all go, pretending he isn’t about to lose his virginity in a gross alley that kind of smells like piss and vomit. He pretends this is the end to the date he was looking for. He loves Natsume, and Natsume loves him, and that means everything is fine. Who cares if they do it outside?
This is wrong. Everything about this is all wrong. Natsume looks at Mao’s face, flushed and panting, his eyes slitted in pleasure. He moans when Natsume drags his fingers in and out of him, but Natsume can’t even tell how much of this is real. Mao doesn’t want this. Why would anyone want this? Natsume’s just being an asshole, and Mao is letting him.
He’s suddenly just furious. At Mao, at himself. At Ritsu and Rei, too.
He pulls his fingers out of Mao and wipes them on the hem of his own shirt (gross).
He crosses his arms around himself. “Put your clothes back on. I want to go home.”
He helps Mao do it himself, tugging his pants back up his hips when Mao doesn’t move fast enough, angling his body to protect Mao from the view of passersby. This was a fucking stupid idea, what was he thinking. Anyone could have seen Mao, and he suddenly hates the idea. How dare they?
It takes Mao a few stumbling drunk, blinking seconds to make sense of the words Natsume is saying, to fit them into anything that makes sense. Natsume is tugging Mao’s pants closed and buttoning them up with fingers that tremble slightly, and all Mao can think to say is, “Did I do something wrong?”
Natsume looks up at him stunned, and then furious, his lips pressed into a thin, white line.
“Yes, you were about to let me fuck you in the middle of Tokyo? What the fuck.”
Mao’s face does a lot of things in quick succession. He looks confused and then mad and then hurt, and Natsume wants to see exactly none of it.
“You literally asked me to. You literally grabbed my dick and shoved your hand in my pants and called me a whore.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to let me! Say no, push me off or something.”
Mao laughs, a small exhaled bark of sound, and it sounds so hollow. “I don’t get you. I don’t know what you want.”
“Yeah, that makes two of us.” Natsume blows out a breath. He won’t apologize. “Let me—let me take you home. Or walk you to the train station, at least. I don’t even know where you live. I’ll even kiss you goodnight, just stop. Looking at me like that.”
Mao groans, stretching with a wince as he gets up off the wall he’d been pinned to and tries to flex some life back into the hand Natsume had grabbed. He’s—actually still pretty horny, and frustrated about that, and frustrated about Natsume in general. He’s a little relieved. He’s kind of angry.
He doesn’t know how he’s looking at Natsume, and so he doesn’t know how to stop, but he says, “Fine. Walk me to the train station, unless you’re going to get mad at me for that too.”
“I’m not—” Natsume starts to say and then shuts his mouth. Honestly he doesn’t feel like he has any control over what he does or doesn’t do around Mao, so it’s probably better not to make any promises.
The walk to the train is brief, and awkward. They brush past strangers on their way, and Natsume still has smears of lube on the bottom of his shirt, which he hopes no one notices. They don’t really talk and they don’t really touch, which Natsume hates, so he grabs Mao’s hand as an apology, fitting his fingers around the curved shell of Mao’s hand.
Mao sighs and shifts so their fingers are laced together. He’s still maybe mad, but.
But Natsume walks him to the train station and then insists on getting on the train, even though he lives in the opposite direction, and Mao knows where he lives. He holds Mao’s hand on the subway and pretends he doesn’t see anyone who looks twice at them for it.
He gives Mao that goodnight kiss on the corner by his house, tucked in a hidden spot behind a blooming fruit tree. It smells like apples and spring, and Natsume’s eyes are dappled by the streetlight through the leaves when he finally pulls away.