They're paying out the nose for their place, because they have to have a place with two bedrooms. Ryo knows Yasu wants a loft, a light airy something where he can paint murals all over the walls and sew new curtains for the balcony every other week while Ryo plays songs on the big bed--it's always a big bed, in Ryo's head--and it breaks Ryo's heart every time he sees Yasu staring out the window from the canvas pegged to the wall next to the kitchen. Ryo lays his guitar out on the floor next to him and struggles to his feet, exhaustion laying on his shoulders. He slides across the wooden floor in thick-socked feet, and he leans his chin on Yasu's shoulder, hands finding their way to Yasu's waist.
Yasu's wearing a dress today, one he'd painted with butterflies and flowers late one night, and it hangs off of one shoulder, the one where Ryo's put his chin, so he tilts his head and presses a kiss to Yasu's neck. "You look pretty today," Ryo says, halfway to an embarassed mumble, and Yasu's shaggy golden hair brushes over Ryo's cheek bone when Yasu turns his head toward him.
"Thank you, Ryo," he says, the sun shining in his eyes.
The knock at the door sends them both to opposite ends of the room. Yasu looks down at his dress, and Ryo waves him into the bedroom while Ryo rubs suddenly sweaty palms dry on the hips of his slacks.
"Coming," Ryo calls, and opens their sticky front door with a more confidence than he actually feels.
It's not the cops--thankfully. The last time they'd hauled them both into the station and Yasu had had bruises that had left Ryo in angry tears.
"Oh, hi, Mr. Miller," Ryo says to their aging landlord, uneasily leaning on the doorframe. "Is there something I can do for you? It's not time for the rent yet..."
"Tell your--your roommate to stop parking his scooter on the street," Miller says, "he's taking up a car spot. I put a stand in the alley so he can chain it up nice there, if he wants."
Ryo nods, eyes wide in surprise. "Thanks, sir," he says, and thinks of the way their stairs lead directly down to the alley. Maybe now guys would stop following Yasu home and keying his bike. (Not likely.)
Miller finally toddles back down the stairs after five minutes of small talk about Ryo's songwriting ('yes, sir, I'm still working on that love song'), and Yasu peeks out of the bedroom. "He set up a stand for me?" Yasu asks, looking unspeakably fond, and hums something to himself as he wanders aimlessly back to his canvas.
Ryo crosses the room with more purpose, and wraps Yasu up in a hug that's perhaps tighter than he meant it to be, but Yasu's grip on his shirt lapels is white-knuckled and firm in return.