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"After that, I want a cigarette," Akito said.
Toya huffed a laugh below him. Akito grinned, pleased by the knowledge that he did not have to explain the joke: neither of them smoked, too careful with their voices to pick up the habit. That Toya got it, got him as he always had, filled him with warmth.
A rare warmth, these days.
Toya was lying flat on the bed with Akito curled over him, both of them still catching their breath. After a moment Akito rolled to the side, flopping onto his back beside Toya. Toya's hand slipped across the rumpled sheets, intertwining his pinky with Akito's—the smallest gesture. Akito's lips pressed thin, but he tipped his head to bump against Toya's sweaty temple.
"How long?" he heard himself ask.
Toya didn't tense beside him. They both knew the score too well to pretend at dismay. "Two weeks," he murmured. "Then I'm scheduled to perform with the Vienna Philharmonic."
Akito nodded. "I can stay the night," he replied. "We have a show tomorrow evening."
"Should I come?"
Akito took a deep breath. "Better not," he said. "Just to be safe."
Toya nodded.
The two of them stared at the ceiling for a long moment.
"How's your family?" Toya asked, echoing Akito's careful tone.
Toya might have been asking about Ena, or his parents. Akito knew he wasn't. "Fine," Akito said. "Everyone's fine."
Akito knew Toya, every inch of him. Twenty years of learning his habits, his flaws, finding the incomparable beauty inside of him like a gemstone that shone in rare light. Toya knew him too, in a way that no one else would—knew the shapes of his silences, how to soothe him out of any stormy mood, the answers to all the questions that no one else would think to ask. It had been the two of them together against the world all through their adolescence, until their parents drove them apart, until Toya was forced to study abroad. E-mails and nightcord calls, tallying time zone differences on their fingers, years of late night I miss yous, until everything had splintered.
By the time Toya came back, he had finished college and Akito's street music career was well on its way. Toya had changed. So had Akito.
They'd met up anyway, hoping to catch up over coffee. Akito remembered the shock he'd felt upon seeing Toya for the first time, grown out of his willowy adolescence into the confidence of an adult, his grey eyes steely and exhausted. But Akito still knew him: knew how he took his coffee. Knew the melodies he hummed under his breath. Knew the quick sunlight of his smile.
It had only taken a few hours for them to end up in a love hotel, bodies and hands and lips meeting like magnets held too long apart. But by then, Akito had been with his girlfriend for three years. And Toya, genius pianist, world-renowned violinist, would never remain in Japan for long.
So instead, they had this. Moments of omission into which they carved meaning like words carved on a sandy shore.
"A new pancake place opened up nearby," Akito said after a while. "Let's order some in tomorrow."
Toya rolled over, bracketing Akito's body with his own. Their gazes caught and held, and Akito felt his lips go slack with want.
A fever I have learned to live with, Akito thought.
"Tomorrow," Toya agreed, and leaned in.