Chapter Text
In all of Issei’s life, specifically the overlapping twelve years of his younger brother’s life, the little jackass has never had anything useful to say. It’s why when Shuji flops down on what had just been Issei’s neat and tidily folded bed, still in his school uniform, on a late May day so hot that nobody should even be looking at Issei, that the latter knows some bullshit is about to go down.
“Issei-nii,” Shuji wheedles, “Issei bhaiya, will you teach me Hindi?”
“You ate the pack of chips I bought and told everyone in the house not to touch last week, you greedy little piece of shit, why would I do anything for you.” The phrasing still has his eyes flitting to the other though, because until just now, he’d doubted Shuji even knew the word “bhaiya.” Where was this going…
“I’ll buy you another, I swear! I’ll buy you two!” Shuji leans forward to latch on to Issei’s arm, careful not to mess up his homework. “You know Hindi, right? I know you do, I hear you talking sometimes with Baba and everyone back home.”
Well, objectively speaking, yes, Issei did speak Hindi. Up until junior high, he hadn’t been able to string together a sentence for shit, always shrugging off Baba’s attempts to get him to learn. Then when he was eleven, his class had gotten a transfer student from India, a boy who was thrilled when he found out Issei’s family in India spoke Hindi too—not so much when he’d realized Issei himself didn’t know a word of it. Turns out, disappointment is a very strong thing that transcends language barriers, strong enough that Issei had thrown himself into learning the language and its alphabet. Baba had looked like he was about to do cartwheels right there in the genkan the first time Issei asked how his day was in perfect Hindi nearly two years later. Nothing else had really come out of it apart from the occasional mutually intelligible conversation with Hajime. Issei hadn’t suddenly evolved and become one with the motherland, the pinnacle of the perfect Indian boy, or anything like that. Nothing happened.
Until now. Which is why he fixes Shuji with a funny look. “Who said what to you?” he immediately asks.
Shuji looks affronted at the accusation, but still caught red-handed enough that he doesn’t even bother lying, and immediately admits, “There’s this new guy in my class that just got here from Shibuya this week, he’s half too, but he’s really good at Hindi. Like, when his okaa-san—or no, his ma—came to pick him up, they were talking in just Hindi.”
Issei blinks. “So you’re… jealous? Ashamed? What?” Which only serves to get him a loud groan, as the other drops his head down against the arm he’s been gripping for the past almost five minutes now.
“No, like. I think it’s cool to have two cultures or languages or whatever, and know all about both of them. It makes me wish that I knew that much. I’ve always wanted to, I just never know where to start.”
That makes Issei’s heart soften in a way he will never fess to his little brother ever. Shuji had always been the more fond one of their Indian side out of all three Matsukawa siblings. But what Issei doesn’t get is, “So why are you asking me… and not the actual lifelong Hindi speaker in the house?”
He mostly does get it though. Baba would be over the moon to know his other son wanted to learn his language, especially when his only daughter had spent her whole life running from it. Sure, he visited every now and then, even got the rest of the family to come along a few times, but still it wasn’t enough. He looked for his home everywhere, tried to patiently instill it in his children so it could surround him and bring them closer; intentions pure, but a fixation so overbearing, it’d just ended up driving them away.
Shuji raises his head so fast he almost nails Issei, who’s turned his head to look down at the younger, right in the nose. His grip on Issei’s arm tightens as he wails dramatically, “Nii-san, have you met Baba? He’ll go all Indus Valley on me and turn it into a uni level history lesson. I’ll seriously be in college by the time we even get to vowels and consonants. Besides, did you learn from Baba?”
Well. He has him there. Hell no, he didn’t learn from Baba, that’s why it only took two years. Issei thinks for a second, long and hard. He feels extra gracious today, and he’s also craving chips.
“Get me those two bags of chips, and it’s a deal. We start Monday when I’m done my homework.”
“Really?” That has Shuji sitting up with all the grace of a newborn fawn and scrambling out of the room. He pauses in the doorway with a breathless, “Seriously, you won’t regret it, nii-san,” before he’s out the door and clomping down the stairs.
Issei just shakes his head with a huff bordering on fond, and turns back to his Japanese literature homework. Sure he won’t.
“Shuji-kun wants to learn Hindi?” Takahiro asks that following Monday, through a mouthful of the replacement deal chips once Issei walks them all through it.
“He met this other half-Indian transfer kid and it was like love at first sight.” Issei looks down at the messy notes he’s spent the better part of the last ten minutes scribbling down of Hindi letters and the corresponding equivalent sounds in Japanese. “I’ve been hearing about this Rishi kid and how cultured he is since he got back from the konbini with the chips on Friday.”
“Huh, so that’s what the letters look like for you,” Hajime says offhandedly, completely ignoring Issei to lean in to look at his somewhat sloppy barahkhadi. “It’s kinda cute, though, hai na? Kinda like you and me back in middle school.”
That was true enough. By the time he’d turned twelve and moved on to junior high in a different neighborhood, Issei’s accent had cleaned up almost completely, but his grammar was still dogshit. Hajime had come along that year, half-Pakistani and happy to have someone to talk to and wind up Tooru with, even if that someone needed to habitually be reminded the difference between “jab” and “kab” and didn’t understand most of the songs and movies he referenced. Even now, Issei thinks Hajime’s Urdu was what his Hindi finally needed: a friend.
“What do you mean letters look like ‘for me’? You’ve seen these a million times. Baba makes me text him almost exclusively like this. Once Shuji gets a hang of this and blabs to someone about it, it’ll be his turn too.”
Takahiro looks as though he’s about to say something too, but he’s immediately cut off by the violent echoing thud of an airborne box of Pocky landing on the desk they’re all crowded around. Issei turns to the source of the noise to see Tooru, finally back from the konbini, arms full of requested snacks.
“Hope you three didn’t miss me too much,” he chirps, walking over and setting the rest of the goods down on the definitely not big enough desk before anyone can take a dig at him. He finally notices the piece of paper Issei’s bent painstakingly bent over, looks over the big letters at the top where Issei’s written out SHUJI HINDI LETTERS in red pen, and grins. “Mattsun! You’re teaching Shuchan Hindi?”
“Going to,” Takahiro corrects primly, already reaching across to tear open the box of Pocky. “First lesson is today once Issei gets his ass up and finishes his math. He says we might see him less too, if lessons with Shuji-kun take a while.”
Issei doesn’t know if the disappointment in the other’s voice on that last part is really there or just embarrassing wishful thinking. He knows the urge to reach out and gently wipe the little bit of chocolate off his bottom lip is real though.
“Oh, Mattsun, I already know you’ll miss me,” Tooru simpers, and Issei thinks sometimes it gets really hard to tell when he’s joking or not, “so I just wanted to let you know now that I’ll miss you too.”
“Vah mazaak tha,” Hajime tells him, like he’s read his mind. That was a joke. And then, “Lekin phir bhi jaldi se karo, humen uske saath akela mat chhodo.” But still do it quick, don’t leave us alone with him, like he doesn’t practically live at Tooru’s house.
Issei says as much, earnestly letting him know, “Tum uske saath akela hona yeh pasand karoge.” You’d love being alone with him.
At that, Hajime reaches over the desk to try and hit Issei upside the head, otherwise denying jackshit.
“Maybe I should crash Shuchan’s lessons, finally figure out what inside jokes you and Iwa-chan are always telling,” Tooru muses, pulling his chair impossibly closer so that they’re all practically touching knees. He’s not really serious—smug jokes and childish flirting aside, he’s always been good like that, always letting Issei and Hajime have their own secret tongue even when they were kids. It’s why Issei’s always left any real insults and name-calling for when Tooru can talk his own shit back, something he’d never let that snob in on. “Imagine Mattsun-sensei. Or whatever you’d call a teacher—”
“Issei sir,” Hajime supplies helpfully.
“Straight out of a movie.” Tooru nods. “With, like, the gelled hair and the thin ass glasses with the itchy little nose pad thingies. Like Crane in Batman Begins.”
Takahiro nudges the nearly half-empty box of Pocky back towards the middle to generously let everyone else have a chance to take one, even though no one will because they all know he wants the whole thing and is offering it just for show. He considers Tooru’s words. “Hot,” he finally comments sagely, and Issei has to will himself not to gulp loud enough for the whole room to hear. “If your Hindi teaching is anything like the way you turned my history grades around, Shuji-kun’ll be fluent by summer break.”
“Yeah, I was sure Makki was gonna fail history before you stepped in,” Tooru agrees. “Even wanted to get a bet going with Iwa-chan if he’d have to retake the whole class.”
“So who won?”
“Issei! You dick, you’re supposed to be on my side!”
Tooru scoffs, and Issei can feel him aim a kick at Hajime’s shin under the desk that the other doesn’t even acknowledge. “Bet never happened. Iwa-chan here”—he gestures to a completely and utterly unimpressed Hajime—“had to be all goody-goody. ‘Flunking is no laughing matter, Shittykawa, have integrity, be supportive.’ Seriously, this guy’s never on my side.”
Takahiro huffs haughtily. “Well, he sure wasn’t on my side either, considering Issei’s the only one here who did shit that actually brought my grade up,” he proclaims, scooching in close to snake an arm around Issei’s shoulder and pull him into a side-hug.
“I did not use the words ‘laughing matter’ or ‘integrity’, you just fuckin’ made that up.”
They don’t get to argue about it though, because right then the bell rings, signaling that break is over. Hajime and Tooru pick the empty bags and wrappers off the desk, getting up to throw them away while Takahiro stays pressed against Issei’s side, leaning back against his chair, absently scrolling on his phone. Today, Issei’s managed to convince the three of them to come to his classroom for once instead of the usual walk down the hall to Takahiro’s. He savors the last few seconds of it as Takahiro untangles himself from his shoulder to join the other two waiting in the doorway for him.
“Finish that math fast,” he says, encouraging, thumping Issei on the back when he twists around to watch him go.
Issei calls out, “It’s English, you fake ass friend!” at his back. All he gets is a bunch of stares from his classmates and a nonchalant peace sign as Takahiro slips out.
“Shuji! You have a minute to get in here before I call it quits on this Hindi lesson!”
Issei is bluffing, obviously. He didn’t pass up on his usual forty minutes of alone time with Takahiro—or however alone you can get on a public train crammed with other commuters—today to finish his essay early on the way back for no reason. He’d even actually been productive during the free work period they’d been given in class.
Shuji cracks the door open to peek into his room in confusion. “I thought you said we’d only start when your homework was done?”
“I finished early, it was easy today,” Issei lies, making a show of taking out a notebook and patting the bed, “now sit down. We’re starting off with basics today.”
“Like main, tum, aap? I don’t know ‘he’ or ‘she’ though.”
“Yeah, good. Pronouns,” Issei adds. He walks over to the nice whiteboard Baba had gotten him so he could keep track of all his homework, swiftly uncaps the dry erase marker, and scribbles as he talks. “So, ‘main’ is ‘me’, ‘aap’ is the formal ‘you’ that people usually use as the default or as a plural, and ‘tum’ is the informal one that you could use with friends—like Rishi, I guess, if you’re close enough. There’s also ‘tu’, which is really informal, but that one’s almost always off-limits. All of that branches off into, like, other versions, like ‘mujhko’ or ‘apne’, but we’ll start with the bases first. You get it so far?”
Shuji nods eagerly. “‘Main’ is ‘me’, ‘aap’ is special ‘you’ or for lots of people at once, and the ‘tum’ one is, like, casual-ish ‘you.’”
Issei nods. “Kids call their parents ‘aap,’” he tells the younger. “So don’t use anything else on Baba, or we’ll be deep cleaning the house until we move out.”
His little brother pauses like he’s considering something. “Okay. So… I call you ‘tum’?” He sounds hopeful, almost. Adorable.
“Try it and see what happens.”
“You’re teaching Shuji Hindi,” is the greeting he gets from his sister when he plunks himself down in the passenger seat of her old Nissan a few days later. Maya sounds as deeply bored as she usually is about anything related to this, but nosiness has clearly won out over disinterest today. Issei wasn’t exactly planning on sitting through any interrogations about it, but considering she’s driving him to Hajime’s house for free, he doesn’t really seem to have any other choice.
“Finally told someone then, did he?” Issei says casually, buckling himself in. “He was doing a really good job keeping it in, I was seriously impressed.”
“He told us all the next day at dinner when you were at Takahiro’s house,” she admits, voice rife with amusement, as she reverses out onto the residential street. “He’s not exactly discreet about it either. He taped up that alphabet chart thing you gave him in his room.”
“What, and no one said anything?”
“Otou-san wasn’t all disappointed that Shuji didn’t come to him like you’re probably thinking,” Maya tells him, because she’s always had that weird older sister sixth sense. “He was happy Shuji wanted to learn and stuff, but he was even more pumped that you’re teaching him. It’s like a bonding moment and a whole ‘embracing your background’ thing too. Okaa-san thought it was sweet and stuff too, since she’s already been learning that shit for otou-san.”
There it was. That bit of scorn that’s always there whenever Maya speaks of anything India when she’s not trying to ignore it altogether, like it’s some curse that’s been put on them. And Issei, he’d never been a sabzi bento patriot, but he’d never been ashamed of it, not like the way his sister had shut it out. Her name itself; Baba had chosen it, a name existing in both their cultures that never ended up admired for its origin by anyone but him—Maya; “magic”, “illusion”, another name of the goddess Lakshmi.
“‘That shit’,” he parrots carefully. “I don’t get why you hate it so much. Not like you can change it. It’s like, part of us. Nothing wrong with it.”
He sees her shoot him a sidelong glance, before looking away to signal the upcoming turn. “Obviously there’s nothing wrong with it,” she says, like he’s stupid. “I didn’t ask to have a dad from India though, did I. I never wanted to be part of any of this. Otou-san finally left me alone about it when you learned and, like, became the favorite. Like you and Shuji even call him ‘Baba’ and stuff.”
“Favorite?” Issei says, incredulous and a little irritated, because now she’s just lying to his face to play the “stuck between two worlds” card again. “He just likes having someone to talk to in Hindi now. Baba’s always been the fatherly kind, you just never fucking liked that.”
Maya just huffs a little, tells him, “Y’know, there’s nothing wrong with it, you don’t have to get all mad and defensive.”
Issei doesn’t say anything to that, doesn’t say anything at all for the rest of the ride. Until they pull up in front of the Iwaizumi residence, and his sister immediately clicks on the manual lock so he can’t fling his door open and throw himself out the exact second the car stops like the way he’d planned in his head. His body still facing the door, he turns his head back towards her a little begrudgingly.
“Listen, Issei,” Maya starts, looking right at him and taking on that gentle voice she’d always talk in whenever he’d get upset when they were kids, “it was shitty of me to provoke you like that. It’s cool you learned it, and it’s sweet you’re teaching Shuji-chan, and it’s nice you’re finally that language buddy otou-san’s been wanting for so long. But I’m just not into it, and I probably won’t ever be, so let’s not argue, okay?”
“Okay. We’re not. Arguing, I mean. You don’t have to be into it.”
Maya smiles, knowing full well that’s the closest thing to an apology or a vulnerable admission she’ll get out of him over anything short of an earth-shattering clash. “Get back safe,” she tells him, “and just stay over if it gets too late, I’ll convince otou-san. See you at home.”
Issei nods, says a bye, and stands outside and watches her drive off until her car disappears down the bend at the end of the road from the sidewalk where she’ll be able to see him—a teenage boy peace treaty. He turns, starts the walk up to the Iwaizumis’ door and gives a firm knock. The last of his annoyance from earlier fizzles away when Hajime’s mother Nasreen aunty answers with that warm smile he’s known constantly for the last four years and immediately steps aside so he can enter.
“Issei!” she exclaims happily, her accent leaving a stress on the first syllable, “Welcome, beta, come in, the boys are all upstairs in Hajime’s room, they’ve been waiting for you!”
He gives her a “salaam” and a “shukriya” with his friendliest smile in return, a reserved one he rarely gives anyone these days. He sits patient through her caring interrogation, telling her that yes, everyone at home is doing okay and all their studies are going well too; no, there was absolutely nothing wrong with the homemade mutton nihari she’d gotten Hajime to give them the day before and in fact, it was almost all gone; yes, they would all absolutely have to get together sometime soon. With an affectionately motherly smoothing down of his unruly curls, she leaves him to make his way upstairs.
“Look who’s finally here,” Tooru comments from his spot on Hajime’s bed where he’s reading a book from off Hajime’s shelf when he hears Issei open the door. “We were starting to think you’d stand us up.”
“Stand you up, maybe,” Takahiro declares, spinning aimlessly on Hajime’s swivel chair that he’s no doubt kicked the latter off of, “I know my Issei would never do that to me, not after the billions of yen he’s spent buying me creampuffs.”
Hajime, the man, the myth, the legend—relegated to hunkering on the mat while he finishes the last of a math worksheet, which he’s seemingly done all of against the wool—looks up at Issei from the floor, entirely unaffected. “Can Shuji answer ‘yes or no’ questions yet?” he asks nonchalantly.
“You know you could just tell Oikawa-san of the Mattress to shove over?” Issei asks in return. He gestures to said sprawled out mass on the bed, who is still nose deep in what Issei can now see to be Hajime’s copy of the new Hunger Games book that came out last summer. After another second, he adds, “And yes, our very dedicated Shuji jaan is up to complex questions now.”
Tooru looks up to very kindly remind him, “Childhood best friends slash high school sweethearts privileges,” which Issei did not want to remember at all, before he follows it up with, “Nice work, sensei—at this rate, he’ll be kicking your ass at it one day.” Which does form a flare of pride in Issei’s chest but also reminds him of the horrible inevitable idea of Shuji being all grown up and independent and not needing him anymore.
He refuses to think about it anymore; instead he heavily sits himself down on the floor against the bed next to Hajime, sinking down low so his head is against the side of the mattress and he’s practically lying down against the tatami. Quiet seeps into the room, save for the constant scrape of Hajime’s pencil against paper, the occasional scratchy flip of Tooru turning the page, and the chair frantically squeaking as Takahiro spins to his heart’s content. It lasts for only a minute or two longer, until Takahiro suddenly stops the chair and stands up, staggering a bit from the dizziness.
“Okay, you guys,” he starts, looking down at all of them, “Hajime's birthday is this month and then Tooru's birthday and summer vacation starts next month back to back.”
“Yes,” Hajime says slowly, blinking up at the rosy-haired, “like every year.”
Takahiro stares at him like he’s lost his mind. “Our last summer vacation before we have to be all adult-y and head off to university. We can’t sit on our asses this year, we have to make big plans and shit, like in those American movies. Like taking the train down to Tokyo and lying to our parents about it or something.”
“We should’ve never let you watch Superbad,” Tooru tells him. He sits up and puts the book aside though, interest obviously piqued. “Day out in Tokyo would be fun though. But we’d need, like, a shit ton to get tickets for all four of us.”
“To be fair, we all practically share a bank account anyway,” Issei points out. “Hajime’s the stingiest guy I know—his checking could probably fund the tickets on its own.”
“No shit you don’t have any money when you’re basically Hanamaki’s sugar daddy.”
The comment makes warm scarlet bloom at the tips of Issei’s ears and Takahiro has to save him from himself by swiftly butting in with, “You should be embarrassed actually, you’re letting those kaiju keychains and shirts Oikawa gets you pile up without ever opening up your own busted wallet.”
“Oh fuck off. He puts them on his gym bag that no one even knows is his because I’m the one always holding it for him and walking him home.”
“Excuses, excuses…”
“It’s okay, Iwa-chan,” Tooru says, placatingly patting Hajime’s shoulder in a way that makes it obvious he’s just making fun of him, “I think it’s super chivalrous that you’re always willing to walk all the way back to your house next door after dropping me off.”
Hajime launches a pillow at his head.
By the time Issei and Takahiro are pulling their shoes on in the Iwaizumi genkan three hours and one homemade courtesy-of-Nasreen aunty dinner later, they’ve settled their plans for the next few months. For Hajime’s birthday, they’d go downtown and roam around in the city; for Tooru’s, a day trip to the Miyagi seaside, somehow figuring out a way to secretly bring along two cakes. And as per Takahiro’s 2000’s teen film influenced wishes, a day—or if any of their grades this year had been enough, two or three—out in Tokyo sometime in between.
“Don’t walk home,” Takahiro tells Issei when they’re walking down the street, scuffing their shoes. “Just spend the night at my house. It’s close, you know it is. It’s better than walking in the dark.”
“Okay,” Issei answers easily, like the chance to be near the other would ever be something he’d refuse.
It’s late twilight when they get there, and Issei swears all the light in the sky’s gone in the time it takes Takahiro to finally unlock the door. Padding down the hallway on socked feet, they turn into the family room, where Natsume is sitting up backwards on the couch on her knees, arms resting across it as she looks at them, clearly having been listening to their struggle to get in.
“It took you only three minutes to get the door open this time,” she informs Takahiro very matter-of-factly, before adding to Issei with all the nonchalance of someone whose house he’s in almost every day since the last two years, “Welcome home, Issei-nii. Just go ahead and move into Hiro-nii’s room when you’re upstairs tonight.”
He loves this kid; she’s a whole year younger than Shuji, but she’s got just as much heartfelt audacity and every bit Takahiro's familiar wit.
“So you just listened to me wrestle that stupid broken door lock and didn’t do anything?” Takahiro demands. “Okaa-san didn’t give birth to you so you could leave your older brother outside in the dark!”
“Okaa-san didn’t give birth to you so you could fight with a keyhole and lose.”
Issei takes the ensuing bickering as a moment to fish out his phone from his pocket and open up his chat with his sister.
To Neesan
> At hiros house. Can u tell baba 4 me
From Neesan
> told him earlier u might stay over 2nite www
> n he said ok btw have fun ^^
He shoves the phone back into his pocket, just in time to witness the bickering come to a close as Hanamaki-san walks in through the open sliding door after what can only be another night of forgetting to water the flowers in the garden earlier. “There’s my favorite sixteen-year-old squatter,” she says when she sees him, just as warmly as the other four times he’d come over just this week alone. Then she shakes her head at her two kids, giving each other dirty looks from across the room. “Seriously, you two, it hasn’t even been five minutes that you’ve been in the same room and you’re both already arguing. Not a moment of peace in this house.”
“A quiet house is a boring house,” Takahiro insists, as she continues to stare at them, unimpressed. “Besides, this is quiet. If Saori nee-san was here, the house’d be shaking.”
“Shaking,” Hanamaki-san agrees sarcastically. “Natsume, go brush your teeth and head to bed, you have a doctor’s appointment early tomorrow. Saori’s spending the night at her friends’.” She notes aloud, making her way upstairs while herding Natsume along, Issei and Takahiro close behind. She pauses in the open doorway of Takahiro’s room just behind them for a second, tells them, “Oh, and boys, it might not be a school night, but don’t stay up too late. I need your help in the garden tomorrow morning whether you like it or not,” and walks past before either of them can answer.
Immediately, Takahiro moves to shut the door, before opening up his laptop, back facing Issei in a deeply familiar routine. “Just change here while I pick a movie. Why’d you even wear jeans and a layer long sleeve tee to lay around on Hajime’s floor when it’s, like, a million degrees out, you fuckin’ freak.”
“So I can wear your clothes right now. Obviously.” Familiar fragrant detergent smell envelopes him in the small cloak of fabric as Issei pulls the cotton shirt over his head, and down against the expanse of his chest and back. The two inches he has on Takahiro are palpable in the way his collarbones don’t peek out as much as the other’s do over the shirt neckline and the legs of the borrowed sweatpants ride up a little higher on his ankles.
“Understandable,” Takahiro answers a little distractedly, eyes still on the screen, “I know how you’re, like, obsessed with me.”
He’s so immersed in scrolling through the catalog of movies that he doesn’t even notice Issei peek over his shoulder and ask incredulously, “Are you looking at Bollywood movies?”
That has him violently jerking his head back and looking up at Issei. He looks uncharacteristically nervous, and Issei has no idea why. “Yeah,” Takahiro says, thickly. He turns a little more to face Issei fully. “Since you started teaching Shuji-kun Hindi, we’ve been talking about India—er, your culture—more. And it just made me think, we’ve been spending every day together since first year but we’ve never really mentioned it. Ever. You’ve sat through tons of dramas and J-pop girl group songs for me, but I’d never even thought of doing anything like that for you.”
It’s maybe the most thoughtful thing anyone’s ever done for Issei. Scratch that, it absolutely is. But it’s vulnerability that’s asking for vulnerability in return, something Issei’s never been good at, so he ruins everything. “What, you seriously care that much?”
He doesn’t know why he says it, regret immediately making its way up his throat in a lump at the way the other’s face falls and ices over. But instead of screwing up his face, telling Issei with an angry scoff that he can “talk to him when he’s done being an asshole” and falling into punishing silent treatment when Issei fucks things up like this, Takahiro looks him right in the eyes unflinchingly.
“Yeah, I do,” he says, grave and brusque. He shoves aside the laptop to stand up so they’re eye level. “Because it’s you; it’s part of you. I care about you. Is that so hard to believe? Seriously, you’re so fucking emotionally constipated—God, just forget it.”
He rises to his feet, making to leave the room to go brush his teeth maybe, but Issei comes in between, reaching out for his wrist.
“Hey, listen, I’m sorry. Will you look at me?”
Takahiro doesn’t budge, but he doesn’t try to move away either.
“Hiro,” Issei pleads, “can you please look at me?”
It seems like he won’t, but he gives in, turns to face Issei; the anger from before has died down into something more like disappointment. It’s like he’s taking Issei apart with his gaze, but still it feels nothing like scrutinization. “What?” he asks, voice a little hoarse even though he’d just spoken.
“I’m sorry,” is what Issei says at once, and then everything else comes spilling from his lips in succession because he can’t mess this up. “I know you care about me. It’s, like, the one thing I’ve never had to question. The Bollywood movie thing—” he gestures a little nonsensically to the abandoned laptop on the bed, face up with catalog still open—“it’s the most considerate shit anyone’s ever done for me. I just…”
Takahiro raises an eyebrow. “You just…?”
“I just. Don’t really know how to deal with someone caring about every part of me,” Issei admits, and it’s more vulnerability than he’s shown in the past year—and he hates this weird uncomfortable feeling but he’ll show so much more of it if he has to. “Not when I don’t exactly care about this part of me, I don’t even know anything about it. It’s like, not even Baba cared as much as he did when I learned Hindi. And—and you, you care so much, I don’t know how to deal with it.”
Takahiro’s eyes are two deep pools of inky black that Issei can see his own struggling lips moving in, two deep pools shining with understanding. All the anger is gone from the rosy-haired’s face, like it’s been gently wiped off.
“I shouldn’t have said that, it was shitty. Shitty to play down you thinking of me, wanting to think of this part of me. You always have, honestly. I’ve never felt like some abnormal freak with you,” Issei tells him, before promptly putting his foot back in his mouth. “But I’ll, uh, I’ll buy you creampuffs for the rest of our lives or something. Well, I already do that anyways—but I mean, I’m not trying to, like, buy your forgiveness or anything—”
“Your ears,” Takahiro interrupts gleefully, shutting him right up, “they’re so red, holy shit. I bet if I touched them, they’d be so warm. You were freaking the fuck out, huh.”
“Obviously,” Issei murmurs, reaching up to press against his ears briefly. They are warm. “We can’t fall out over, like, movie night.”
The other softens a little, glances down at the grip Issei’s hand still has on him for a split second. “We won’t,” he says, taking back his wrist only when Issei begrudgingly lets go. “It was shitty, what you said, but it makes sense. I’ve never had to be the odd one out or have this fixed part of me I don’t know a thing about because of where my dad’s from. And I never had, like, a lifetime of friendships that were just emotionally unavailable boyness like you did either. So I get it. Movie night’s still on too,” Takahiro adds as an afterthought as he makes his way past to retrieve the laptop. “We can just watch something else—”
“Jab We Met.”
“What?” Takahiro turns around, looking just as surprised as Issei.
“Jab We Met,” Issei repeats, this time more confidently, “it’s one of my favorite Bollywood movies, the first one I ever watched. It’s a romcom, and the girl, she’s kind of like you, actually.”
“Okay,” Takahiro says easily, leaning back against the pillows, “tell me all about it.”
“Okay,” Issei agrees just as easily, presses up against Takahiro as the other hits play; right where he belongs.