Tsukuyomi’s always been an enigma, in Ichimatsu’s life.
He doesn’t know how he feels about her. She’s not shitty, for one— for once there’s a person outside his brothers he feels like he could trust (at least— that’s what he thought before), could actually be comfortable with: not be afraid to be himself, around, with who he can put his walls down, even for just a bit, instead of constantly being afraid of judgement and wayward accusing thoughts. But— he feels something, around her, something gripping his heart and his mind and sends his face on fire, and he wants to touch her but he doesn’t, he wants to talk to her but he can’t, and it’s because of something else and he doesn’t know why—
it’s bizarre, insane, and he doesn’t know what to think of it. Any of it.
But now it’s not just that, because he’s not sure, anymore— about the judgement, about the accusing thoughts. Never before has he had to worry about what she thought of him (she was the only one, then, it seemed), but now it’s the only thing crowding his brain, and even if the talk with Karamatsu’s helped, a little, he’s only gained the courage to text her— nothing more.
He starts their third meeting (and he thinks— they’re only on their third, they’ve only talked three times before but it’s always felt like so much more) just like Karamatsu’s: a text, to come, then another with coordinates, and then nothing at all. Nothing more, because— one, his hands are trembling like crazy, despite all the help his older brother’s given, and two, because despite all Karamatsu’s said he’s still afraid, and even if he’s found the courage to do this he’s still can’t bring himself to say anymore— at least until he can see her, before his very eyes, because some part of him feels that if she delivers the truth it’d be better if they were face to face, eye to eye.
(Maybe it’ll hurt, he knows, but at least not as much as some dumb text. It’d be better to have it end here and now and not with some pixels on a screen, to tie it up and not leave anything hanging.)
This time, though, he’s not at a bench; instead he’s at a garden, because he knows how much she likes them. Maybe it’s stupid, and maybe it’ll make it worse, somehow, but he feels it appropriate, in a twisted sort of way. At least when she rejects him, tells him how much she hates him, she’ll be with something she likes better. Or something like that— he doesn’t know.
He’s pacing, twisting at the insides of his sweater pockets when she finally arrives. He hears her, first— and he startles, violently, recognizing for the first time the sweat that beads on his cheekbones, the beating that pounds at his heart. It’s not the first time his body’s reacting like this, but now it’s smothered over with something more afraid, not hopeful, and— he swallows, loudly, for a moment unable to find any words.
“Tsukuyomi-san, I—” and he swallows, again, when something lodges in his throat. There’s a burning at the edges of his eyes, and he turns away so she wouldn’t see him crying.
He breathes in, deeply, his lungs quivering, and presses his eyes closed.
