i just think you should know that i loved you: 6 Years Ago
Author’s Note: this one’s personal. 🖤 1 part written, 4 to write.
i just think you should know that i loved you: 6 Years Ago
Shinazugawa Sanemi x Reader
Word Count: ~900
CW: cheating, Fem!Reader, mild sexual content, sm*king
~faqs~
6 Years Ago
The view of the city is admittedly subpar from his cramped and dusty window, cracked open on hinges so rusted that you occasionally worry the whole thing might give out. If you press slightly farther into his personal space and crane your neck, then you can just make out the blinking red lights that adorn the topmost skyscraper. Shorter buildings sprawl from that topmost point, and though you can’t quite see it, a moonlit river wraps itself around the metropolis, separating hustle and bustle from the quieter melancholy of his artists and vagabonds neighborhood. You feel safe making your way to him, and a little less lonely too. Sure, his younger brother breaks your heart with his critical eyes and accusing smiles whenever you visit, and yeah, the five previous years of nothingness stretch loud and stark between you and him, but the trade off feels worth it. You only leave behind a complacent man and two years of I love you, I love you more every time you slink into his embrace. Who knew a solid, virile body was a text message away?
“Want one?”
He always offers you a cigarette, a soft 2am breeze ensuring his secondhand smoke makes it into the summer night, and not back into his tiny apartment.
“No thanks.”
You always refuse, thinking instead about how nice it would be to nudge aside his arms and curl yourself into his naked chest. You’d brave the scent of cancer risk for the sensation of feeling like his.
But Sanemi won’t do romance. At least, not with you.
You’re distinctly aware that this moment is fleeting, and thus take a snapshot of it with your mind. He sits on the bottom corner of his bed, staring toward the city, albeit bed is too generous a noun. Really, it’s a sheet of plywood resting atop five stacks of cement blocks. He’s had to rebuild the structure a few times since you reconnected — it’s a miracle neither of you have fallen through. A shoddy lamp takes up the corner in front of him with an oddly large television to the right of it. His desk occupies the remainder of his room (another too generous noun considering that the wall segmenting his room from the kitchen is in fact two paneled room dividers, both yellowed and brittle), and you have to wonder if he owns any clothes besides the outfit you usually see him in. Perhaps there’s a dresser in his younger brother’s room, door and four walls included. He’s always given more to Genya than he’s ever kept for himself.
Lavender eyes flicker from dilapidated sidewalks to your hands on the windowsill, a warm, teasing light accentuating the muscular curve of his forearms and biceps, your body casting the occasional shadow upon his own as you stand between him and the lamp. Threadbare, grey shorts hang low on his hips, criss crossing scars and stretch marks rippling faint on his skin. You often marvel at the changes, though they also seem remarkably fitting — like he was always going to grow into this gorgeous, hardened man. His hair is still white, lips still thin (their sweetness, newly discovered), and nose still elegantly shaped, but little else remains of the boy you almost knew. Passion persists. He aspires to nonchalance, but the way he cradles your neck when he’s thrusting into you—the way he allows you to hold his gaze—gives him away. Familiarity persists too. You shower together, and sometimes even walk his dog together. But you wonder about his creativity and ambition. About his friends and his mother. About the boy who used to dream and challenge and undertake, turned into a man eager enough for your company, but unwilling to ask you to stay.
“Where do you see yourself in five years?”
His question surprises you, and you’re reluctant to leave the alcove of this moment, so full of things-you-should-probably-say, but you ignore all of those things and answer him instead.
“Hopefully done with school.”
He waits. You sigh.
“Maybe Kyojuro and I will move in together. I doubt we’ll be engaged.”
He raises an eyebrow. You should look embarrassed. Now would be a perfectly appropriate time for it. But there is no embarrassment with Sanemi — only an aching acceptance of what will eventually come to pass.
“So you see a future with him?”
“I mean, yeah,” you shrug.
Why wouldn’t I?
Why wouldn’t you.
He nods, cigarette glowing brighter than his eyes when he says, “Sounds nice.”
“And you?”
He answers surprisingly quickly, like he’d actually hoped to share an intangible piece of himself with you tonight: “Genya can take care of himself. I don’t know if I like being this close to the city. Maybe I’ll buy some land out west and just…”
Disappear.
“Would you want to live in an house?”
“Sure.”
He stubs his cigarette on the windowsill, a small pile of butts tucked into the left side, and smiles. Of course, whenever he smiles, you ache. How tender and out of place such a gesture is; a frail reminder of what his love looks like, without ever allowing it to sink in — without ever allowing it to take root. You’ve been happy, though, not even growing with him. Just, being.
“Movie? Round two? Sleep?”
Your snapshot ends here, what-could’ve-been written on the walls-not-walls of a temporary home.
