[Fic] Start Anywhere
Title: Start Anywhere
Fandom: Samurai Flamenco
Pairing: Goto Hidenori/Hazama Masayoshi
Warnings/Spoilers: vague spoilers through episode 11
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,899
Summary: It’s hard to become a superhero overnight without experiencing a bit of an identity crisis.
Notes: I wanted to experiment with writing from Masayoshi’s POV here - it’s basically my idea of what a reunion/reconnection with Goto would look like during the From Beyond arc (before the twist we see at the end of episode 15). ^_^
The other Flamengers sleep at the base, but more often than not, Masayoshi finds himself back at his apartment in the city at the end of the day. No one questions his commute, or his time spent away from the group. They know about Ishihara-san, about his obligations.
His space is quiet, and calm. It sprawls around him effortlessly, and for that, he’s grateful. He’s never known how to do anything effortlessly. Not really, anyway.
He’s grateful for the familiar curve of the couch, for the water pressure in the shower, and the boxes of action figures lining his closet, even for the ashtray out on the balcony that’s almost full to the brim with cigarette butts that don’t belong to him. He can relax when he’s here, surrounded by these things. Without it, he’s sure he wouldn’t recognize the person staring back at him in the mirror every morning. He still doesn’t, sometimes.
He wonders what other people see, when his image pops up in magazines, or on the evening news. He wonders if they can see all the way down to his core, like he feels like they can, sometimes. He wonders how obvious his uncertainty is, if it feels like a betrayal.
He wonders what Goto sees.
And then he reminds himself that he already knows, that Goto’s eyes always reflect the truth. What he sees in them is enough to make his skin crawl, if he’s not careful.
**
Sometimes he sits there in the darkness, and remembers a time in the not so distant past, when he might have been sitting here with Goto, the lights down, and an episode of Harakiri Sunshine playing up on the screen. He remembers a time when that, at least, had felt effortless. He thinks about switching the TV system on, and sometimes he does, but more often than not he can’t bring himself to do it. His heroes have become less recognizable, too, and he’s not brave enough to examine what that might mean.
Goto could probably tell him.
But Masayoshi is a coward; he would never ask something like that that of his friend. He could never burden Goto with something so trivial.
**
Days pass in a blur of obligations - photo shoots, awards shows, hair and makeup. And then of course there’s the actual job, the fighting, which lately tends to boil down to its component parts - the plastic of the suit, the smell of explosives, his teammates’ voices in his ears. Sometimes, there’s blood. The thick, coppery tang of it settles in his nose and his throat.
There’s a numbness that sets in, in certain moments. He can feel its creep, starting with his skin and working its way through his muscles, his blood, his bones. It keeps him going through long-winded speeches that extol the virtues of the Flamengers, praising their efforts in saving the city from an endless stream of foes. It keeps him clear-headed during fights, keeps him connected to his teammates, in tune with them. It keeps him calm when he wants to scream, when he wants to tell them that all of this feels like a joke sometimes, like a ridiculous ploy to get them to serve as entertainment for the masses.
Sometimes the numbness lingers. It drapes over him like a heavy coat at the end of the day. A buffer that separates him from the rest of the world, from the person he was when he had the luxury of depending on others.
He’s not sure if he wants to shake it off, or draw it closer.
**
It’s late, past ten on a Tuesday, and normally, Masayoshi would probably still be working. But the rehearsal for tomorrow’s variety show had been cancelled at the last second. He’s been sitting around with the script half open on his lap, doing what he can to prepare on his own for the past hour or so. When his phone buzzes at him, he nearly jumps.
He answers without thinking, and suddenly, Goto is there on the other end of the line. It takes him a couple of seconds to find his voice.
“…And so I told him he should call you directly, but you know these bureaucratic types, always need a middle man. I can call Ishihara-san in the morning - I just wanted to run it by you first.”
“Sorry,” Masayoshi finds himself saying. “You kind of caught me in the middle of something.”
He knows his voice must sound strange, he has a feeling he’s pausing in all the wrong places.
“Hey,” Goto says, and there’s a softness to his tone that does something funny to Masayoshi’s stomach. “Is everything okay? You sound kind of off.”
“I’m-" Masayoshi starts, but he’s not expecting his voice to break off so quickly. He swallows, and the lump in his throat gets bigger. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m okay, it’s just been…”
“What?” Goto prompts, as Masayoshi tries to pull himself together.
“I’ve just been really busy,” he manages. “Busy is good though, right?”
“Not always,” Goto says, and Masayoshi can hear the frown in his voice. “Look, I’m right around the corner - mind if I stop by?”
There’s a rush of panic that slams up against him - he doesn’t really understand it, but it’s the same jittery feeling of dread he’s been experiencing for a while now when he thinks about calling Goto, or when he remembers how easy it used to be, sharing a meal together, or finding the time to talk on the phone, even. Everything feels like a risk now, even something as innocent as this - a friend stopping by unexpectedly. Especially this, maybe.
There’s a voice inside his head that he can’t shake, that tells him he’s a coward, that he has one friend, just one, and that he can’t even handle that. He can’t keep a single thing safe amidst all this chaos. And it’s true. He can’t keep their friendship safe anymore than he can keep anything else safe. It’s all malleable - his life, the world he thought he knew. Even this, the one thing he thought wouldn’t change.
But the tone of Goto’s voice is familiar, comfortable and teasing. He’s telling Masayoshi that honestly, he doesn’t care if Masayoshi minds or not, because he’s already on his way, that he’ll bring food, that he’s hanging up. And then he does hang up, and Masayoshi is left with the quiet of the apartment to surround him again.
It takes him a second to realize that it’s his heart that he can hear pounding in his chest, thumping so hard in the silence, persistent and alive.
**
He buzzes Goto in about ten minutes later. Masayoshi stands there in the genkan, shifting from foot to foot as he waits, surprised by the way his heart seems to sail up a little with each familiar sound until finally there’s a knock at the door.
“I hope you’re hungry,” Goto says by way of greeting, as he toes off his shoes.
He smells like the city as he passes - like outside, and freedom, and danger. Masayoshi wraps his fingers around the door frame, gripping it tight.
“I brought curry.” Goto holds up the conbini bag as proof. “Even had them warm it up. I figured you might not have anything on hand, since you’re gone so much these days.”
“Yeah, I’ve been eating between jobs a lot - Ishihara-san knows what I like.”
“You mean she knows all the curry places within a 2 kilometer radius at all times…”
Masayoshi realizes how tense he must have been when he laughs, and the air in the room suddenly feels about a hundred times lighter.
“Yeah, maybe,” he admits, smiling a little.
Goto hands him a bowl of curry and a plastic spoon. It’s warm, and the lid is completely fogged over. He wouldn’t know it was curry inside at all, except for the smell.
“I’m starving,” Goto says, and starts to dig in.
Masayoshi watches him for a second before he remembers that he’s supposed to be eating too.
The curry warms the tips of his fingers, and his mouth. It’s good. The flavor is rich enough, but it’s nothing like his homemade variety. He’s not usually one to succumb to nostalgia, but right now, he’s almost floored by it. It flushes in his cheeks, and brings a lump to his throat that he has trouble swallowing past. He closes his eyes, gripping the plastic spoon so hard he’s surprised it doesn’t break in half.
He doesn’t realize that Goto has been saying his name until he feels a firm grip on his arm. When he opens his eyes, Goto’s face is right there, so close he has to blink a few times before he can properly focus on him. His friend’s eyes are alert and bright with concern, searching his face.
This is not something that is supposed to happen. Heroes are strong, they inspire trust in their friends. That trust is absolute, it’s what protects them from the evils of the world, what inspires them to keep going, even when their lives and livelihoods are threatened at every turn. It’s what keeps them safe. Heroes don’t depend on people; it’s the other way around. It has to be.
“Please,” Goto is saying, and Masayoshi realizes that Goto’s grip on his arm has gotten even tighter. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“No,” Masayoshi says. “I’m sorry.”
He tries halfheartedly to pull his arm away from Goto, and when that doesn’t work, he decides he’ll go into full evasive maneuver mode, Flamenger-style. This works a lot better. He’s had countless drills with Kaname-san, after all, but in the process, he knocks his container of curry to the floor. He watches rice spill out over the edge of the bowl, and curry slop onto the floor in a giant lump. For a second he’s paralyzed. If he moves at all, he’s sure he’ll be right in Goto’s grips again.
He stands there for a second, watching Goto watch him, his eyes wide. When Goto takes a step towards him, he doesn’t take a step back like he should, and in a second, Goto’s arm is firmly wrapped around Masayoshi’s elbow. Before he has a chance to maneuver his away out again, he’s being led back to the couch. Goto instructs him to sit, and he does. He’s surprised when Goto walks past him and into the kitchen.
He comes back with a couple of towels, and after the curry mess has been sorted, he sits down on the couch next to Masayoshi and lets out a sigh.
“You’re a lot of work when you’re like this, you know that?”
Masayoshi frowns. “Like what?”
“Well, that’s what I’d like to find out.”
“I can’t-I’m sorry.”
“You keep saying that. The problem is,” Goto says, staring pointedly at Masayoshi, “I don’t have a clue what it means.”
Masayoshi can’t think of a single thing to say to that.
“Look.” Goto sighs. “Let me get something straight. We’re friends, right?”
“Of course,” Masayoshi says quickly. “Why are you asking me that?”
“Because friends, well… They talk to each other. They share things. And I don’t know the first thing about anything in your life anymore.”
The words hang there for a second between them.
“Are you angry with me?” Masayoshi asks. His voice is flat, like he wants it to be, but it hardly feels like an accomplishment with Goto looking at him like this, like he wants to punch him in the face, maybe.
“Damn right I’m angry!” Goto says, and his eyes flash up to Masayoshi’s.
He can tell that Goto means it. The look in his eyes makes something twist in Masayoshi’s stomach. He feels sick.
“Do you want to know why?” Goto’s voice is a touch softer now.
“Yes,” Masayoshi tells him, nodding. “Yes, please.”
“I gave up a lot for you. Took a lot of risks to try and keep you safe. I did my best to protect you. And then I supported you. And all of that… It’s not something I take lightly. Friendship,” Goto says, looking straight at Masayoshi, “is not something I take lightly.”
“And I get that you’re busy, and that all of this takes a toll on your social life, but when I see you like this, when you’re upset, and you won’t tell me why, well… I guess I just wish you trusted me half as much as you’ve asked me to trust you.”
Goto runs his hand over his face, and lets out a weird, throaty laugh that Masayoshi barely recognizes. “How’s that for honesty?”
Masayoshi tries to smile, but he can feel his face crumpling before he’s even halfway there. Before he knows it, hot, ugly, messy tears are rolling down his face. He tries to brush them away, tries to swallow them back but it’s not working, he can feel them sliding down past his chin, and his neck. It’s hopeless, he thinks. He’s ruined everything.
“I’m sorry,” he says, even though he knows it doesn’t mean anything, that the words are empty without some kind of explanation. He has no idea where he’d even start if he wanted to. If he’d ever finish once he did.
When Goto pulls him close, he’s relieved.
He can feel his friend’s hands on his back, knotted up in the folds of his sweater, trying to find the right grip. He experiments with those words again - a quiet I'm sorry against Goto’s chest, right over Goto’s heart. He says it because he means it, and somehow the words don’t sound nearly as empty now. Goto being here like this suddenly feels like a gift, like something he hadn’t even realized he wanted so badly until this moment.
“I’m sorry I’m so bad at this,” Masayoshi says. His head feels heavy; he’s grateful for Goto’s shoulder, for the hand against his neck, holding him in place. “I do trust you. But I don’t know how to be a good friend to you. I don’t know how to be a hero. I don’t really know how to do anything,” he whispers.
Goto’s fingers thread through his hair for a moment; it’s comforting and familiar, and Masayoshi wonders if maybe there’s still a tiny spark of good under all of this, a tiny shimmer of hope, maybe.
“I wanted to come and find you so many times, to call you and tell you about everything, but… I think there might be too much,” he admits.
“It’s not all or nothing, you know. You can start small,” Goto says, and the sound is so close, it could be inside Masayoshi’s head. “Or start big, it doesn’t matter - just talk to me.”
Masayoshi takes a deep breath. Goto is breathing, too, he can feel the rise and fall of it against his cheek.
“I missed you so much,” Masayoshi says, because it’s both the biggest, and the smallest thing he can think of. He pulls away for a second, and realizes that Goto is grinning at him.
“I missed you too, you idiot.”
Masayoshi laughs, and then just as he’s about to wonder what he’s supposed to do next, Goto kisses him.
At first it’s just a quick brush of his lips against Masayoshi’s - impulsive, maybe - but then Goto takes a steady breath, and then another before he lines them up properly, and starts again. This time it’s as if all the air in the room has suddenly evaporated. Their shared breath is a lifeline, the only thing keeping him afloat.
This is like none of the times they’ve done this before. It’s deliberate, full of weight, and purpose.
On second thought, it’s a little like the first time, maybe. But there’s less fumbling, less bumping of noses, less hesitation, because they’ve already mapped this out. Goto tastes the same, like cigarettes and curry, and like something darker, something less easy-to-distinguish, too. It’s amazing, Masayoshi thinks, that all of this has survived. He thinks it could undo everything, that all of the strength he’s built up, all that independence could vanish in a day, maybe, in an hour.
He doesn’t feel like a hero at all, with his lips pressed against Goto’s like this. He feels like some other, better version of himself, maybe. He could lose himself in this feeling. Part of him wants to.
“You know you can tell me anything,” Goto says a moment later. His lips brush against Masayoshi’s, almost playful, but still a little tentative. “I’m a cop, remember? I’ve heard everything before. Well, almost everything.”
Masayoshi nods. He can feel Goto’s breath against his nose; there’s warmth all around him. He’s not sure if he’s unraveling, or being stitched back together. If this is the beginning, or the beginning of the end. He knows he’s done things that may change the way Goto sees him. It’s all become so complicated.
He honestly doesn’t know where to start. He stares helplessly at Goto.
“Just start anywhere,” Goto says. “I’m sharper than I look.”
Masayoshi smiles and it feels a bit like parting the fog, like rubbing his hand across the mirror after he’s stepped out of the shower, messy streaks that drip onto the edges of the sink.
If he squints, he thinks he can almost make out someone he recognizes on the other side.
end
Fandom: Samurai Flamenco
Pairing: Goto Hidenori/Hazama Masayoshi
Warnings/Spoilers: vague spoilers through episode 11
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,899
Summary: It’s hard to become a superhero overnight without experiencing a bit of an identity crisis.
Notes: I wanted to experiment with writing from Masayoshi’s POV here - it’s basically my idea of what a reunion/reconnection with Goto would look like during the From Beyond arc (before the twist we see at the end of episode 15). ^_^
The other Flamengers sleep at the base, but more often than not, Masayoshi finds himself back at his apartment in the city at the end of the day. No one questions his commute, or his time spent away from the group. They know about Ishihara-san, about his obligations.
His space is quiet, and calm. It sprawls around him effortlessly, and for that, he’s grateful. He’s never known how to do anything effortlessly. Not really, anyway.
He’s grateful for the familiar curve of the couch, for the water pressure in the shower, and the boxes of action figures lining his closet, even for the ashtray out on the balcony that’s almost full to the brim with cigarette butts that don’t belong to him. He can relax when he’s here, surrounded by these things. Without it, he’s sure he wouldn’t recognize the person staring back at him in the mirror every morning. He still doesn’t, sometimes.
He wonders what other people see, when his image pops up in magazines, or on the evening news. He wonders if they can see all the way down to his core, like he feels like they can, sometimes. He wonders how obvious his uncertainty is, if it feels like a betrayal.
He wonders what Goto sees.
And then he reminds himself that he already knows, that Goto’s eyes always reflect the truth. What he sees in them is enough to make his skin crawl, if he’s not careful.
**
Sometimes he sits there in the darkness, and remembers a time in the not so distant past, when he might have been sitting here with Goto, the lights down, and an episode of Harakiri Sunshine playing up on the screen. He remembers a time when that, at least, had felt effortless. He thinks about switching the TV system on, and sometimes he does, but more often than not he can’t bring himself to do it. His heroes have become less recognizable, too, and he’s not brave enough to examine what that might mean.
Goto could probably tell him.
But Masayoshi is a coward; he would never ask something like that that of his friend. He could never burden Goto with something so trivial.
**
Days pass in a blur of obligations - photo shoots, awards shows, hair and makeup. And then of course there’s the actual job, the fighting, which lately tends to boil down to its component parts - the plastic of the suit, the smell of explosives, his teammates’ voices in his ears. Sometimes, there’s blood. The thick, coppery tang of it settles in his nose and his throat.
There’s a numbness that sets in, in certain moments. He can feel its creep, starting with his skin and working its way through his muscles, his blood, his bones. It keeps him going through long-winded speeches that extol the virtues of the Flamengers, praising their efforts in saving the city from an endless stream of foes. It keeps him clear-headed during fights, keeps him connected to his teammates, in tune with them. It keeps him calm when he wants to scream, when he wants to tell them that all of this feels like a joke sometimes, like a ridiculous ploy to get them to serve as entertainment for the masses.
Sometimes the numbness lingers. It drapes over him like a heavy coat at the end of the day. A buffer that separates him from the rest of the world, from the person he was when he had the luxury of depending on others.
He’s not sure if he wants to shake it off, or draw it closer.
**
It’s late, past ten on a Tuesday, and normally, Masayoshi would probably still be working. But the rehearsal for tomorrow’s variety show had been cancelled at the last second. He’s been sitting around with the script half open on his lap, doing what he can to prepare on his own for the past hour or so. When his phone buzzes at him, he nearly jumps.
He answers without thinking, and suddenly, Goto is there on the other end of the line. It takes him a couple of seconds to find his voice.
“…And so I told him he should call you directly, but you know these bureaucratic types, always need a middle man. I can call Ishihara-san in the morning - I just wanted to run it by you first.”
“Sorry,” Masayoshi finds himself saying. “You kind of caught me in the middle of something.”
He knows his voice must sound strange, he has a feeling he’s pausing in all the wrong places.
“Hey,” Goto says, and there’s a softness to his tone that does something funny to Masayoshi’s stomach. “Is everything okay? You sound kind of off.”
“I’m-" Masayoshi starts, but he’s not expecting his voice to break off so quickly. He swallows, and the lump in his throat gets bigger. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m okay, it’s just been…”
“What?” Goto prompts, as Masayoshi tries to pull himself together.
“I’ve just been really busy,” he manages. “Busy is good though, right?”
“Not always,” Goto says, and Masayoshi can hear the frown in his voice. “Look, I’m right around the corner - mind if I stop by?”
There’s a rush of panic that slams up against him - he doesn’t really understand it, but it’s the same jittery feeling of dread he’s been experiencing for a while now when he thinks about calling Goto, or when he remembers how easy it used to be, sharing a meal together, or finding the time to talk on the phone, even. Everything feels like a risk now, even something as innocent as this - a friend stopping by unexpectedly. Especially this, maybe.
There’s a voice inside his head that he can’t shake, that tells him he’s a coward, that he has one friend, just one, and that he can’t even handle that. He can’t keep a single thing safe amidst all this chaos. And it’s true. He can’t keep their friendship safe anymore than he can keep anything else safe. It’s all malleable - his life, the world he thought he knew. Even this, the one thing he thought wouldn’t change.
But the tone of Goto’s voice is familiar, comfortable and teasing. He’s telling Masayoshi that honestly, he doesn’t care if Masayoshi minds or not, because he’s already on his way, that he’ll bring food, that he’s hanging up. And then he does hang up, and Masayoshi is left with the quiet of the apartment to surround him again.
It takes him a second to realize that it’s his heart that he can hear pounding in his chest, thumping so hard in the silence, persistent and alive.
**
He buzzes Goto in about ten minutes later. Masayoshi stands there in the genkan, shifting from foot to foot as he waits, surprised by the way his heart seems to sail up a little with each familiar sound until finally there’s a knock at the door.
“I hope you’re hungry,” Goto says by way of greeting, as he toes off his shoes.
He smells like the city as he passes - like outside, and freedom, and danger. Masayoshi wraps his fingers around the door frame, gripping it tight.
“I brought curry.” Goto holds up the conbini bag as proof. “Even had them warm it up. I figured you might not have anything on hand, since you’re gone so much these days.”
“Yeah, I’ve been eating between jobs a lot - Ishihara-san knows what I like.”
“You mean she knows all the curry places within a 2 kilometer radius at all times…”
Masayoshi realizes how tense he must have been when he laughs, and the air in the room suddenly feels about a hundred times lighter.
“Yeah, maybe,” he admits, smiling a little.
Goto hands him a bowl of curry and a plastic spoon. It’s warm, and the lid is completely fogged over. He wouldn’t know it was curry inside at all, except for the smell.
“I’m starving,” Goto says, and starts to dig in.
Masayoshi watches him for a second before he remembers that he’s supposed to be eating too.
The curry warms the tips of his fingers, and his mouth. It’s good. The flavor is rich enough, but it’s nothing like his homemade variety. He’s not usually one to succumb to nostalgia, but right now, he’s almost floored by it. It flushes in his cheeks, and brings a lump to his throat that he has trouble swallowing past. He closes his eyes, gripping the plastic spoon so hard he’s surprised it doesn’t break in half.
He doesn’t realize that Goto has been saying his name until he feels a firm grip on his arm. When he opens his eyes, Goto’s face is right there, so close he has to blink a few times before he can properly focus on him. His friend’s eyes are alert and bright with concern, searching his face.
This is not something that is supposed to happen. Heroes are strong, they inspire trust in their friends. That trust is absolute, it’s what protects them from the evils of the world, what inspires them to keep going, even when their lives and livelihoods are threatened at every turn. It’s what keeps them safe. Heroes don’t depend on people; it’s the other way around. It has to be.
“Please,” Goto is saying, and Masayoshi realizes that Goto’s grip on his arm has gotten even tighter. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“No,” Masayoshi says. “I’m sorry.”
He tries halfheartedly to pull his arm away from Goto, and when that doesn’t work, he decides he’ll go into full evasive maneuver mode, Flamenger-style. This works a lot better. He’s had countless drills with Kaname-san, after all, but in the process, he knocks his container of curry to the floor. He watches rice spill out over the edge of the bowl, and curry slop onto the floor in a giant lump. For a second he’s paralyzed. If he moves at all, he’s sure he’ll be right in Goto’s grips again.
He stands there for a second, watching Goto watch him, his eyes wide. When Goto takes a step towards him, he doesn’t take a step back like he should, and in a second, Goto’s arm is firmly wrapped around Masayoshi’s elbow. Before he has a chance to maneuver his away out again, he’s being led back to the couch. Goto instructs him to sit, and he does. He’s surprised when Goto walks past him and into the kitchen.
He comes back with a couple of towels, and after the curry mess has been sorted, he sits down on the couch next to Masayoshi and lets out a sigh.
“You’re a lot of work when you’re like this, you know that?”
Masayoshi frowns. “Like what?”
“Well, that’s what I’d like to find out.”
“I can’t-I’m sorry.”
“You keep saying that. The problem is,” Goto says, staring pointedly at Masayoshi, “I don’t have a clue what it means.”
Masayoshi can’t think of a single thing to say to that.
“Look.” Goto sighs. “Let me get something straight. We’re friends, right?”
“Of course,” Masayoshi says quickly. “Why are you asking me that?”
“Because friends, well… They talk to each other. They share things. And I don’t know the first thing about anything in your life anymore.”
The words hang there for a second between them.
“Are you angry with me?” Masayoshi asks. His voice is flat, like he wants it to be, but it hardly feels like an accomplishment with Goto looking at him like this, like he wants to punch him in the face, maybe.
“Damn right I’m angry!” Goto says, and his eyes flash up to Masayoshi’s.
He can tell that Goto means it. The look in his eyes makes something twist in Masayoshi’s stomach. He feels sick.
“Do you want to know why?” Goto’s voice is a touch softer now.
“Yes,” Masayoshi tells him, nodding. “Yes, please.”
“I gave up a lot for you. Took a lot of risks to try and keep you safe. I did my best to protect you. And then I supported you. And all of that… It’s not something I take lightly. Friendship,” Goto says, looking straight at Masayoshi, “is not something I take lightly.”
“And I get that you’re busy, and that all of this takes a toll on your social life, but when I see you like this, when you’re upset, and you won’t tell me why, well… I guess I just wish you trusted me half as much as you’ve asked me to trust you.”
Goto runs his hand over his face, and lets out a weird, throaty laugh that Masayoshi barely recognizes. “How’s that for honesty?”
Masayoshi tries to smile, but he can feel his face crumpling before he’s even halfway there. Before he knows it, hot, ugly, messy tears are rolling down his face. He tries to brush them away, tries to swallow them back but it’s not working, he can feel them sliding down past his chin, and his neck. It’s hopeless, he thinks. He’s ruined everything.
“I’m sorry,” he says, even though he knows it doesn’t mean anything, that the words are empty without some kind of explanation. He has no idea where he’d even start if he wanted to. If he’d ever finish once he did.
When Goto pulls him close, he’s relieved.
He can feel his friend’s hands on his back, knotted up in the folds of his sweater, trying to find the right grip. He experiments with those words again - a quiet I'm sorry against Goto’s chest, right over Goto’s heart. He says it because he means it, and somehow the words don’t sound nearly as empty now. Goto being here like this suddenly feels like a gift, like something he hadn’t even realized he wanted so badly until this moment.
“I’m sorry I’m so bad at this,” Masayoshi says. His head feels heavy; he’s grateful for Goto’s shoulder, for the hand against his neck, holding him in place. “I do trust you. But I don’t know how to be a good friend to you. I don’t know how to be a hero. I don’t really know how to do anything,” he whispers.
Goto’s fingers thread through his hair for a moment; it’s comforting and familiar, and Masayoshi wonders if maybe there’s still a tiny spark of good under all of this, a tiny shimmer of hope, maybe.
“I wanted to come and find you so many times, to call you and tell you about everything, but… I think there might be too much,” he admits.
“It’s not all or nothing, you know. You can start small,” Goto says, and the sound is so close, it could be inside Masayoshi’s head. “Or start big, it doesn’t matter - just talk to me.”
Masayoshi takes a deep breath. Goto is breathing, too, he can feel the rise and fall of it against his cheek.
“I missed you so much,” Masayoshi says, because it’s both the biggest, and the smallest thing he can think of. He pulls away for a second, and realizes that Goto is grinning at him.
“I missed you too, you idiot.”
Masayoshi laughs, and then just as he’s about to wonder what he’s supposed to do next, Goto kisses him.
At first it’s just a quick brush of his lips against Masayoshi’s - impulsive, maybe - but then Goto takes a steady breath, and then another before he lines them up properly, and starts again. This time it’s as if all the air in the room has suddenly evaporated. Their shared breath is a lifeline, the only thing keeping him afloat.
This is like none of the times they’ve done this before. It’s deliberate, full of weight, and purpose.
On second thought, it’s a little like the first time, maybe. But there’s less fumbling, less bumping of noses, less hesitation, because they’ve already mapped this out. Goto tastes the same, like cigarettes and curry, and like something darker, something less easy-to-distinguish, too. It’s amazing, Masayoshi thinks, that all of this has survived. He thinks it could undo everything, that all of the strength he’s built up, all that independence could vanish in a day, maybe, in an hour.
He doesn’t feel like a hero at all, with his lips pressed against Goto’s like this. He feels like some other, better version of himself, maybe. He could lose himself in this feeling. Part of him wants to.
“You know you can tell me anything,” Goto says a moment later. His lips brush against Masayoshi’s, almost playful, but still a little tentative. “I’m a cop, remember? I’ve heard everything before. Well, almost everything.”
Masayoshi nods. He can feel Goto’s breath against his nose; there’s warmth all around him. He’s not sure if he’s unraveling, or being stitched back together. If this is the beginning, or the beginning of the end. He knows he’s done things that may change the way Goto sees him. It’s all become so complicated.
He honestly doesn’t know where to start. He stares helplessly at Goto.
“Just start anywhere,” Goto says. “I’m sharper than I look.”
Masayoshi smiles and it feels a bit like parting the fog, like rubbing his hand across the mirror after he’s stepped out of the shower, messy streaks that drip onto the edges of the sink.
If he squints, he thinks he can almost make out someone he recognizes on the other side.
end