Work Text:
You and Mother... you let me get away with too much.
Snow falls steadily, collecting quietly on asphalt and the hoods of old parked cars. On Dee and Ryo, whose footsteps leave behind a trail that will be filled to vanishing before the break of dawn. The night is cold and silent and heavy. It presses down on Dee's shoulders as though it will swallow him—or worse, pick off all that means most to him with fingers that can't be stopped by bullets. Ice shatters beneath Dee's boots. His heartbeat is too loud, the fog of his breath more vividly opaque than it ought to be.
Next to Dee, Ryo seems to be a composed shadow, and Dee is momentarily overcome with an urge to reach (touch and grab), to make sure that he's really there. To make sure that he stays. Ryo catches Dee's eye and offers a gentle smile. The cut on his cheek still burns a bright red, making Dee's own cheeks brighten with shame. He ducks his head and concentrates on the sounds of his existence breaking through the night.
Breaking stuff... he's good at that.
In the distance, the siren of an ambulance wails before disappearing. Dee pauses. Ryo pauses too, in the same breath if not quite the same heartbeat, and Dee feels consoled by that. They stand in front of an old mom-and-pop shop with a boarded up window and dying neon lights. The lights briefly flicker on and then back off as Dee says,
"I could've hurt you." He frowns. That isn't what he meant to say. Not that Dee's really sure what he did mean to say. Maybe sorry—except he and Ryo would both know that to be a lie.
"But you didn't, Dee," Ryo smiles easily.
"But I could have!" Dee crosses his arms. "Ryo, I could've killed you." He whispers this part, kicking up a cloud of snow with the tip of his boot as though it can hide how his voice trembled.
They both ignore the fact that Dee did hurt Ryo. Dee wonders if Ryo's cheek still stings where the bullet grazed it, wonders just where in his apartment the antiseptics are stashed and if they've expired yet. (What he doesn't wonder is if Ryo will follow him home.)
"You wouldn't," says Ryo, with a surety that makes Dee angry. Buried deep inside his coat pocket, Dee's right hand hasn't stopped shaking. He clenches and unclenches his fist now, feeling the ghost of a cold metal grip pressed against his palm—imagining all the ways this night could've turned out worse than it already has. If Dee's aim had been off (he only came in fifth in target practice). If he had been startled (it was lucky Lloyd didn't have any accomplices). If Ryo had flinched (why didn't he?)!
It would've been so easy to hurt Ryo for real... no, Dee still can. And maybe a part of him wants to. To press Ryo up against this grimy brick wall and choke him along with the trust that he insists on placing in Dee. Ryo is a straight-laced, goody two shoes idiot who's too nice, believes in Dee too much. So much that it frightens him.
Just how much can I get away with?
Dee's fingers twitch. The question wraps itself around his own neck like a noose as Dee imagines making a mess of Ryo's ever-ready smile, imagines wrecking Ryo's tidy little place. Dee wonders what kind of face Ryo would make if he left ripped clothes and cigarette butts in his wake; ash stains on the carpet. Could Ryo still smile at him then?
"Maybe I would." Like most things Dee has said and done tonight, he isn't quite certain if he means it. He tries staring Ryo down anyway, with a grimace that's equal parts challenge and confession.
Ryo gasps softly. His lips, delicately chapped, quiver, and the heat of their breaths mingles, momentarily taking shape before dissipating. Oh—Dee didn't realize when he closed the distance between their bodies. As the dying neon lights flicker back to life again, he notices how Ryo's long lashes cast shadows across his cheekbones. Ryo is only half a second off-beat as he says,
"Then I trust it would be the best decision in that situation, Dee."
Ryo doesn't smile this time, but he steps forward, closing the little space left between them to kiss Dee's mouth squarely. It's the kind of kiss that isn't cute or sexy but lingers all the same, and Dee shoves his fists deeper into his coat pockets, fighting the urge to touch his lips. To grab Ryo and kiss him until both their heads are spinning and they're sweating underneath little snowflakes that keep falling like stars.
Except before Dee can even think of moving (of speaking, doing much of anything), Ryo just turns back around as if that's that. He begins to walk off as if he already knows how to return to Dee's apartment, although he's only visited once. Staring at Ryo's back, Dee thinks the bullet has ricocheted—torn a hole through his heart, lodged itself somewhere between his ribcage and windpipe.
Chief Smith complained that Ryo was getting sucked into his pace, Dee remembers unbidden. As Dee follows Ryo, however, and the distance between the imprints of their footsteps stays the same while their lengthening silhouettes seem to grow farther and farther apart, he can't help but feel that it's the opposite. And Dee doesn't know how to catch up.