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A sharp and unforgiving wind engulfs the nooks and crannies of Yatora and Yotasuke"s ears; the harsh air carding gentle fingers through their hair. The sensation is heavenly. Gentle enough to lull, but harsh enough to deny any indulgence. It envelops the two in a quaint pocket of time, carving out a space for them, the sand, the sea, and enough room for the gale to weave itself between all three.
Despite the moon rising long ago, it was almost entirely hidden behind a veil of clouds, peeking through it to gaze at the world in all of its puny glory. The tides sway gracefully, painting a beautiful waltz between two friends, two lovers.
The moonlight illuminates Yotasuke"s being — his eyelashes, bangs, clothes, all in a tender glow. Yatora yearns to understand him. To know each minute detail like no one else before, to be able to trace his finger down a plethora of faces blind and to immediately know which was Yotasuke’s, to be so intimate and familiar it crosses the boundaries of human form.
Yatora only has the courage to follow him like a moth to flame, the things left unsaid cotton in his mouth. They move in silence, feet pushing and sliding against white dunes. A tapestry of miscellaneous stars and celestial bodies encompasses them, trudging and waltzing through galaxies of mangled fossils and pulverized sediments.
The sea eclipses over the sand, rejuvenating the land and Yatora takes Yotasuke"s pinky, leads him deeper and deeper, until the waters lap at their calves. Yatora joyfully hurdles over each passing wave like he was made for it. With his heart racing, he whips his head towards Yotasuke.
He stands there with an oyster shell in his palm, inspecting it with child-like awe. The confusion is evident in his voice. "Have you... never seen a sea oyster before?"
Yotasuke hums, eyes moving heavenward and then back towards the gray shell. "I never went to the beach as a kid, not like this, at least."
"Really?”
Another hum. "My mother never taught me how to swim, so we"d either stay inside or she"d be the one swimming. I would just stay in the sand and dig for crabs."
Yatora remains silent, cupping his hands together and taking a piece of the ocean temporarily into his care. The water warps the crevices of his palm, slowly trickling down his forearm as it drains.
Yotasuke continues. "I wanted to, though. To learn how to swim, to play in the water like a kid." His voice trembles uncharacteristically, “Yaguchi, I wanted to have that more than anything."
His own heart quivers, shaken up with pure empathy. He forces himself to look at Yotasuke, no longer dancing around his eyes. They mutually yearn for something irrevocably unachievable, like humans wanting to cradle the sun. It sickens him to know they cannot fix a childhood far past its expiration date.
Yotasuke"s voice is rough, meek as if he wanted to be microscopic, only seen by pests. He whispers it out again. "I wanted to be a kid. I wanted to be a kid."
Yatora cannot do anything but cry. He cries in a way like it’s his first time doing so, shoulders shaking and hands pressing against his eye sockets, but tears roll down his wrists and into the water regardless.
Yotasuke looks at him with wide eyes, stumbling, afraid, hesitant, unsure. While Yatora knows he would appreciate the pity, he is physically unable to at this moment. It"s overwhelming, all-consuming, and the two of them both know this well.
The tears are unwanted and unexpected, yet are hesitantly welcomed as the minutes pass.
Minutes later, Yotasuke is in a sullen state and Yatora is crumbling apart next to him. The tide hugs the two in something vaguely maternal, salt sticky on their skin.
Yotasuke finds himself wanting to collapse, let himself be consumed whole by the ocean. He, however, does not do so. Visions of half-assed plans come to mind, but rejects every single one. All due to a specific line of reasoning:
What if he followed through with them? What would happen to Yatora?
He cannot bear to leave a burden that big for one man alone. So, he counts the stars instead. Tonight, on a beach located on the edge of Japan, he will shed himself anew. Come sunrise, he will rake his hands through the sea, asking for it to return his skin. Neither Yatora nor Yotasuke will speak of this night again.
They leave with only their belongings and dark circles under their eyes. Only once they are at the train station does Yatora finds the courage to speak, voice distilled. "I don"t think it"s too late."
"What?" He looks around, the vagueness of the phrase forces Yotasuke"s brain to a caesura.
"You… can be a kid again, Yotasuke-kun. You just have to live selfishly.”
"I can"t do that."
Yatora speaks with a firmness that is foreign to his voice, catching the other off guard once more. “Yes, you can. I learnt to do it, and I think you can do the same. I think you’re just too afraid to.”
Before he can defend himself, the train arrives at the station. Stunned, all Yotasuke can manage to do is stare at Yatora"s back like a deer in headlights, filled with an unfamiliar type of awe. It is only when the doors slide shut and Yatora is gone, can Yotasuke find himself able to walk and breathe again.