( slurring, pressed up against his side, palms sandwiched together, fingers threatening to entwine, kajiyama continues on. they're words that should elate him, and instead, he finds he doesn't know how they make him feel. it's nothing against kajiyama, and nothing against his assumptions, and maybe that had been what had drawn them together in the first place: the fact that he had looked like the kind of person who wouldn't bat an eye at the mention of suicide, murder, prison, the fact that kajiyama had needed to find someone who might understand. he doesn't want to call himself somewhere safe: he's never been a safe place, for anyone, and the safe places that he had sought out himself hadn't been safe at all. natsu had tried to understand, but even he had grown tired of him; by the time he'd made it to the league, he hadn't trusted anyone, or anything, enough to lean on them like that. in some ways, that makes kajiyama a hell of a lot braver than he is; he's almost jealous of it, the fact that he could just come out and say it all, even with the crutch of alcohol.
why does it matter? why should he be bothered? some twist of his head tells him that's he's won something here, that he's finally got kajiyama, warm and wanting, pressed into his side like he wants to be there, like he doesn't want to be anywhere else. but there's the other twist, some painful knife in the back of his thoughts, that tears them open like a stomach spilling with viscera: he's a terrible fucking person, who has actually murdered people, innocent people, and he's telling kajiyama not to feel guilty for something that maybe someone else in this resort would challenge him about, the way a good person should. give it a few days, a week, and will kajiyama confess to someone else, someone better, come back to him and look at him like he's a monster?
why the fuck does that bother him, so much?
even as kajiyama works against his side, making their steps clumsy as they work across the sand, further away from the bustle of the bar under the fabricated night sky, he tightens his hold. tense, his fingers snake in, a hand that gropes to hold kajiyama's as close as he can, pressed between them; it feels so strange, different in a way that makes his stomach want to bottom out. the problem is, now he's left with only his own secrets, pushed out onto the chopping block: and what's kajiyama going to look like, when he knows more of it? )
Are you gonna give me shit? ( gentle and warmed over by the liquor, his gaze goes out towards the water--like he's dancing around it all, skating around it like he can figure out a better way to put it. some way to twist it all so that kajiyama doesn't pull away, doesn't stop looking at him like he hung the stars. )
If I tell you the rest. You're still gonna want to be here with me?
( with anyone else, he would have already used it like a weapon, would have cut right through it all--god, what the fuck kind of feeling is this? is he actually scared of something, here? )
I've killed people with my own hands. It's not my fault, but I did it. If you can't handle that, I can pretend to understand.
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why does it matter? why should he be bothered? some twist of his head tells him that's he's won something here, that he's finally got kajiyama, warm and wanting, pressed into his side like he wants to be there, like he doesn't want to be anywhere else. but there's the other twist, some painful knife in the back of his thoughts, that tears them open like a stomach spilling with viscera: he's a terrible fucking person, who has actually murdered people, innocent people, and he's telling kajiyama not to feel guilty for something that maybe someone else in this resort would challenge him about, the way a good person should. give it a few days, a week, and will kajiyama confess to someone else, someone better, come back to him and look at him like he's a monster?
why the fuck does that bother him, so much?
even as kajiyama works against his side, making their steps clumsy as they work across the sand, further away from the bustle of the bar under the fabricated night sky, he tightens his hold. tense, his fingers snake in, a hand that gropes to hold kajiyama's as close as he can, pressed between them; it feels so strange, different in a way that makes his stomach want to bottom out. the problem is, now he's left with only his own secrets, pushed out onto the chopping block: and what's kajiyama going to look like, when he knows more of it? )
Are you gonna give me shit? ( gentle and warmed over by the liquor, his gaze goes out towards the water--like he's dancing around it all, skating around it like he can figure out a better way to put it. some way to twist it all so that kajiyama doesn't pull away, doesn't stop looking at him like he hung the stars. )
If I tell you the rest. You're still gonna want to be here with me?
( with anyone else, he would have already used it like a weapon, would have cut right through it all--god, what the fuck kind of feeling is this? is he actually scared of something, here? )
I've killed people with my own hands. It's not my fault, but I did it. If you can't handle that, I can pretend to understand.