Kitaro doesn't know his name. He knows that he's a friend from work, that they smoke the same brand, that he cracks jokes dumb enough to make Mizuki laugh. He knows that it's getting late, that his wife's started to suspect an affair, but he says that Mizuki is more than worth the trouble. Kitaro finally knows who's leaving hickeys below Mizuki's collar, who's keeping Mizuki away from home, who's stealing what's rightfully his. Kitaro knows the shape of his cock, how Mizuki keens when it's finally in, how Mizuki’s legs lock around his hips to keep him inside when he cums.
And when they lock eyes through the shadowy slit of the shoji, the man doesn't smile, just holds a finger to his lips, like it's their little secret.
As the man quiets Mizuki with a deep kiss, lips locked like lovers, Kitaro decides that this has gone on long enough.
Kitaro has Nezumi look into whatever their relationship is, and it only confirms his worst fears.
Kitaro had hoped it was a fling, because as sickening as it is, Kitaro could forgive Mizuki for a simple one night stand. It wasn’t ideal, no, but it was excusable. After all, Kitaro hadn’t confessed yet, he had been waiting until he was eighteen, and he was cheerfully counting down each day, just a 156 days to go. Kitaro’s presence alone should fill any loneliness in Mizuki’s heart, but Kitaro could accept Mizuki making a stupid mistake in a moment of weakness.
But it’s worse than that. After a week of snooping, pictures provided, it’s obvious that Mizuki and that coworker were close– close enough to kiss in alleyways like teenagers, love hidden away in the dark. It completely threw a wrench in Kitaro's plans, and he hadn't prepared himself for a rival, nor the heartache. Such a terrible surprise– Mizuki hadn’t brought him up, not even once, and Kitaro would know, because he has journals full of everything he knows about Mizuki. He scoured through them again and was shocked to find absolutely nothing. As far as Kitaro was considered, the man simply didn’t exist until he saw him fucking the life out of Mizuki in Kitaro’s own room. Mizuki brought him home when he thought Kitaro wouldn’t be there, like it’s something to hide, and well, it was, but–
Mizuki should’ve kept his secrets better if he was going to have any at all.
“Oh– Kitaro, you’re still up,” Mizuki greets as his eyes lay on Kitaro seated in front of the television. He acts like nothing is wrong, but Kitaro can smell the sex on him. His voice is raw, not a cigarette-raw, rather a cock-sucking-raw. He has his shirt buttoned higher than usual, and Kitaro can only imagine how tonight’s “overtime” went.
“Welcome back,” Kitaro replies, keeping hold on the jealousy nipping at his brain, chewing away his sensibilities. It has him in a chokehold, consumes his every waking thought, how someone else has touched Mizuki in ways he’s only ever dreamed of, but that won’t be a problem anymore.
“Are you hungry?” Mizuki asks, all smiles, loving and bright, and it’s not fair that everyone gets to see how charming Mizuki is, but that’s another problem that Kitaro’s already solved. “Let me make you something before you go to bed.”
“Mizuki.” Kitaro pushes himself onto his feet, and he walks across the room, nearly breaks out into a sprint, to take his place in front of Mizuki. He reaches out, envelopes Mizuki’s hands with his own, idly comparing the size and feel of their palms. Mizuki’s are warm, calloused, and small. His own are cold, smooth, big. Mizuki blinks at him in confusion, even cutely tilts his head, but he doesn’t move, already used to Kitaro’s ever growing oddities, only worsening as the boy got older. Kitaro rubs his thumb against the back of Mizuki’s hand, like he’s made of glass, fragile and beautiful and his. “Do you... love me?”
“Huh?” It takes Mizuki off guard, and he can’t help but laugh, eyes scrunching up as his smile widens. “Kitaro, don’t be silly. Of course I love you. I always have, and I always will.” One of his hands leaves Kitaro’s grasp to ruffle his hair, and it usually would soothe Kitaro’s heart, but it’s just another sign that Mizuki still sees him as a little boy, like he stopped growing years ago.
“Then–” Kitaro swallows the knot in his throat. He’s already starting to sweat, hot droplets down the back of his neck. He’s practiced this thousands of times, but he still stutters as he forces the words out. “Then why are you letting other men fuck you?”
“Wh–” Mizuki jumps where he stands, jerking his hands back, immediately pale in the face. “What?”
Kitaro takes a step forward, and Mizuki takes a step back, repeating like a dangerous waltz until Mizuki’s back meets the wall. Kitaro’s shadow drapes over him like a blanket, darkening the fear on Mizuki’s face.
“Why,” Kitaro starts, bringing a fist own above Mizuki’s head. “Why are you letting other men fuck you?”
“Kitaro, this– I–” Mizuki shakes his head, bottom lip caught between his teeth. “Look, we’ll talk about whatever’s bothering you in the morning. It’s late.” He tries to put distance between them by shuffling through the gap between Kitaro’s shoulder and the wall, but Mizuki’s eyes looking for an escape already gave him away. Kitaro pins him down with a hand wrapped around the delicate curve of his neck. Kitaro uses more strength than he means to, and Mizuki’s head meets wood with a dull thud, eyes rolling back against heavy breathlessness.
The sight of Mizuki desperate for air, body trembling for survival, instinctual struggling, is embedded in his brain. Surely no one else has seen Mizuki like this before, so scared yet so restrained, unable to bring himself to fight back. He knows Mizuki is strong, and it brings Kitaro sick joy knowing that he’s too precious to defend against.
Kitaro eases his grip ever so slightly, only when the tint of Mizuki’s face changes from red to blue. His blood and heartbeat throbs under Kitaro’s fingertips, so tantalizing that Kitaro just wants to sink his teeth into it, rip apart flesh to suckle at the warmth of his veins. But he refrains, and he stares at Mizuki, waiting for an answer, an actual one.
Mizuki coughs, spit at his lips and chin, and a few deep, agonizing breaths later, he speaks, wavering, afraid, “I’m sorry,” and the fact that it’s an apology just makes Kitaro’s blood boil even more. “I didn’t– I never wanted you to see something like that, Kitaro.” Mizuki looks away, shame staining his cheeks.
Mizuki doesn’t understand. Kitaro is only disgusted because it shouldn’t be anyone else but him holding Mizuki like that. That’s been the problem all along. Mizuki told him time and time again that Kitaro was the most important person in his life, but now he had someone else to worry about, someone Kitaro didn’t even know. Maybe it wasn’t even just one, maybe there were other men, too, and it makes Kitaro sick to think about Mizuki offering his body up so easily–
It isn’t fair.
“Why–” he repeats, whiny and desperate, like he’s a child forced to share a toy. “Why is it everyone but me?”
It isn’t fair.
“Am– am I not good enough?” Kitaro continues, ignoring the horrified confusion on Mizuki’s face.”I love you more than anyone. I always have. I’ve– I’ve always thought of you as my soulmate. I thought you did, too. You do that behind my back, and– I could’ve done it for you. What do I have to do for you to give me a chance?”
“Kitaro…” Mizuki’s voice hardens, stern and paternal. “You don’t mean that. I know that you’re going through… changes, now, but I’m your father. I would never–”
Kitaro doesn’t let him finish, squeezing Mizuki’s throat as a warning.
It isn’t fair.
“...I see.” Kitaro sighs. He didn’t want to do this, but Mizuki left him no choice. He reaches into his back pocket, thankful he had the foresight to keep his chanchanko in the form of braids today. Kitaro tosses the braids into the air, and the strings stretch out to latch onto Mizuki’s body, coil around his limbs. His arms are pinned to his sides, and his legs clamped shut, and it brings him ease knowing Mizuki can’t spread them for anyone else.
It happens so fast that Mizuki falls hard onto the floor, only kept upright by putting his full weight on his knees. His head is downcast until Kitaro’s hand cups his chin, tilting his face up to make their eyes meet. Mizuki pulls against the restraints to no avail.
“Kitaro,” Mizuki whispers, pleads, begs, but it's too late for that. “You… have to take this off of me.”
“I can’t, Mizuki,” Kitaro insists, thumb stroking Mizuki's bottom lip. “Not until you understand my feelings.”
“I’m baaaack,” Kitaro calls into their home, taking his time kicking off his shoes and setting down his schoolbag. He usually would’ve rushed home after classes wrapped up to make sure he was there when Mizuki returned from work, but there was no need now. Mizuki needed to learn that Kitaro was serious, after all.
Kitaro doesn’t spot Mizuki immediately, but as he glances across the room, he catches a hint of Mizuki’s feet peeking out from the hallway to their bedrooms. Kitaro hums and moves closer, slow and predatory; his prey caught in a bear trap, easy pickings for a beast.
It looks like Mizuki tried to run again today, but he didn’t make it that far. He manages less distance with each passing day. He’s on his stomach, head down, trembling against the floor. Kitaro breathes heavy, already addicted to Mizuki under his thumb, like a butterfly mounted, pins and needles through his broken wings.
“Mizuki…” Kitaro coos, moving onto his knees, hand brushing along Mizuki’s waist. Mizuki flinches once at his voice, again at his touch. “I’m back.”
Mizuki doesn’t speak, but a breath escapes him, and he curls further in on himself.
Kitaro sighs, more disappointed than annoyed, because Mizuki still isn’t cooperating. He grabs Mizuki by the shoulders and turns him over, and Mizuki gasps, squirming around, like a turtle stuck on its back. Mizuki tries to turn over again, but Kitaro’s already seen it.
There’s a glaring dark spot on the front of Mizuki’s pants.
“Oh, Mizuki.” Kitaro smiles, glad for the opportunity this gives him. “If you made a mess, you could have just said so. You don’t have to be embarrassed. I got home later than usual, didn’t I? You just couldn’t help yourself.”
Kitaro moves a hand to Mizuki’s back, the other under his knees, and lifts, and Mizuki doesn’t struggle this time, at least. Progress. Kitaro takes his time carrying Mizuki to the bathroom, adorning the crown of his head with kiss after kiss. He pushes the shoji aside with the point of his foot, and it’s only as he gets on his knees to draw a bath that Mizuki starts to move against his arms.
“Kitaro, please!” Mizuki tries to get away, likely to avoid making more of a mess, but Kitaro makes sure to balance Mizuki on his leg, slowly grinding the meat of his thigh against the wet spot between Mizuki’s legs. Mizuki freezes then, and the only noise in the room is the stream of water pooling in the bathtub. Kitaro enjoys the silence and the wait, though he’s somewhat disappointed that he can’t feel even a hint of Mizuki’s arousal, but by the time the tub is full enough, he’s gotten what he wanted.
“It got on me, too,” Kitaro says, casually. Kitaro’s hands are on Mizuki as soon as he allows the braids to fall from his body, and he starts to undress him a piece at a time. “I’ll have to get in with you.”
Kitaro doesn’t even get to unbutton Mizuki’s collar before he tries to push Kitaro away, and while Kitaro expected this, he can’t help but frown and click his tongue.
“Mizuki, stop it,” Kitaro chides, like Mizuki’s a skittish animal afraid of water, and he takes one of Mizuki’s wrists into his hand. “You’re dirty, you have to–”
Kitaro looks up, and his eye widens at Mizuki’s other fist raised up in the air, tightly clenched, like he’s about to hit him, and he almost can’t believe it, because there’s never been a moment in his life that Mizuki’s ever lifted a finger against him. Even when Kitaro acted out, the most that Mizuki would do is scold him, or put him in timeout, not that Kitaro made a habit of misbehaving, since it was a better use of his time getting hugs and kisses and praise.
“...Mizuki?” Kitaro plays up the theatrics, making his voice a pitch higher, sounding confused, devastated, wounded. “You wouldn’t hurt me, would you?”
“No–!” Mizuki gasps, and the anger in his eyes vanishes, replaced with immediate regret, and he grimaces as he lowers his hand to meekly push at Kitaro’s chest in a weak attempt of resistance. “No, I…”
“It’s okay.” And Kitaro means it. “Let’s just get clean, okay?”
Mizuki just silently nods, and Kitaro is glad that Mizuki doesn’t fight Kitaro as he begins to undress him again, though he shields his lower half with a hand once he’s left completely nude. Kitaro does his best to not stare, but restraint isn’t his strong suit when it comes to Mizuki. Mizuki’s groin is still wet, and Kitaro resists reaching out to touch him.
Mizuki instinctively sits on the stool by the bathtub, legs crossed and back straight, but Kitaro gestures for him to get into the tub, instead.
“But you said–” Mizuki begins, but Kitaro cuts him off with a light shush.
Kitaro gestures once more, and Mizuki’s face twists in disgust as he stands up to make his way into the bath. He lets out a brief sigh of relief, despite his hesitance, but it dies the moment Kitaro stands and peels off his own clothes.
Mizuki doesn’t look his way, but Kitaro isn’t bothered by it, satisfied enough by the red on Mizuki’s cheeks. With how much he’s grown, maybe Mizuki will finally start seeing him as a man. Kitaro steps into the tub, sinking into the water with a hum, seated right behind Mizuki. It isn’t close enough for his tastes, and Kitaro helps himself to pulling Mizuki into his lap, once again. Mizuki shudders, but he doesn’t retaliate, just a limp doll in Kitaro’s hands.
Mizuki is so warm and so soft, and Kitaro is thorough in getting him washed up, a soapy rag against all the dips and curves that he fantasized about. He licks his lips as he drags the cloth across his body, over his back and chest and belly. Mizuki doesn’t say a word through it, though embarrassment is red hot on his skin.
“Isn’t this nice?” Kitaro asks as he lifts Mizuki’s arm up to soap his armpit. “It’s been so long since you’ve let me wash you.” He repeats the motion to the other with just as much enthusiasm. He presses his lips against Mizuki’s raised bicep once, twice, then trails his tongue up to meet his elbow, a decadent blend of sweat and soap. Mizuki’s taste is etched into his palette, has been ever since he was an infant.
Mizuki used to find it cute, but now there’s clear revulsion on his face.
“Don’t worry, we’re almost done.” Kitaro promises, and he traces the cloth down Mizuki’s torso, lower and lower until it’s draped over Mizuki’s cock. Mizuki grabs Kitaro’s wrist, and Kitaro pretends that it stops him, keeping his hand still.
“Kitaro, stop, just…” Mizuki’s hand shakes. “Let me do this myself. Please.”
“Hmm.” Kitaro shrugs. “Okay.”
Mizuki’s head perks up, and he must be surprised that Kitaro allows it so easily. A little autonomy now and then wouldn’t hurt, as long as Mizuki behaved. Kitaro lets go of the cloth, and Mizuki lets go of his wrist. Kitaro’s hands aren’t left empty for long. He fills them with Mizuki’s plush thighs, firmly fleshy, and the water sloshes as Kitaro adjusts Mizuki in his lap to keep him spread open. Mizuki gasps, wiggles, reaches behind to Kitaro’s shoulders to keep his balance, and Mizuki doesn’t even try to close his legs now. Progress, progress.
“Just make sure to clean everything, Mizuki,” Kitaro cautions, resting his chin on Mizuki’s shoulder. “I’ll be watching.”
Mizuki hisses, teeth clenched, and his legs tremble as Kitaro traces slow circles against his skin. Kitaro thinks that Mizuki might try to hit him again, but instead, he just reaches down to pinch the rag between his fingertips and hurriedly cleans himself. Kitaro watches every moment of it, knowing that it’s only a matter of time before his own hands memorize every inch of Mizuki’s body. Kitaro promised himself that he’d remain chaste until Mizuki reciprocated, even if it’s so tempting to just take Mizuki now.
When they step out of the bath, water dripping from their bodies, it’s only then that Kitaro notices that Mizuki scrubbed hard enough to leave his skin red and raw.
“Kitaro,” Mizuki says on the tenth night, sitting stiffly on Kitaro’s lap. They just finished dinner, and Kitaro enjoyed spoon feeding him miso soup until their shared bowl was gone. Mizuki always ate fast, messy, and while it was cute, how his cheeks would puff up like a hamster scarfing it all down, Kitaro loved making him slow down, take his time. Mizuki's arched throat bobbling as he swallowed each morsel, clueless that Kitaro had spilled his own blood into the pot.
“Hm?” Kitaro lazily opens his eye, keeping his face buried in Mizuki’s shoulder to take in more of his scent. Lately, Mizuki has been smelling more and more like Kitaro, and it’s been cathartic, erasing every trace of other men off of Mizuki’s body.
“I’ve been thinking,” and Mizuki speaks so cautiously, like he's treading on thin ice, “and… I. I understand how you feel.”
“You do?” Kitaro doesn’t really believe him, but he’ll go along with it, because he’s so curious as to what’s going through Mizuki’s mind. “How do I feel?”
“You..." Mizuki hesitates. "You love me.”
“Mhm." That much should be obvious by now. Kitaro nuzzles closer, nose against his jugular, a deep inhale to smell his fear. “I do.”
Just that isn’t enough to satisfy Kitaro, and Mizuki must know that, because he takes a deep breath before speaking again. “I love you very much, too, but–”
“It’s different,” Kitaro interrupts, bitterly. It's always been different, and deep down, Kitaro already knew that, but it didn't make reality sting any less. Maybe, if he had done this sooner, he could've avoided Mizuki's virginity to be stolen in the first place.
“...Yes, it is,” Mizuki agrees, and Kitaro is almost disappointed that he didn't deny it. “But,” and the pain in his voice is palpable, muttered so quietly that if Kitaro wasn’t so close he wouldn’t have heard it, “I could try. To... love you the same way.”
“Really?” Kitaro lifts his head up then, disgustingly giddy, fangs shining in his wide smile. “You mean it?”
Mizuki only nods, refusing to look Kitaro in the eye.
“I’m so glad,” Kitaro snaps his fingers, and the braids finally let Mizuki go, returning to Kitaro’s wrist as a bracelet. “I was getting worried, you know. I didn’t want to keep you like this forever.” And it’s only partially a lie.
Mizuki laughs, forced and uncomfortable. He doesn’t even move, and Kitaro chooses to believe it’s because Mizuki likes the comfort of Kitaro’s lap and not because the muscles in his limbs have withered from lack of use.
“I’m so glad,” Kitaro says again. All the restraint has led up to this moment, and Kitaro gleefully presses his lips to Mizuki’s cheek, trailing down to nibble on Mizuki’s neck, nicking at skin with the edge of his teeth.
“Kitaro–” Mizuki leans away, but Kitaro jerks him back to sit up straight. “What are you doing?”
Kitaro smiles at him, because Mizuki could be so naive, sometimes. “We have to consummate, don’t we?”
“No–” Mizuki tries to move, but he’s too weak in the legs, and he just ends up stumbling and falling over in front of Kitaro, landing on his side. “No, wait, please, it’s– it’s too soon.”
“Too soon?” Kitaro chuckles as he straddles Mizuki, shoving him onto his back. “Did you say that to everyone else, too?”
Mizuki’s eyes widen, and he grimaces. His hand slowly drifts to clutch at his shirt, right where his scar is, gripping so tight and squirming, and it reminds Kitaro of Mizuki’s especially bad nights. Mizuki’s breath catches in his throat, over and over again, and it stirs Kitaro’s heart enough to comfort him like he always did, fingers in his hair and light shushes.
“It’s okay. I forgive you,” Kitaro rests his hand over Mizuki’s. “We’ll make things right. Together.”
Kitaro always knew they were meant to be, but it’s even more apparent now– with how their bodies slot perfectly against one another. Kitaro is willowy where Mizuki is sturdy, and the red lingering underneath Mizuki’s skin lights up the cold paleness of Kitaro’s own. Mizuki tried to keep himself on his stomach at first, but Kitaro needed to see his face, needed to watch as his spit-slicked fingers eased Mizuki open.
It’s still a tight fit, even with how thorough he is, and Kitaro pants as he coaxes inch after inch inside, squeezing Mizuki’s hands through the hot pressure on his cock. It takes all of him not to finish once he’s fully in, and he only gives Mizuki a moment to adjust before he jerks his hips. A slow out, a quick in, over and over until Kitaro finds a rhythm to fuck Mizuki to.
“Feels so good,” Kitaro moans, watching the wet slide of their connected bodies. “I love it, I love you–”
Words aren’t enough; Kitaro’s long tongue snakes out of his mouth, and the sharp tip of it teases the seam of Mizuki’s lips. Mizuki’s eyes widen at the length of it, and he swallows before he reluctantly parts his lips. Human tongues are so small, and it’s cute how Mizuki struggles to keep up with the size of his; sloppy circles along the width. It still isn’t enough, and Kitaro gives no warning before forcing his tongue down Mizuki’s slim throat. Mizuki chokes on it, wet gurgling, and Kitaro can feel and see every pulse of his airway struggling. Kitaro eases out, ever so slightly, watching the bulge of his tongue move through his neck, and it inspires him to match the timing of his hips, filling Mizuki with him and only him.
Spit travels down Mizuki’s open mouth down to his chest, overwhelmed tears fall from his rolled back eyes down to his ruddy cheeks, and Kitaro commits the sight to memory, like a work of art. Only when Mizuki looks on the brink of unconsciousness does Kitaro relent, and he laps up the mess on Mizuki’s face while Mizuki gasps for air, squeezing Kitaro with each breath.
Kitaro’s toes curl, and he can feel hot tension brewing in his belly, skin tingling, heart pounding. He buries his face in Mizuki’s chest, lips and teeth on whatever he can reach, and Mizuki lets go of his hands to wrap his arms around Kitaro’s neck. Kitaro tries to look up then, but Mizuki keeps him still, fingers gently passing through white strands.
“I love you,” Mizuki sobs, holding him down so tight that it almost hurts. “I love you, I love you.”
Kitaro should be happy to hear it, but, somehow, he doesn’t think it’s meant for him.
“Mizuki,” Kitaro repeats, for the third time, and it’s only then that Mizuki finally responds, though only with a small, pitiful sound in response.
They’ve fallen into a routine. Kitaro replaced school with a part-time job, and while he would prefer to always keep Mizuki company, he got satisfaction out of being able to provide for his lover. Mizuki was always there to greet him, a habit learned after what happened the last time he tried to run off. Mizuki hasn’t walked the same since, but he should’ve known better.
Dinner, sex, bath, then bed, with little deviation, and Kitaro wouldn’t have it any other way. Tonight, though, Kitaro has something else in mind.
“I want you to do something for me,” Kitaro whispers, pulling his cock out of his well-fucked hole. Before any of his spend can leak out, he keeps Mizuki filled with three of his fingers, idly teasing the overworked flesh. His other hand traces the outline of Mizuki’s spine, admiring the bruises along the surface. “I want you to quit your job tomorrow, officially. Your company has been calling about you. It’s only right for you to tell the truth. And don’t worry,” Kitaro leans down, a kiss to the corner of Mizuki’s lips. “I’ll be taking care of you from now on.”
Mizuki just whimpers and nods, and Kitaro trusts him enough to do the right thing.
Kitaro lets him out of the house regularly after a few months of careful monitoring. A reward for his good behavior, he assumes, but Mizuki almost doesn’t want it. It’s been so long since he’s seen the outside world, so long since the outside world has seen him, and the idea of anyone but Kitaro looking his way makes his stomach turn. His hair is longer now, longer than it ever has been. It tickles the back of his neck, but Kitaro seems to like it enough that he hasn’t asked for it to be cut. He imagines the limp is noticeable, too, and he doesn’t think he could handle any looks of pity his way.
But they’re low on groceries, and it’s early enough in the day that there shouldn’t be a crowd.
He’s thankful that he’s right, but he doesn’t anticipate the tap on his shoulder as he tries to sift through what the local morning market has to offer today.
“...Mizuki?”
He recognizes that voice, hasn’t heard it in– well, who knows how long. He tries not to think about that. Mizuki slowly turns around, and Sato looks the same as ever, just dressed casually, and if Mizuki realized it was a Sunday, maybe he wouldn’t have gone out at all. He doesn’t know what to say, and in his silence, Sato awkwardly laughs and keeps talking.
“Wow, it really is you,” Sato reaches a hand out, but he hesitates where to put it. In the end, he refrains from touching Mizuki all together, just scratches the back of his head instead. The silence returns briefly, and Sato purses his lips as he thinks, just like he always used to. “Where have you been? I tried calling– I mean. I know you quit, but…” He pauses, frowning deeply. “I was worried about you, and… I still am. If anything’s wrong, you can tell me. You always can.”
Mizuki didn’t expect anyone to notice. Besides work, Mizuki didn’t have anyone else but Kitaro, and Kitaro had just been letting the phone ring until the calls just stopped all together. He gave up on escaping what became of his life now, but he allowed himself a faint glimmer of hope. If nothing else,
“Daddy–” a small voice interrupts, and a little boy who looks just like his coworker bumps into Sato’s leg, arms outstretched. Sato laughs genuinely, this time, and he bends down and takes the child into his arms, bouncing him up and down in his hold. It reminds Mizuki all too much of Kitaro when they hadn’t crossed the line between father and son, and nausea washes over him like a crashing wave, hand over his mouth to stop from vomiting right there.
They live completely different lives now. It would be wrong for him to get involved with someone who’s still– normal. Mizuki would take the truth to his grave, and– he had dreams, nightmares, really, about his body underground, finally at peace, but it wouldn’t last long, because Kitaro’s hands would dig and dig through the dirt until Mizuki’s corpse was clutched in his arms.
“Mizuki?” Sato moves to set his boy down, but Mizuki shakes his head. He forces a smile, and he’s had a lot of practice to look happy in front of Kitaro.
“Don’t worry.” There’s pity in Sato’s eyes now, and Mizuki can’t take it anymore. He turns away, blinking away tears, and he’ll have to ask Kitaro to get the groceries from now on to avoid this from ever happening again. “I’m just dedicating time to my family.”
