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“Karma, do you want me to wash you?”
Always straight to the point. His words, that is. Karma stares at Nagisa.
The evening sun settles into darkness and they are left alone with each other. It's a miracle to see both of their break days colliding with each other, conversations shared without rushing to sleep and preparing for tomorrow.
This, however, is new.
Nagisa stands in the bathroom with his head out into the hallway. Karma is supposed to go after he finishes, but this is very new. He raises an eyebrow.
“What, can’t trust me to shower alone?” The comment gets a giggle followed by a quiet sigh.
“No, it’s just…” Nagisa stares at him, stares at the way he moves and exists. “We haven't been together for a while.”
It’s a truth he doesn’t think about, but it’s true. While Nagisa gets the weekends off, Karma works most of the time. They only exist with each other through sticky notes (“heat up before eating.”) and sleeping (their legs are always tangled in the morning like they don’t want the other to leave).
But,
now?
“We could always eat together,” Karma says. “or cook.”
“Do you want to do that instead?” Nagisa is gentle, soft. “It’s alright if you don’t want to bathe with me.”
Karma’s breath hitches a bit. What does he want? Every wall he built has done wonders to protect himself from the entire world. Why put it all down now?
“No— it’s— it’s fine.” His ears are burning. His hands twitch for something to hold. “Just— give me a moment.”
Nagisa—it’s always Nagisa— waits for him. Like he has all the time in the world.
*
It’s strange—the way they exist.
Nagisa doesn’t comment on it. Karma doesn’t either. Nagisa sprays water over Karma’s head with the shower head, his spare hand touching Karma’s back. The heat radiates.
For the first time, Karma realizes how intimate this entire thing is, how personal it is for him to just sit here and trust. Nagisa rubs body wash on his back like he had done all of this before. Like this is a normal occurrence, the shattering of walls.
(Karma did washed Nagisa once, twice. Those days, however, have passed since then. He remembers the bruises on his skin, the way Nagisa folds in on himself to make his presence smaller and smaller. Until there is nothing but a simple response.
Were Karma’s own touches like this? He wonders if Nagisa felt like this too, like he is something bare and raw.)
He tries so hard not to shake, not to tremble when Nagisa’s hands gently brush over the back of his neck. It’s almost overwhelming— this feeling. He closes his own hand over the other to remind himself: don’t fidget. Don’t fidget. Don’t make this hard for him.
There’s tingles: bursts of nerves all over his legs. There’s no way for him to release his energy; not now. Not when the touches are so careful as if he’s handling something so fragile. Karma doesn’t respond—doesn’t know how.
The nerves tell him to run away, to move from these touches. He hangs his head low and tries to breathe. The water surface is warm, soapy, bubbly on the tiled floor. Karma can’t put it into words.
Weird, he thinks first. And then: the word isn’t right. His body tries to suppress a shiver when Nagisa’s fingers carefully run through his hair. His shoulders are exposed to the night air from the window, but all he feels is the warmth of the water, Nagisa leaning on his back, and his fingers on his scalp.
Uncomfortable, strange. It doesn’t match. Odd.
“Karma?”
He flinches. He's not good with this— not good with this raw and exposed side of himself. Here is a person he trusts by heart, knows by heart, and yet his fingernails are trying to dig into his palms. His heart beats. Not this, not this, not like this.
His hands are supposed to be covered in blood, rough in its edges and hard to dodge. They’re not meant for the way Nagisa brings a hand down his arm and covers his tight hold. He is not meant for this. He never will, forever haunted by every single person he’s ever fought.
And yet—
“Am I doing it too hard?” Nagisa’s words are said on Karma’s exposed shoulders. He takes a while to respond.
“No.”
Nagisa nods and goes back to scraping the dirt off his hair.
(“I was scared,” Karma would admit later when their kisses are drowsy and their legs are tangled together. “I couldn't deal with it.”
Nagisa looks at him with concerned eyes. “Like back then? Middle school? When you left me?”
He answers, “Yes.”)
The water runs. Nagisa sprays water over his head to wash away everything: the shampoo, the dirt, the walls he put up. Karma breathes in easily as it spills over his body and down into the drain.
The lump in his throat stays there. He doesn’t cry. He rarely does. His hair is pushed to the side and Nagisa’s lips press against the back of his neck, and press, and press.
Vulnerable.
“Karma,” Nagisa asks. “Do you want to stay here? I can run a clean bath and we can stay for a while.”
Yes, no. He's vulnerable, so vulnerable. He's never been looked like that before. Like he is a fragile thing, almost breaking. How does one deal with this? How does one answer?
“Okay,” Karma says.
“Okay,” Nagisa repeats. He runs the bath anew.
“Nagisa.”
“Yeah?”
“I'm glad I met you.”
“Yeah?” It’s a whisper against his skin. A remark in the form of a secret between them, between everything. Karma would say anything and everything, but this is enough for now.
Karma exhales. His ears burn.
“Yeah.”