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Today has been hell. All the muscles in your body throb with exhaustion and your head feels like it’s going to split open from the headache you’ve been nursing since this morning. You had spilled your breakfast on yourself, and missed your bus. You were late to work, and your boss yelled at you. Someone didn’t come in for their shift and your boss yelled at you for that, too. You’d been biting the inside of your cheek raw to keep from crying the whole walk home, dreams of your quiet apartment have kept your legs moving, but that dream dies when you see Osomatsu sitting at your front door. Of all the days for him to drop by unannounced, it had to be today. You really wish he had a cellphone, but you’re honestly not sure if that would have kept him from wandering to your apartment whenever he felt like it.
“You’re late! I thought you got off of work at five,” he says as you approach, his voice halfway between a whine and a drawl. He gets to his feet and brushes himself off and says, “I thought you could walk faster than that, or are you getting lazy like me, slutty-buddy?” He pinches your side and swipes his finger under his nose, and you’re about to complain but he doesn’t give you time to respond.
“Listen, you’re going to love this! Let me tell you what happened today, it’s so funny,” he says as you slide your key in the lock. Pushing ahead of you through the front door, he kicks off his shoes and starts to rifle through your kitchen cabinets without pausing for breath.
“Listen, listen,” he repeats, a laugh already edging into his voice, “you are not going to believe what Ichimatsu did today.” He triumphantly pulls a bag of chips from a shelf and crosses the apartment to sit on the floor against your couch.
You’ve been watching him from the doorway, steadily gnawing the inside of your mouth and forcing the lump in your throat to go back down. The idea of crying in front of Osomatsu fills you with dread. He’s good to watch bad movies with, and he’s good to go drinking with, but he’s one of the worst listeners you’ve ever encountered. You can almost hear him telling you not to worry so much already. You’re not sure you have the energy to deal with how stupid he makes you feel for feeling things. Part of you wants to just turn around and leave.
He turns to you expectantly and makes a hand motion for you to come over. Shutting the door, you pull off your shoes and align them carefully by the entrance, before ducking down and grabbing his sneakers from the ground. The whole task is done with as much deliberation as you can put into it, both to keep yourself together and to emphasize what a slob he is.
“Hurry up!!” He whines as you’re straightening his shoes next to yours, and even though you’re not surprised that he doesn’t notice your passive-aggressive prods, it’s still frustrating. God, your head hurts.
You finish tidying up and you walk to the couch, curling stiffly against the armrest as far from him as possible. Maybe I can get some rest like this, you think, finding the most comfortable position on the couch that you can and letting your eyes fall shut.The gesture was lost on him, and he dives into his story with the same lazy enthusiasm he tells all his stories with. Normally, his wild gesticulations and goofy voices made you laugh, but they’re doing nothing to improve your mood now. On one hand you’re relieved that he doesn’t notice your deadpan expression, but part of you wishes he’d say something about how quiet you’re being.
“Oi,” his voice startles you with its sudden serious tone, “are you ok?”
You glance up and see Osomatsu looking over his shoulder at you, his hands resting loosely on his knees and a gentle look of concern tugging his mouth into a frown.
“Yeah, I’m fine, I just--” you start.
“Because you look like shit!” His arms cross around his stomach and he throws his head back, laughing uproariously at his own joke.
And. You snap.
Tears start to pour down your face and you sniff loudly, forcing mucus back down your throat. The sound makes his shoulders freeze almost immediately, a cackle dying in his lungs before he can get it out.
“You,” you choke out through ragged breaths, “y-you don’t look much better!” You try to snark back at him as best you can, anything to get the two of you back into the rhythm of ribbing and flirting you’re used to, but your voice sounds strangled and prickly. It makes your comment sound a lot meaner than you intended.
“Whoa, whoa,” his eyes widen and his elbows cock at loose angles, like he’s ready to defend himself. He doesn’t wait for you to respond before he hops up onto the couch.
“Was that too mean? We make jokes at each other all the time, I thought it would be ok,” he keeps babbling, more worried about being in trouble than about how you’re doing. Your face feels unbearably warm. All you want to do is hide, more so when you realize your cheeks are getting wetter and hotter. You curl forward and bury your face in your hands with a sniffle.
“Whoa! Whoa, hey, what did I say?” his voice pitches up with alarm.
“Nothing!” You force out between sobs, hoping that your hands will mask the horrible pressure congestion has on your voice. “You d-didn’t do anything!”
You hear his weight shift on the couch next to you, and you want him to be as uncomfortable as he sounds. It’s immature and you know it, but you’re sad and he’s an idiot. More than anything, you just want him to make an effort, something to show he cares about you more than the sound of his own voice. A cartoonish pop pulls you out of your ruminations.
Glancing through your fingers, you see he’s pulled out the bag of chips and started shoving them in his mouth. You gape at him, as fresh tears track down your face and drip off the bottom of your chin. It takes him a second to notice that you’re staring at him.
“Oh! Right, of course,” he says with a smile before tilting the bag in your direction. You honestly can’t tell if he’s joking. Your face starts to crumple and you hold your head in your hands again.
“I c-can’t believ-ve you,” you bawl into your palms. The anger you put into your voice comes out over-dramatic when it’s filtered through the tight squeeze of your throat. You hate crying so, so much.
“I thought you said I didn’t do anything!” You still can’t tell if he’s playing up his lazy attitude for laughs, but if he keeps whining like this you might deck him. You’re going to have to be direct with him, you expected this.
“I just,” you exhale sharply to try to get control over your breathing, and lean back into the couch. You drag your hands down your face. “I’ve had a rough day, so I’m a little sensitive right now.”
He stares at you blankly, another chip halfway to his mouth.
“I could really use some, uh…,” the words trail off. You want to say the word ‘pity’, but the thought of being that demanding makes you feel melodramatic. His eyes dart to your chest and you know you’re losing him.
“Just...just comfort me,” you finally manage. A look of understanding dawns on his face and he sets the bag of chips between his legs.
“Eh? Why didn’t you say so? I wouldn’t have been so hard on you…,” he slides an arm around your shoulders and scoots closer to you, the whole length of his thigh pressing against yours. His other hand, in an attempt to be comforting, rubs your knee, but he just spreads salt and crumbs over your leg.
You want to laugh at the way he blames you, because of course he would, but all that comes out is an ugly choked sob. Osomatsu stiffens at the sound, but pulls closer to you with more concrete intent and gives your shoulder a weak squeeze.
The contact is almost relaxing until you feel his fingers start to trace over the inside of your thigh. He yelps when you slap his hand away, another wail starting to expand up your lungs and out your mouth.
“That is,” you try to catch your breath, “a-absolutely not what I meant!”
“Oh, um,” he says through an embarrassed smile. “Oh.”
You want to reprimand him more but all that comes out is a hiccup. The pathetic sound reawakens your shame and you start to bawl full force once more, the burn of more tears stinging your eyes and cheeks. His sheepish expression turns frantic when he realizes he made things worse.
“C’mon! You know I was just joking, right? C’moooon,” he draws out the syllable with an awful whine, a bit lost about what to say next. His head jerks slightly when he thinks of something, and looks entirely too proud when he grins and says, “Cheer up! You look so much better with a smile.”
You cringe violently. Despite your reaction, his eyes search your face, looking for a signal that he’s going in the right direction. Even though you see the panic and desperation at the edges of his smug stupid smile, you aren’t feeling much sympathy for him. It’s like the only people he’s ever dealt with are his brothers, and they’re not any better adjusted than he is.
“God, just--,” you start, ready to give him detailed instructions on how to go fuck himself, but the words are dragged back down your throat as another sob tears through you. He gives you a firmer shoulder-squeeze, but you slap his hand away. Osomatsu has no idea how to touch you unless you’re getting intimate, and the rest of the time he treats you like another one of his brothers, all back pats and playful punches. Every annoying thing you remember about him tightens the vice around your chest.
You let out another ugly wail, and your face is back in your hands.
You’re dimly aware of the sound of moving fabric as you he tucks the chip bag under the couch. He sits still for a moment, and you think he might be considering leaving. For how well tonight has gone, you don’t blame him. Instead, he takes the risk of talking again.
“I’m not, um, very good at this,” he mumbles, and you snort. “But,” he continues, “if you need… a hug? Or something? I’m, uh. I’m right here.” The lazy cadence of his voice feels off, like he’s trying the words out for the first time. He probably is, if you’re being honest. They’re the vaguest assurances you could think of, anything to try to help him salvage the awful situation, but there’s something genuine in the way he says it.
There’s a long moment where you listen to the stillness of the room, only disturbed by your heavy breathing and the hammering of your heartbeat in your ears, and you feel awkward and theatrical. You lower your hands to examine his face. Osomatsu’s usual monkey grin is replaced with an uncomfortable grimace and he looks a little embarrassed, round cheeks slightly flushed and one of his hands scratching absentmindedly at his neck. His eyes are downcast, focused on your worn carpet, and he looks almost...guilty.
You’re still mad but a new wave of tears is pressing behind your eyes, so you accept his offer and crumple into his chest. His hands dart into the air when you move so suddenly, and you can’t tell if he was afraid you’d hit him but God it’d be satisfying to have him understand that he should be at least a little more cautious about the way he talks to you.
You push that thought out of your head as you ball your fists in his sweatshirt and press harder against him. He gives to the pressure easily and lies down, making a space for you to curl up in between his legs. His arms wrap around you, and one of his hands rises to pat the top of your head. You rub your face into his chest and weep openly into him for a bit. You’re pretty sure the hand stroking your hair isn’t the chip hand and you’re thankful for this small kindness.
Your sobs quiet soon after, your voice dying down to a soft whimper. His lungs vibrate underneath you, and you think he’s trying to say reassuring things but you can’t hear them and you’re not sure you want to. You’re exhausted from being angry and sad, and just want to relax.
You listen to his slow, even breathing as hold your face against him a bit longer, and let the death-grip you have on his sweatshirt relax. He’s a human marshmallow, both in emotional substance and physical stature. Osomatsu might not be a classic gentleman but you will never get tired of how warm he is through his clothes or how soft it feels to have your stomachs pressed together.
When you finally lift your head from his shirt, your eyes fixate on the damp spots you left behind before you croak out a shaky apology. You raise a hand to feel your face and it’s predictably hot and sticky.
“Huh? Don’t worry, I need to wash this thing anyway,” he smiles and exhales loudly, like he was afraid you would snap at him. His breath feels hot on your your sensitive skin, and you realize that you hadn’t fully appreciated how close your faces were like this. Though his eyes crinkle up over his grin, his knitted eyebrows betray how worried he actually is. A blush has settled across the bridge of his nose and diffuses across his cheeks, but his ears are bright red.
“Yeah, you really do,” you reply, and he snorts because this kind of banter feels familiar and safe, and he knows he’s in the clear. Relief practically radiates off of him. He smiles and cups your cheek, but his expression falters as his eyes take their time searching your face.
“Hey,” he says, a weird determination in his voice. “I really like you.”
“I know. I like you too,” you say without breaking eye contact. He’s always this needy after you fight, desperate for reassurance that he will be able to touch your butt in the future.
“No, I mean,” he starts before sighing, eyes darting to the floor again before he furrows his brow and looks back at you. “I just… I get so excited to see you, and talk to you, and touch you, and --”
“Osomatsu,” you cut him off.
“And,” he continues, “I forget sometimes the other stuff I have to do. Y’know?”
“Oh,” you say. He’s really trying. “I’ll… try to be clearer about what I need from you.”
You fiddle idly with one of the drawstrings on his jacket for a moment before you say, “You talk too much, sometimes.” He freezes under you briefly before his whole body shakes with a laugh.
“Well, if you want me to shut up, I’ll shut up! I never thought I was that talkative but people are always telling me, ‘Osomatsu, you have to shut up,’ and I just tell them--”
You try cut him off by pressing a finger to his mouth, but his smile just gets wider and he keeps talking. He’s just trying to be funny but you’re really not in the mood, so you interrupt him for once.
“Are you OK just hanging out like this tonight?”
He moves to respond, but snaps his mouth shut and gives you an earnest nod instead. You hum contentedly before you press a quick kiss to his chin, breaking it off as he tries to tilt his face towards yours so that he can stick his tongue in your mouth. He whines momentarily at the snub as you settle back down onto his chest, but doesn’t push the issue.
He wraps one arm around your back and holds you tightly so you don’t slip off when he leans off of the couch to grab the remote off the floor. You don’t say anything when he flicks on the TV, but you do slap the chips out of his hand when he tries to pick them up again. He doesn’t say much for the rest of the night, and in return you let him rest his hands on your ass.