Bro I'm Just A Whole Dude

“the lying, qifrey… the secrets—!” 

at the rise of your tone, qifrey swiftly brings a hand to cover your mouth, and the thought of waking the girls from their sleep quickly reels you back. it hits you that he’s close like this, and you almost wish you could pause time. to be able to feel the heat on your skin not from the fire, but from his own skin. the almost-wish aches your being. 

you pull his hand away from your mouth but don’t let go. qifrey doesn’t either. and your tone is still just as hard as before when you whisper,

“i can tell something is going on. i just do not know what. i can see that it is eating away at you, qifrey. i want to help. we want to help. please, won’t you tell us? me?”

the more you push with your words, the more you lean into his frame, your face now mere inches from his. it seems that your pleas might’ve struck a chord within the white-haired man, as his hand softens against your cheek, your own palming over it.

the saturation in his eye glistens, yet he defeatedly looks away from your persistent gaze. the definitive action makes your skin prickle.

a man as kind as him would be equally as stubborn. his tender hands have always felt so heavy in more ways than one. with what weight, you truly didn’t know. he wouldn’t let you know. you feel a sting in your nose, a sadness in your chest as a tear slips from your eye. it trails down to where your finger overlays his on your cheek.

at the sight, qifrey inhales audibly through his nose. he looks so torn that it haunts you, makes you close your eyes in dejection—

—just as you feel two soft lips press onto yours. 

your eyes blow wide open at the sensation, his kiss stifling the noise of surprise that tries to leave you. 

qifrey gently brings his other palm up, cushioning your face with both hands, but he only keeps his lips pressed onto yours—unmoving, firm. you squint your eyes in surrender as you return the kiss with equal pressure, tasting the salts of your shed tear.

this is unlike him. unlike you. after all these years, the line between friend and something closer has never felt more blurred until now. he’s never spoken of his feelings. you’ve never spoken yours. but maybe, this was the confession you needed, through all the worry and uncertainty he’s caused you.

the realization could make you cry, because it could never be any more than this.

the hearth crackles. 

it pops with every fiery splitting of the wood, with every step qifrey takes forward, and you backwards. he pushes and pushes and pushes, his stride gentle and unrelenting as always. but there’s a particular desperation to the way his hands cradle your face—rigid fingers that yearn to melt into your skin, yet hold back. the way that he doesn’t pause even as you both draw away with each needed breath taken, his lips moving forward to capture yours again after every inhale.

it makes you tug at his shirt, the tight black fabric that adorns him silk underneath your fingers. qifrey pushes, and you pull. the gasp that escapes him when your tongue dances with his only fuels you further—makes the desire swell low in your gut.

you want him closer. closer. to crawl underneath that skin-tight fabric of his and live in between his ribs. to revel in making him gasp and chase without this sudden fear that he’ll pull away spiking in your bones. his lips are warm, mingled breaths hot as your hand reverently travels up his chest, feeling his body tremble at the intimate touch. 

your fingers come to pull at the hair at his nape, then urge his head closer—his mouth deeper, unknowingly reaching for his cheek to hold him like he holds you.

sinking. you think you’re sinking, and that qifrey might be too, when suddenly, he draws back in alarm. his hand snatches your hovering wrist and forcibly pins it to the wall behind you, restricting any movement. your eyes snap open to meet his own that swarms with horror.

you’re speechless. not even a wonder of how you two got to the wall crosses your mind, just pure defenseless overtaking every thought. completely taken off-guard by the anxiety seeping from qifrey’s gaze and the hard set line of his lips that was just on yours a second ago. the temperature in the room drops astronomically despite the fire going—chills traveling up your spine at the almost cold look marring his features.

“… qifrey?” you ask quietly, tentatively, unable to tear away from his eye contact. his face towers over yours, close and almost frightening. you’ve never felt so close, yet so far away from him.

qifrey blinks once, twice, then loosens his iron grip on your wrist. your arm barely moves from its position, rigidly breaking off the wall and suspended in the air as if still registering the lightning-abrupt motion.

in fact, you’re still registering what just happened.

“w-what’s wrong?” you attempt to gather your thoughts. “are you—?”

“i apologize,” he says. the statement makes your heart sink to your stomach. 

“…what for?”

“we cannot do this. i apologize for my rash behavior.”

you’re not sure what kind of expression twists over your features. confusion? anger? disappointment? all of the above? whatever it is, and try as you might, you can’t hide how gutted you feel. and you guess it satisfies qifrey in some sickening way because he smiles.

qifrey smiles sorrowfully, with a lifetime full of grief you can never come to understand. you feel another pang hit your chest as his beautiful azure eye shines down on you, his eyebrow downturned miserably. you want to smooth out the wrinkle—to take away his pain.

because underneath the witch’s cloak, you know what kind of man he is. someone who is soft, kind. someone who you wish you could embrace and protect just as much as he cares for others.

what wills him to deflect like this?

from this angle, his shadow completely encases you, no longer a fiery glint reflecting off the gold rims of his spectacles. 

you really can’t stop the urge when you ask, quiet and heavy,

“are you not tired of running away?”

qifrey cocks his head just slightly, his white hair swaying with the motion, but never revealing his right eye. it never does. his left eye pins you frozen to your spot.

and longingly, he whispers, “i…”

hope courses through your veins as qifrey reaches for your face again, only to pause right before making contact, fingers twitching as if you were something unattainable. as if touching you was something he wasn’t allowed to do. you want to tell him it is possible. you wait and wish for him to take the plunge, for him to push again. 

he doesn’t.

qifrey pulls away, and in an unsettlingly light voice, he responds, “as long as you keep looking at me that way, everything will be fine.”

what way? in pain?

how in the world would that make everything fine?

your body is still tight with tension as qifrey slowly backs away, the light of the fire finally brightening your vision. words die in your throat, and you can still feel the tingle on your lips.

(oh, how hopelessly in love you are with him.)

qifrey speaks again. just as soft. just as defeated. “i apologize. i cannot give you an answer to your questions. for your sake—”

he’s quiet, but you hear his final words as he walks away. it makes you bite your lips in helplessness, face dropping to the ground as hot tears run down your cheeks.

“—and for mine.”

the hearth burns, anguishly.

Shiba blinks. Okay — not everyone. Darkness settles heavy in the bedroom, shadows pooled around your ankles. Your fingers are tucked into the waistband of his sweats, the only clothes he's wearing — and some nights, it's enough. 

Some nights, he rolls over you, tugs your panties aside, strokes you until you're ready for him, squirming in your sleep. Some nights, sinking into you is enough to chase the demons away, to remind him that you're both here, alive, finding your way through the world together. 

Other nights, he needs space. Ironic, coming from the guy who can be anywhere, but some nights find him out on the balcony, smoke unfurling into the darkness, cigarette a beacon. 

You home in on it eventually, hands sliding around his bare waist, tucking innocently into his sweats. "Missed you —" a mumble, lips soft against his scarred skin. 

"My bad," he murmurs, his free hand slipping down to clasp around yours. Automatically finding your pulse, fluttering steady, still languid with sleep. "Wanna go somewhere?" 

"Mm, like where?" 

"An onsen in the mountains," Shiba suggests idly, smoke floating into the night. "Betcha we could find an empty one, this time of year." 

He feels you wrinkle your nose, pressed into the space between his shoulder blades. "Yeah, because it's two in the morning," you snort quietly. "Who the hell's gonna take a bath right now?" 

"It could be us," Shiba singsongs, low and secret, and you snicker into his skin. "Nobody can say that I don't treat my girl right. Just say the word, and we're there." 

"Mm, I'd rather we go back to bed," you say, but you make no move away from his body, curling around him like a shell. He feels you tilt your head, wishes he could see you squinting in the night. Watches the smoke curling in the breeze instead. "Hey, is that my claw clip?" 

Shiba tips his head back slightly, blinking up at the flickering city lights. You sigh, nuzzling into his back again. "Sorry, I'm borrowin' it," he says, but he's not sorry at all. 

"It looks good on you," you say. Your fingers press into the crease of his hip, dancing dangerously lower, but he makes no move to stop you. "The sweats are also — diabolical." 

Shiba snorts. He knows — you'd jumped him earlier, touching and flirting incessantly until he finally bent you over the couch. You're one of the few people left alive who knows how to get under his skin, to poke and prod until he drops the act, to hold him close when he finally lets go. 

People say your social circle gets smaller with age, as friends start drifting down their own paths, taking routes parallel but no longer intersecting. Shiba's circle is much the same — except his friends' journeys have ended, a hard stop, a road no longer. 

On really bad nights, he wakes up in a cold sweat, fingers pressing firmly against your neck, until he can feel the hard beat of your heart louder than the echoing silence in his head. You like to curl around him when this happens, holding him close to your heart, surrounding him with your limbs and your scent until it's all he can feel. 

"We should go," you mumble sleepily, and Shiba moves to stub out the remainder of his cigarette, but you don't budge. "To an onsen," you add, "maybe next weekend, or something." 

"You really wanna?" 

"It could be nice," you say. "We can take turns driving. If the road gets too windy, though, I'm taking the wheel." 

Shiba feels his lips twitch involuntarily, and he gives in a moment later. Nobody's around to see him, anyway. "Are ya callin' me a bad driver?" 

"No," you say immediately. "But I get carsick on windy roads unless I'm driving." 

He knows. Shiba knows a lot of things about you, collecting facts and memories and tucking them away safe. If he's one of the last guys around carrying the memories of his friends, then he's gotta keep collecting, he needs to fill it up with you so that if you ever — 

"Togo." 

Shiba takes another drag, watches the cherry end of it flicker. Your free hand reaches, unfurls, waiting patiently for him to set the cigarette between your fingers. 

You have to unstick yourself from his back to smoke, tucking yourself into his side and leaning more into him than the balcony railing. Shiba watches your lips wrap delicately around the cigarette, the slight uptick when you catch him watching. 

He needs to watch you laugh, and smile. He needs it all, spiky and tinged with preemptive grief. Why am I alive? he'd asked once, long ago, and was told that his sorcery was useful. 

"Togo," you say his name again, waiting for his eyes to meet yours. You never ask — you don't need to. 

Shiba bends obligingly when you reach for the claw clip, his cigarette tucked into the corner of your lips. He stays bent, relaxed, shoulders down as you comb your fingers through his hair, twirling his bangs around and gathering it all up to apply the claw clip again. 

"I saw a new flavor for that dried fish you're always eating," you say lightly, fingers gentle along his cheek. He leans into your palm, big, tall man that he is, and you smile, the glimmer in your eyes reflected off the lamp you'd turned on just by the glass balcony doors. 

"Didja get me some?" 

"Of course." 

Shiba tries to focus — tries to shut down everything else as you finally grind out the stub of the cigarette, as you lean up to kiss him carefully. You don't ask for much, just a gentle press of lips, and when you pull away, Shiba catches your hands in his own. 

You're always careful touching his neck, so observant over the way he stilled the first time you grazed it, so when Shiba guides your hands from his face to his chest he's careful to let your fingertips brush the sensitive skin there. 

And you notice — eyes widening just slightly — but you don't say anything, and Shiba thinks he might be able to go back to sleep. 

"It's gettin' chilly," he says. Accent thick, sounding like his youth. "Wanna go warm up?" 

"I could be convinced," you say seriously, as if a smile isn't hiding in your eyes. You press your hands to his bare chest, feeling up the muscles there, resting over his heart. "Weren't you complaining about your back earlier, though?" 

Shiba snorts. "Bad back or not, I can think of other ways to warm us up." 

"You aren't even 40, yet," you tease, "keep it together, old man." 

That makes him laugh, makes him step towards the lamp inside, towards the light. Shiba catches you with an arm beneath your ass when you hop up to wrap your legs around his waist, staggering with exaggeration as you laugh bright and delighted. 

He could get you both inside without bothering to step through the balcony doors, but he takes his time, jostling you and grinning when you muffle a squeak into his hair. Collecting these tiny moments, these drops of joy. 

Shiba doesn't sleep well. 

For a man who can go anywhere at the drop of a hat, he knows he could leave, he could let you continue sleeping undisturbed. But — laying in bed with you, listening to your heartbeat beneath his ear, feeling your fingers comb gently through his hair —