#love letters

you could have just sent him the address, but if he’s lucky, you’ll forget to turn it off in the morning. if he knows where you are, it’s almost as good as trusting you.

he’s a hypocrite, he knows, spinning the wheel with one hand and scrubbing the other over his jaw roughly. you make it okay, though.

you’re standing next to some guy with his shirt unbuttoned, smoking a cigarette, when suna pulls up.

“that’s him,” he can hear you say, shouting even though you don’t need to. the music isn’t too loud with the club closed for the night. “that’s my boyfriend. isn’t his car cool?”

a sour look on his face, the guy holding the cigarette nods. suna rolls down the window and says, “thanks for watching my girl, man.” his smirk is greasier than it needs to be.

“anytime,” says the guy. suna gets the impression that he’d slash his tires if he could.

you, uncaring of the havoc you’re leaving behind, climb into suna’s car with a big smile and plant a sloppy kiss on his cheek before settling into your seat. when the window’s up and he’s peeled away from the curb, it slips a little.

“sorry,” you say, not exactly looking sorry. “i didn’t want him to hit on me.”

“i get it,” he says. “it’s okay.”

it’s not. he wants to be your real boyfriend. you want it too. for reasons both incomprehensible and perfectly understandable to both of you, it can’t happen.

“i’m sorry,” you say again. “did i wake you up?”

“nah,” he shakes his head. “i was already up. the twins,” he doesn’t have to finish his sentence.

“oh,” you say, “how are they?”

you and the twins don’t get along. the last time you’d met, atsumu had said you’re probably going to marry that witch, and i’m boycotting your bridal party.

“fine,” he says. “they were wasted. osamu tried to make me sing karaoke.”

“i think you have a nice voice,” you protest a contention he’d never made. he doesn’t respond, just watches the night lights of the city blur past him, the white lines guide his wheels straight and true. “i like it when you sing to me.”

“i’ve never sung for you.”

“you did! you sing in my shower, every time you stay over. you don’t do it when you’re home.”

“that’s not singing to you.”

you give him a look like, sure. he turns up the aux. you hum, a little out of tune with the bass.

“there are things i want to tell you,” you say, and when he glances at you out of the corner of his eye you’re staring straight ahead, carefully avoiding looking at him. “especially like this. for plausible deniability. but then i don’t want it to come out messy.”

“you can be messy,” he says, and watches you not believe him.

“but i want to be clean. for you. i want,” you grind out. this happens, sometimes, too. you sound like you’re going to tell him that you love him and your tones says that you hate him for it. “i want you to not have to take care of me. i want you to be happy. so happy.”

“i’m happy.”

“but—” the words choke and die in your throat. “like. um. you know what i mean.”

“i really don’t.”

you flinch into looking at him. he has an eye on the road, he swears, but your hair is plastered to your forehead in places and your mouth is bitten red and you look pale with terror, the prettiest thing he’s ever seen every time he sees you.

“i’m your pistachio,” you burst out, like that makes any sense at all. “did you—have you seen that?”

“huh?” is all he can really articulate. he’s scared, too, he hopes you know, it’s why he can’t put his hand on your knee and reassure you, why he can’t say he knows what you’re saying because you turn his world upside down, you make it so he doesn’t know anything he should.

“it’s like—” you press your palms to your eyes, your mouth moving but not making words for a second. “flavors. you want something classic and familiar like chocolate, but you kind of want to try something new like pistachio, and it turns out you like pistachio too, but you still wish you’d stuck with chocolate.”

“uh.”

“fuck, never mind,” you say. “fuck.”

“okay,” he says.

it’s just a few turns left before he’ll be at your place. he knows it like a homing beacon is lit up at the top, can find it from anywhere in the city. you lived a lot further away when you first met; you had to text, hey, i’m in your city, if you wanted to do this. he’s not totally sure you didn’t move to be closer to him.

“i mean,” you make a low noise in your throat. he hopes it’s not sore tomorrow. he hopes you didn’t smoke with that guy, because then it definitely will be. “i know you weren’t single when you met me.”

his foot comes off the gas for a second.

“it was already over,” he says. “it wasn’t, like, because of you. fuck. who told you?”

“she told me by the second time we saw each other. or, well. it doesn’t matter. she hadn’t moved out, though,” you point out. “it wasn’t—that was why—rintarō.”

there’s only one turn left. suna thinks wildly of turning the other way, of taking you back to his, of driving into the sunrise so you’ll never get out of his car.

“i’m sorry,” he says honestly. for what, he doesn’t know. he couldn’t atone if he spent the rest of his life doing it, so he doesn’t even want to list his sins.

you make a frustrated noise. “that’s the thing. i don’t care. i was mad—when i found out, because you didn’t tell me, because of course you didn’t tell me. but i don’t care. i wouldn’t have even if—i can’t even say it, but it’s true. isn’t that fucked up? aren’t i fucked?”

he shakes his head, pulling up to the curb a little harder than he needs to. the car jolts. his back hurts a little, a sparking pain like a bushel of lit cigarettes pressed into it.

“that’s why,” you say. you’re talking faster now. both of you know you have to go, but you don’t. “it’s bad, but i don’t care. i—please. do you get it?”

“i do,” he says, and every confession made tonight hangs between you like stars about to implode. “i—yeah.”

“yeah,” you exhale. “sorry. fuck. bye. i promise.”

you wobble as you step out of the car and he remembers that you’re drunk, that the cards are all here, spilled all over his lap and into the footwell. he puts the car in park and rushes to steady you before you can fall.

“it was worth it,” he says steadily. “if you remember this—i want you to remember that. i really—you made my life better, every time you touched it.”

“i’ll remember,” you say quietly, putting your hand on his face. “don’t worry.”

he gives you a look like, sure.

“come up,” you say. “if it doesn’t matter to you. it doesn’t matter to me.”

you turn his world upside down; this means that it matters more than anything else ever could.

“you can kick me out in the morning,” he says, voice a dry rasp.

you could have just sent him the address, but if he’s lucky, you’ll forget to turn it off in the morning. if he knows where you are, it’s almost as good as trusting you.

he’s a hypocrite, he knows, spinning the wheel with one hand and scrubbing the other over his jaw roughly. you make it okay, though.

you’re standing next to some guy with his shirt unbuttoned, smoking a cigarette, when suna pulls up.

“that’s him,” he can hear you say, shouting even though you don’t need to. the music isn’t too loud with the club closed for the night. “that’s my boyfriend. isn’t his car cool?”

a sour look on his face, the guy holding the cigarette nods. suna rolls down the window and says, “thanks for watching my girl, man.” his smirk is greasier than it needs to be.

“anytime,” says the guy. suna gets the impression that he’d slash his tires if he could.

you, uncaring of the havoc you’re leaving behind, climb into suna’s car with a big smile and plant a sloppy kiss on his cheek before settling into your seat. when the window’s up and he’s peeled away from the curb, it slips a little.

“sorry,” you say, not exactly looking sorry. “i didn’t want him to hit on me.”

“i get it,” he says. “it’s okay.”

it’s not. he wants to be your real boyfriend. you want it too. for reasons both incomprehensible and perfectly understandable to both of you, it can’t happen.

“i’m sorry,” you say again. “did i wake you up?”

“nah,” he shakes his head. “i was already up. the twins,” he doesn’t have to finish his sentence.

“oh,” you say, “how are they?”

you and the twins don’t get along. the last time you’d met, atsumu had said you’re probably going to marry that witch, and i’m boycotting your bridal party.

“fine,” he says. “they were wasted. osamu tried to make me sing karaoke.”

“i think you have a nice voice,” you protest a contention he’d never made. he doesn’t respond, just watches the night lights of the city blur past him, the white lines guide his wheels straight and true. “i like it when you sing to me.”

“i’ve never sung for you.”

“you did! you sing in my shower, every time you stay over. you don’t do it when you’re home.”

“that’s not singing to you.”

you give him a look like, sure. he turns up the aux. you hum, a little out of tune with the bass.

“there are things i want to tell you,” you say, and when he glances at you out of the corner of his eye you’re staring straight ahead, carefully avoiding looking at him. “especially like this. for plausible deniability. but then i don’t want it to come out messy.”

“you can be messy,” he says, and watches you not believe him.

“but i want to be clean. for you. i want,” you grind out. this happens, sometimes, too. you sound like you’re going to tell him that you love him and your tones says that you hate him for it. “i want you to not have to take care of me. i want you to be happy. so happy.”

“i’m happy.”

“but—” the words choke and die in your throat. “like. um. you know what i mean.”

“i really don’t.”

you flinch into looking at him. he has an eye on the road, he swears, but your hair is plastered to your forehead in places and your mouth is bitten red and you look pale with terror, the prettiest thing he’s ever seen every time he sees you.

“i’m your pistachio,” you burst out, like that makes any sense at all. “did you—have you seen that?”

“huh?” is all he can really articulate. he’s scared, too, he hopes you know, it’s why he can’t put his hand on your knee and reassure you, why he can’t say he knows what you’re saying because you turn his world upside down, you make it so he doesn’t know anything he should.

“it’s like—” you press your palms to your eyes, your mouth moving but not making words for a second. “flavors. you want something classic and familiar like chocolate, but you kind of want to try something new like pistachio, and it turns out you like pistachio too, but you still wish you’d stuck with chocolate.”

“uh.”

“fuck, never mind,” you say. “fuck.”

“okay,” he says.

it’s just a few turns left before he’ll be at your place. he knows it like a homing beacon is lit up at the top, can find it from anywhere in the city. you lived a lot further away when you first met; you had to text, hey, i’m in your city, if you wanted to do this. he’s not totally sure you didn’t move to be closer to him.

“i mean,” you make a low noise in your throat. he hopes it’s not sore tomorrow. he hopes you didn’t smoke with that guy, because then it definitely will be. “i know you weren’t single when you met me.”

his foot comes off the gas for a second.

“it was already over,” he says. “it wasn’t, like, because of you. fuck. who told you?”

“she told me by the second time we saw each other. or, well. it doesn’t matter. she hadn’t moved out, though,” you point out. “it wasn’t—that was why—rintarō.”

there’s only one turn left. suna thinks wildly of turning the other way, of taking you back to his, of driving into the sunrise so you’ll never get out of his car.

“i’m sorry,” he says honestly. for what, he doesn’t know. he couldn’t atone if he spent the rest of his life doing it, so he doesn’t even want to list his sins.

you make a frustrated noise. “that’s the thing. i don’t care. i was mad—when i found out, because you didn’t tell me, because of course you didn’t tell me. but i don’t care. i wouldn’t have even if—i can’t even say it, but it’s true. isn’t that fucked up? aren’t i fucked?”

he shakes his head, pulling up to the curb a little harder than he needs to. the car jolts. his back hurts a little, a sparking pain like a bushel of lit cigarettes pressed into it.

“that’s why,” you say. you’re talking faster now. both of you know you have to go, but you don’t. “it’s bad, but i don’t care. i—please. do you get it?”

“i do,” he says, and every confession made tonight hangs between you like stars about to implode. “i—yeah.”

“yeah,” you exhale. “sorry. fuck. bye. i promise.”

you wobble as you step out of the car and he remembers that you’re drunk, that the cards are all here, spilled all over his lap and into the footwell. he puts the car in park and rushes to steady you before you can fall.

“it was worth it,” he says steadily. “if you remember this—i want you to remember that. i really—you made my life better, every time you touched it.”

“i’ll remember,” you say quietly, putting your hand on his face. “don’t worry.”

he gives you a look like, sure.

“come up,” you say. “if it doesn’t matter to you. it doesn’t matter to me.”

you turn his world upside down; this means that it matters more than anything else ever could.

“you can kick me out in the morning,” he says, voice a dry rasp.