The weighted smack of skin against the table sends Monoma’s spine stiffening, almost seeming to halt him entirely. Taken aback though he is, he’s far from frozen, rather poised in anticipation as the other verbally lays into him. He’s never seen Shindo even close to this angry, doesn’t know what to expect. So when fists and quirk crash through the surface between the two of them, he gives a start and leaps to his feet, a hand thrown in front of him defensively as splinters fly. Chair clatters to the ground in his haste, and soon he finds his back impeded by the barrier of a countertop. His gaze shifts from the still-fracturing wood to Yo’s face–eyes that burn furiously into him–and his teeth snap together into a grimace.
Of all the contingencies he was prepared to react against, that accusation, those damning, inescapable words, have him blindsided. Their impossible insight cuts deep, too deep; Shindo has no idea what he’s talking about; he’s not sick; he’s not sick. Suddenly the other retreats, and Monoma releases an exhale, a rush of breath he hadn’t realized he’d held, bitten lip.
Of course he cares about himself; somebody has to. Everybody does it; everybody’s just looking for what they want when it really comes down to it; they’re lying if they say otherwise. There’s nothing wrong with him; he’s not wrong… If Yo thinks so poorly of him already, throws his flaws in his face like this, how much more could he do with more confessions? This is why, this is why… Monoma’s thoughts boiling over, it takes him too long to realize Shindo is preparing to leave.
“You think I’m sick?!” he yells beyond the kitchen, voice taught with the effort to keep it from cracking, and makes his way toward the other’s location.
“Have you ever looked at yourself?! You’ve spent all this time trying to make me into the things you want, and now that you’re not getting it…all this!” Stopped a distance from Shindo’s back, he spreads his arms as if to gesture to the chaos clearly Yo is at the center of.
“I can’t even tell you no without you bringing everything up against me! You ask all those questions pretending to care, but you’re just a fake, Shindo Yo! You don’t care about me; you just want what you want! You’re not any different!”
----- fingers halt around the lock despite all the finality they gripped it with. each fiber in his body is practically hardwired to heed to that voice no matter the tone, the situation. and there's the hopeful reluctance beneath all the pain. but each word aimed at him is only meant to hurt, it all hurts so much more than what's to measure.
then, the other's lips leaves a lie so utterly wrong it prickles doubtful skin, stiffens muscles in an incredulous unison. " i don't care? "
a glistening wild look is cast over his shoulder, before his hand abandons the door-handle and the space between them is chomped away in swift strides. just like around the lock, his fist grapples onto the other's collar, pulls at the cloth, leaves those cold eyes no option but to meet his. his gaze jumps between them like so many times close like this, and he's sure that just like always, the truth in there is bare, tangible. how could it ever be denied, twisted so wrong?
" did you hear ANY of the shit you just said back there? you're CRAZY. and i've never wanted anything but good for you. i've always been there for you. i've been there EACH fucking time you disappear and come back, and you USED that. "
each word is a tug, a push, spitted out and spilling more tears. the two of them are pressed against the inevitable wall when no more come out, and again this closeness is so familiar. in a weak moment his brown eyes slip onto the other's lips, climb onto pale lashes and the grey beneath--- and hurt is so akin to longing. if this could all be forgotten, erased, reversed, ignored, and he could simply just give in; the sorrow of facing him with anything else than desire is so cold, barren, wrong. warm memories flicker in this closeness--- but pass away with reluctance, as more tears pooling and slipping over his cheeks.
" you--- do you even know why i let that happen, why i never left? well--- you could call that caring. but i suppose you wouldn't understand. you've made that clear enough. "
he'd call it love. there's nothing else it could be. his hand limply slides away from the other’s collar, and his nostrils draw in a long, neglected inhale. the air spreads in his chest as numbness, and his lips part, considering if speaking it out of his lungs would warm them. but there's nothing else to add.
