Cinnamouse

“You sure you don’t need help?”

The man glances at you curled up on a cold grass and then quickly looks around the friends surrounding you dressed in clothes that might have been appropriate for the afternoon, but much less for an evening like this.

“Yeah, I’m good. Get home before you catch a cold.”

There’s laughter in response right before the good-nights and good-lucks, and let-us-know-if-you-need-anythings, but Suna barely pays any attention to it. He focuses on you, eyes scanning for any sign of discomfort even though he knows it’s the only thing you feel at the moment.

He crouches down and brushes your hair away from your face.

“Hi baby, it’s me. Let me take you home, yeah?”

His voice is quiet and gentle, but still enough to make you aware of his presence; your eyes move towards him and you blink slowly—action he takes as an agreement.

One arm slides under your knees, another behind your back and under your arm, and then you’re being lifted from the cold ground. Your head instinctively leans on Suna’s shoulder; he’s so warm and you’re so tired, and it feels as if you could fall asleep right there and then.

Your boyfriend carries you back to your shared apartment, and suddenly you’re overflowed with guilt. He’s too good for you. Too kind, too loving, too supporting. It was supposed to be a fun night, both for you and him even if separately, but here you are, defeated by the feeling of impending doom. And here he is, dragged out of the comfort and into the dark, carrying your weight like it’s nothing.

Absorbed in your thoughts, you don’t notice when you reach the familiar door until the man asks if you can stand on your own for a second. I can try, you think so you nod, and your feet indeed touch the floor but a strong arm still supports and embraces you tight.

The lock clicks and the door opens; Suna gently nudges you inside and into the bathroom, where he sits you on a tiny stool always kept by the bathtub. The fixture is filled with warm water while the man removes your clothes and make-up, and helps you get inside.

He lets you soak for a moment and your thoughts untangle, before grabbing your favourite shampoo. His fingertips massage your scalp in slow linear motions, sending tingles to your still numb limbs. With each move you feel the darkness dissipate a little, making it easier to breathe in the steamy air.

The touch disappears for a second and comes again on the skin on your face—tiny circles blooming with foam—removing the leftovers of the outing. It tickles like soft feathers and it’s not difficult to imagine this is what it is, even if for now they’re only in black and white.

You can’t tell if it’s been a minute or an hour, or even a whole eternity, before the hands move to the rest of your body. They’re rubbing at your muscles and joints, easing the tension with each squeeze.

Suna sees the expression on your face change—from the one of a painful indifference into the relaxed softness, and he wouldn’t make you move if not for a risk of you dozing off in the tub. He rinses the soap from your skin and hair, and wraps you in a fluffy towel on your way out.

Again, you’re seated on the stool, only this time with Suna behind you. As gently as he can, he brushes your hair, watching your reflection in the mirror closely for any sign of pain. But even if you felt any, you wouldn’t dare to show it with how tenderly he’s taking care of you.

However, there’s so much love in his gestures, in his touches, in his irises, so much more than you think you deserve, that the tears pool under your lids. They flow down your cheeks but Suna doesn’t say anything—he knows not to say anything—and lifts you silently to move you to the bedroom, where he dresses you in your favourite pyjamas.

Suna Rintarou is not a man of words; he doesn’t know how to describe the feelings swarming in his heart, doesn’t know how to name them. But he doesn’t need to, because his actions speak louder than any words ever could; they tell you everything you need to know and more.

So, wrapped tightly in the arms of the man that you love and who loves you, breathing in the scent that means safety and peace, you hide your face in the crook of his neck. And your hands shyly embracing him back tell him everything he needs to know.

“I’m home.”

The biggest surprise (or maybe disappointment), he thinks, is the depiction of love. He’s been fed with images of grand feelings and even greater gestures—of departures and rushing to the airport, of dancing and kissing in the rain, of speeches and confessions at proms—but there’s nothing of the sort.

Sure, he has dated before, but none of his relationships lasted for long; they had always left saying he was too detached, heartless even. And back then he thought it was true—after all his only response was a shrug and a quiet “‘kay”—he was never heartbroken, never fell into despair, never felt the pang in his chest. Maybe I’m just incapable of loving, he thought.

But now, being 25 and having met so many different kinds of people, Suna realises it isn’t true. Because here he is sitting on your couch, with your feet in his lap, and he glances at you crying for the hundredth time at the aftermath of Thanos’ snap. He thinks you’re soft and kind—it’s not frustrating, despite the many times he’s teased you about being a cry-baby with a flick on your forehead.

Still looking at you, he wonders when exactly he started having feelings deeper than just friendship, but he doesn’t know. There’s never been a moment of a great enlightenment, of a realisation striking him like a lightning bolt. Which is why it took him so long; he can’t help but think of himself as a frog being boiled—on a gradually increased flame—which doesn’t notice the situation it’s in until it’s too late.

Even after all these years you’ve known each other, it’s still fun to be around you. It’s incredibly easy to agitate you but you always bark back. Your sense of humour is just as wicked as his, and you both love the disgusted faces of people around while you’re hiccuping from laughter. You never push him, yet he always ends up spilling his secrets and thoughts, and worries, and you always listen with just a hum of acknowledgement, only to point out a detail he’s been missing.

That’s why—it being a sole reason as he’s always claimed—you’ve been his priority. He’s always asked you first to accompany him to some event bringing the disapproval of his then-partners, cancelled who knows how many dates because you needed help (even if you didn’t ask him to), and insisted on your participation in “high school boys reunion nights.” Over the years it’s been happening more and more frequently, until it became as natural as breathing.

Suna has never felt his heart ache—not even when it comes to you—even though he has missed you. But you were always just a phone call away in these cases, which he has made use of, despite god knowing how much he hates doing that.

Once, he recalls, you named him a cat—to which he proudly responded with “a fox! Not a cat!” but he supposes you were right. He’s always needed a great deal of alone time to recharge, coming back when he craved human interaction—just like a cat—and you—like a cat person—don’t seem to mind. Paradoxically, this is what kept him craving it more; your welcoming smile shone brighter than the sun itself, and filled him with indescribable warmth.

His eyes drop to his hands resting on your calves; the conjunction of skin radiates so much heat that Suna feels it in his chest and on his cheeks. He likes it—the softness under his fingers—and how it blooms with goosebumps following their movement. It’s really tempting to keep drawing patterns that would go up to your thighs and—if he’s lucky—maybe even higher.

What wouldn’t he give to be the one allowed to caress you like this, to leave trails of those tiny bumps and then kiss it “better”. He wonders if your skin would leave the same taste on his tongue as your name—sweet and refreshing—though he’s quite sure it would be addictive. The olive eyes move up, following a mental path of his mouth, and stop at your lips. They’re so compelling, and he can barely stop himself from kissing them like a madman.

“Rin?”

Your voice brings him back to the here and now, stripped of any what-ifs, and your eyes are exactly on his. Suna hums.

“You’re staring at me.”

“Am I?” Play it cool, play it cool.

“Yeah, you are. What are you thinking about?”

He cannot play it cool. Not when you look so amused and concerned, and so relaxed in his presence. Not when you’re splayed out on your couch in your dimly lit living room, with his hands on your calves. Not when you feel so warm and soft, and almost expectant.

He cannot play it cool, and he cannot bear your gaze. Suna lets his body fall behind yours—his face hidden in your hair and arm thrown over your waist. You tense.

“I think I love you.”

Your body relaxes with a long exhale, and then you laugh,

“Took you long enough, dumbass.”

Suna should feel insulted, maybe surprised that you’ve known, maybe disappointed that you’ve never acted on it. But he can’t, because you turn to face him and kiss him softly and tenderly, as if you’ve been waiting years to do this and you’re scared to shatter this moment. He kisses you back, just as softly and tenderly.

And no, your lips don’t leave the same taste as your name.

They taste so much better.