Chapter 8: The Taste of Trust
The cottage held its breath in the quiet afternoon. The frantic energy from before had dissipated, leaving behind a heavy, unfamiliar calm. Yamato moved around the single room with a kind of focused hesitation, painfully aware of Taichi’s silent presence in the tub.
He’d spent the morning at the tide pools, hunched over with a sharpened stick, hunting for crabs or small fish. His fingers were numb with cold. He’d finally managed to spear a decent-sized blenny, its scales dull grey against the rocks. It felt like a paltry offering for a prince.
Back inside, the air was thick. He’d changed the water in the tub earlier, hauling buckets from the rain barrel until his shoulders ached, trying to rinse away the blood and stress of the previous day. Taichi had watched the process with an unreadable expression, not helping, not complaining.
Now, Yamato approached the tub, the fish held out on a chipped plate. “Here. It’s not much.”
Taichi eyed the offering, then Yamato’s face. His amber gaze was assessing, the wildness in it banked for now. He took the fish with his good hand, his movements still stiff but less agonized than before. He didn’t thank him. He simply brought it to his mouth and bit into the flesh with sharp, efficient teeth.
Yamato sat on the floor beside the tub, his back against the cool wood. He listened to the sounds of Taichi eating—the soft tear of skin, the quiet crunch of bone. It was strangely intimate. He rested his hand on the porcelain rim, his thumb absently tracing a hairline crack. The last of the venom-induced heat had faded to a distant echo, a memory of wildfire that left the landscape of his body sensitized and aware.
When the sounds stopped, Yamato glanced over. Taichi was looking at him, a silvery fish scale stuck to the corner of his lips.
“You are still here,” Taichi said, his voice that low, gritty rasp.
“Where else would I be?”
“Away. Men who take things usually leave once they have them.”
“I didn’t take anything,” Yamato said, the words tasting weak.
Taichi didn’t argue. He shifted in the water, a cascade of orange and red scales catching the grey light from the window. He was still for a long moment, as if debating with himself. Then, slowly, he reached out.
His fingers, webbed and cool, closed around Yamato’s wrist. Yamato froze.
Taichi didn’t pull or yank. He guided. He turned Yamato’s hand palm-up, then brought it to his own throat, just below the jawline. Yamato’s fingertips brushed against skin that was unexpectedly soft, then met the raised, ridged edge of the first gill slit.
“Here,” Taichi rasped. His eyes held Yamato’s, a challenge and an instruction. “Gently.”
Yamato’s breath hitched. He let his fingers be led. The membrane was finer than rice paper, delicate and damp. He traced the outer edge, a feather-light touch.
Taichi’s eyes fluttered shut. A sharp, shallow inhale hissed through his teeth.
Encouraged, Yamato pressed a little more firmly, exploring the structure. It was like touching the inside of a seashell, complex and layered. He found a rhythm, a slow, circling stroke along the sensitive seam.
A sound escaped Taichi then—a soft, fractured thing that was nothing like his speaking voice. It was pure reaction. His powerful tail curled inward, the massive fin splashing water over the side of the tub with a slap. His free hand shot out and gripped Yamato’s forearm, not to push him away, but to anchor himself. His claws dug in just shy of breaking skin.
“You learn fast,” Taichi murmured, his voice thick and slurry. His head tilted back, offering more of his throat.
Yamato’s mouth went dry. He watched, mesmerized, as the fierce, proud creature in his bathtub came undone under his touch. The guarded tension in Taichi’s shoulders melted. The perpetual frown line between his brows smoothed out. This was a vulnerability far deeper than being helpless in a tub. This was a surrendering of control, a deliberate offering of a place that was clearly both intimate and vital.
Yamato moved his thumb, applying a slightly different pressure. Taichi’s grip on his arm tightened, a full-body shiver running through him from the tips of his fins to the roots of his hair. A deeper, rougher sound vibrated against Yamato’s fingertips.
This was trust. Not given freely, but earned in silent increments: a bucket of fresh water, a clumsily caught fish, a kiss that hadn’t demanded anything more. This was a language without words, spoken in touch and breath.
Yamato knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that he would spend every moment that followed trying to earn more of it. He would brave the cold tide pools a hundred times, he would empty every rain barrel on the cliff, he would face down the entire suspicious village if it meant he could keep drawing these ragged, honest sounds from Taichi’s throat.
Outside, the wind turned, carrying the first cold scent of a coming storm. The light in the cottage dimmed. But inside, for the first time since he’d dragged the net up the cliff path, the air didn’t feel thin or lonely. It felt charged, full of a fragile and breathing truth. Yamato kept his touch steady, his eyes fixed on the shifting expressions on Taichi’s face, committing each one to memory. The storm could wait. Everything else could wait.