Chapter 13: Carried to Bed
The chill hit them the moment Yamato slid the bathroom door open. Taichi shivered violently, the contrast between the steam and the apartment’s cool, still air shocking his system. He was trembling, and not just from the cold. His legs felt like wet paper, unspooling beneath him.
“Whoa.” Yamato’s arm snapped around his waist, holding him upright. “Okay. I’ve got you.”
Before Taichi could muster a protest—he could walk, damn it, he wasn’t completely useless—Yamato bent and hooked an arm under his knees. He was lifted, effortlessly, against Yamato’s chest.
“Yama, come on, I’m too—” Taichi began, his voice raspy.
“You weigh less than my costar’s ego. Shut up.” Yamato’s tone was brusque, but the arms cradling him were careful. He carried him down the short hallway, past the peeling posters, his footsteps quiet on the worn floorboards. Taichi gave up, letting his head fall against Yamato’s shoulder. The solid warmth of him was a anchor in the confusing, post-storm quiet of his own mind.
Yamato shouldered his own bedroom door open. It was neater than Taichi’s, spartan. A low futon, neatly made, a single guitar propped in a corner, a stack of script binders on a desk. It smelled like clean cotton and the faint, crisp scent of Yamato’s cologne.
He laid Taichi down on the dark sheets with a gentleness that contradicted everything that had just happened in the shower. The fabric was cool. Yamato pulled the heavy duvet over them both, then slid in beside him, his body a line of heat along Taichi’s side.
Taichi stared at the ceiling. His eyes were stinging. The exhaustion was a physical weight, but his mind was a ricochet. He could still feel the ghost of Yamato moving inside him, the bite of tile on his back, the raw sound of his own voice begging. A laugh bubbled up, brittle and strange. It died in his throat.
Yamato turned on his side, propping his head on his hand. He studied Taichi’s profile. His other hand came up, fingers brushing damp strands of hair from Taichi’s forehead. The touch was so deliberate, so tender, it made Taichi’s breath catch.
“Talk to me,” Yamato said. It wasn’t a demand. It was an open door.
Taichi blinked, and a traitorous heat spilled from the corner of his eye, tracking quickly into his hairline. He swiped at it angrily. “I don’t know what to say.” His voice was a wreck. “I don’t… I don’t know who that was in there. In the hallway. In the shower. That wasn’t me.”
“It was,” Yamato said, simple and absolute.
“No. Taichi Yagami doesn’t… do that.” He gestured vaguely between them. “He doesn’t get fucked against a wall by his biggest rival. He doesn’t beg for it in a shower. He dates nice women from the studio. He gives funny interviews. He’s the guy you take home to your parents.” The words were spilling out now, sharp and panicked. “That guy is gone. You shattered him. And I don’t know what’s left.”
The hand in his hair stilled. Yamato’s expression was unreadable in the dim light. He was quiet for so long Taichi thought he’d withdrawn completely.
Then he spoke, his voice a low, raw scrape in the quiet room.
“I’ve been in love with you for seven years.”
The world stopped. The confession landed not with a bang, but with the profound, echoing silence of a truth too vast to comprehend. Taichi turned his head to look at him. Yamato’s face was naked, all his usual sardonic guards dissolved. He looked young. He looked terrified.
“Since that stupid variety show where you tripped over the foam obstacle and took the entire set down with you,” Yamato continued, a faint, wistful smile touching his lips. “You got up, covered in glitter, and laughed so hard you cried. And I thought, ‘That’s the most alive person I’ve ever seen.’ I never had a chance. I knew it. You were so brightly, obviously straight. So I just… lived with it. Got good at it. The watching.”
Taichi’s heart was a frantic drum against his ribs. Seven years. Through all their petty competition, the snide comments in magazine articles, the battling for roles. Through shared green rooms and awards ceremonies. Yamato had been watching. Wanting.Loving.
“Why?” was all Taichi could manage, a broken whisper.
“Why?” Yamato’s smile turned sad. “As if love needs a reason. You’re an infuriating, impulsive, glorious mess. You care so much it burns you up. You’re terrible at hiding what you feel. Except, apparently, this.” He shook his head. “I assumed I’d just carry it forever. A quiet, private ache. And then we got stuck in this apartment…”
Taichi looked away, back at the ceiling. The confusion was a fog, but through it, pieces were drifting, aligning. The intensity of Yamato’s challenges. The way his eyes lingered sometimes. The odd, protective gestures masked as irritation. A love story had been unfolding around him for nearly a decade, and he’d been a blind, oblivious spectator in his own life.
“I don’t know who I am anymore,” Taichi admitted, the confession leaving him hollowed out. “Everything is… sideways.”
Yamato shifted. He leaned over him, blotting out the ceiling. His blue eyes were grave. “Taichi.”
He bent his head and kissed him.
It was nothing like the kisses before. There was no hunger, no desperation. It was slow.Deep. A exploration of territory newly and irrevocably claimed. It tasted of tenderness and a patience so vast it felt like forgiveness. Yamato’s lips were soft, his tongue a gentle promise. He kissed him until the panic receded, until the trembling in Taichi’s limbs settled into a different kind of vibration.
When he finally pulled back, just an inch, their breaths mingled.
“Then let me help you figure it out,” Yamato murmured, the words a warm vibration against Taichi’s lips. His thumb traced the arch of Taichi’s cheekbone. “However long it takes. However you need. Even if you need space. Even if you wake up tomorrow and decide this was a catastrophic mistake.” He took a shaky breath, the vulnerability laid bare once more. “I’ll wait. I’m good at it.”
Taichi searched his face. The honesty there was terrifying. It was a cliff edge. He could step back, retreat into the familiar chaos of his own denial. Or he could step off.
He lifted a hand, his fingers brushing the strong line of Yamato’s jaw. He didn’t have an answer. The map of himself was still in tatters. But the hand on his face was steady. The eyes watching his were sure.
He didn’t speak. He just drew Yamato’s mouth back down to his, a silent answer for now, a promise to try. Outside, the city hummed, indifferent. Inside, under the weight of the duvet, in the rival’s bed that felt suddenly like the only safe harbor in the world, Taichi kissed him back, and for the first time that night, he didn’t feel shattered.
He felt found.