In which denial is not just a river in Egypt, and Hakkai is a sneaky bastard. Poor Gojyo. Hakkai/Gojyo.
Sometimes when he's asleep, your hands curl around him, drawing him close to you. You close your eyes and bask in his heat, and find yourself unreasonably pleased that he fits so perfectly to you, like two shattered pieces of a messed up whole.
Sometimes, your fingers draw numbers and words on his back without your permission, but you let yourself do it anyway. You try not to think too much about the fact that the most frequent word you write is always 'love' or his name. You try not to think about how you always draw a heart on his back around his name, like a silly schoolgirl with her first lover, floating in the clouds of infatuation. You try not to shiver too much at the feel and heat of his breaths at your neck, slow and steady as he sleeps.
You try not to love the warmth you feel whenever you catch a glance of him out of the corner of your eye, like a virgin with her first crush.
It's ridiculous, you try to convince yourself. You love women/, and this /thing you have is nothing but physical satisfaction, a much better alternative to masturbation. You like /women/, not /men/, you repeat like a mantra in your head when you see him above you, moving inside you, eyes dark and so green that you stop thinking and drown in the colour.
It never works, for when you are reluctantly dragged back into reality, you are always left with a bittersweet emotion in your heart and your head every time he allows you to touch him, this emotion that you, who are always confident and brave, are afraid to name. But you know no matter how hard you try not to acknowledge it, you have the sinking suspicion that it is /love/.
Sometimes, when you are taking him, or, more often than not these days, when he is taking you, the two of you rocking in the bed in a rhythm of your own making, you like to think of the irony that you can take anybody you want, and they usually beg you for you to, but only Hakkai can take you, can force you to throw away all your pride and beg him to.
You deny that it is love that allows you to trust him so much.
Sometimes you like to open your eyes to look into his as you come. It is usually the sight of those green eyes, dark as a forest at night and the complete opposite of blood, that pushes you over the edge and pulls you down into the abyss. You can't decide if it's a good thing or bad, especially now that you feel that you aren't complete without looking into those eyes at least once a day. You figure that it doesn't really matter, seeing as Hakkai is Hakkai and will never die even if you try your best to kill him. You think (hope) that you probably still be seeing those too-green eyes after fifty years have gone by.
You like to think that Hakkai knows perfectly well that this arrangement of yours is only for mutual physical pleasure, and you always allow yourself to let him to think. You have no reason to tell him otherwise, to think otherwise. You assume that it will be a waste of your friendship if you tell him about it now, because you won't be able to touch him any more.
You refuse to admit that you're a coward.
Cigarettes have numbed your taste buds a long time ago, and you can't really taste anything any more. But when he kisses you, you feel fire licking and flaring throughout your mouth, and the sour-sweet taste of something you think you never will have a name for. But you never lament the fact, because you already what it is. It's /Hakkai/.
You always gasp because it's been too long since you can taste /anything/, and the feel is so intense that you feel yourself shiver even before you can think. You know this is how he takes control, by surprising you until all your defences fall, but, strangely, you find that you don't mind. You try not to think /why/, because it will spoil everything. Love destroys friendship, and you value his so much more than four paltry words that he won't even say anyway.
But then you realize that it doesn't really matter whether you tell him or not. You realize that it doesn't matter if you admit it to yourself or not. You finally see it, shining through his forest-green eyes and burning through his fire-hot kisses. You laugh in the middle of returning his kiss, and grin at his confused expression before kissing him again. This time, you didn't miss the knowing glint and the small, real smile.
It doesn't matter if you tell him you love him, you realize, for he already knows it anyway.