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A is for alright: what hanzawa isn't.
in proper writing, “all right” is preferred, and some see the variant, common as it is, to be unilaterally incorrect. this is how the world moves—acceptance comes in half measures. this problem, too, has come like a slow creeping, and while the jury’s out on its final form, it has well and condemned hanzawa’s life.
B is for bed: what hanzawa’s in.
the frame is too large. it’s not meant for one, and in a room of this size it’s especially suffocating, but he’s suffered with it anyway, resigned to the forever feeling of a void by his side. today, though, this is not his problem.
C is for compromising: the position he’s in.
key, in a relationship. one does this with friends, partners, and roommates, because the world is built on people connecting with people. this is what hanzawa must learn to do with tashiro gonzaburou—his friend, his kouhai, his former teammate, and now his roommate.
D is for ——: what hanzawa doesn’t think about.
except for all the times he does. but now would be exceptionally inappropriate—he’s lying down, and on his back, normally, and tashiro’s sprawled out on hanzawa in a half measure, pinning him where he sleeps, and his shoulder and arm and leg are thrust over him, and his dick is smushed right against hanzawa’s hip. …he presumes. it’s the right region. bleached hair tickles his ear, and hanzawa breathes, goosebumps rising in all the spots tashiro’s not touching. if he stopped—but he just said he wasn’t going to think about it, it’s too morbid—
E is for elevated: his heartbeat.
his apartment, three stories up. tashiro had dragged his belongings up the stairs in midday, sweaty and flushed under the sun, complaints spilling from his lips every other sentence. crumpled around his last box, he’d looked up at hanzawa with lidded eyes.
F is for finger: what hanzawa hadn’t lifted to help.
he’d wanted to run them through tashiro’s hair. wants.
G is for groan: what tashiro does as he’s pulled from sleep.
when he yawns it’s wide and open and into the cotton of his pillow, which he’d bought because hanzawa’s were too freakishly firm, he’d griped. and your mattress… comparatively, maybe a human body was softer. hanzawa wonders if the human in question matters, or if he’s just the means to an end. wonders if the answer to that question matters, too.
H is for Hanzawa: his family name.
tashiro mumbles it in greeting, tacking on -senpai a few seconds too late. either he’s too sleepy to bother, or he’s trying something new. but it doesn’t matter what tashiro calls him; he’ll come. sleep well? hanzawa asks. mm, tashiro replies. dunks his head into his pillow again. what… time? is it.
I is for immiscible: the property of hanzawa and the universe.
like oil and water, forever settling in their separate layers. but he’s all scrambled for parts, and it shows in the way he says, voice half-caught in his throat, I don’t know.
J is for joke: the easiest way out.
he can’t laugh. tashiro steals that path from him the moment he lifts his head and they lock eyes. a sudden alertness flickers into his expression, arm still slung over hanzawa’s heartbeat.
K is for kink: the one is his neck.
he’s been sleeping with a firm pillow for his health, only at an odd angle, because he doesn’t like it as much as he should, but he’s stuck with it until the pain ends. idly, hanzawa wonders if half-measure entanglements are classified as a form of erotic denial.
L is for let: another act of cowardice.
allowance is a boundary hanzawa has always flirted with. as president of the disciplinary club he knew, more than most, about its limits—that children could explore what adults could not, and vice versa. that an unacceptable maid outfit becomes encouraged for a cultural festival. that errant homosexuality survives under cloak and dagger, the flash of teeth and lightness. that everything is a question of shifting times and contexts as they pertain to laws and customs. but when hanzawa says, let me up, there’s no question to it—it’s the coward’s way out.
M is for masochist: what tashiro had called him, once.
in retribution he’d slipped the hair tie off tashiro’s topknot and onto his wrist before ruffling his hair beyond repair. jeez, okay! tashiro had squawked, you’re a dyed-in-the-wool sadist, is that what you wanted? and hanzawa had almost said yes, but he was caught by the sight of tashiro, head bowed and eyes upward-gazing, glimmering even in shadow, his brown roots breaking into gold like sunflowers, and suddenly he felt like the one who’d been teased into dishevelment. how about neither, he said, and managed to extricate his hand from tashiro’s hair. stretching up to match him in height, tashiro good-naturedly conceded, okay, hanzawa-senpai. a beat later he asked, which one am I? and in lieu of an answer for either tashiro or himself, hanzawa sensed the weight of the hair tie on his wrist and decided to ruin his kouhai’s hair some more.
N is for now: the beating heart of it all.
tashiro rolls off his body and hanzawa feels the heat sap from his skin. he finally rises, checks the clock on the nightstand, and with blurred eyes he reads out, nine in the morning, to which tashiro singsongs, laaaaaate, as he swings his legs off the bed. his shirt is rumpled and hiked up—hanzawa debates between tugging his shirt down or letting the glimpse of his skin stay, and resigns himself to suffering as he grapples for his glasses.
O is for obligations: what a son has to his family.
hanzawa masato understands duty. it’s why people trust him to lead: he understands and takes on the weight of what’s needed. all burdens pale in comparison to one, anyway. so he averts his eyes as tashiro stretches, thinks of all the day requires of him, and pushes himself into a standing position.
P is for pleasure: a partner to guilt.
at heart hanzawa considers himself something of a hedonist; when tashiro finds his way to his side of the bed, he leans forward, the chase like instinct. tashiro’s gaze pierces through him, like he can see every mire in his mind, and he tugs the edges of hanzawa’s shirt down, braces a hand against his chest to steady his wobbling feet.
Q is for question: what tashiro offers him.
and how’d you sleep? he asks, and without answer slides his hands over hanzawa’s arms, grounding him where he stands. whatever he’d meant to say dies a soft death in his throat, and he stands there in blanketed quiet.
R is for romance: a specter, haunting him.
when tashiro says, maybe today’s more of a sleeping-in day, huh, hanzawa finds its shadow. here’s a lover’s line; a future wife could indulge him, assured by the idea that they had the rest of their lives to spend together. here he is, hearing it anyways, from his roommate, his friend, his… what’s the dividing line? if it’s what he wants, then—then maybe the line doesn’t matter at all. the road forward just ends in an inky mass. still, he admits, …maybe a few more minutes, as if he hasn’t already spent his whole life delaying the inevitable. to his credit, tashiro wears amusement on his face without mockery; he guides hanzawa back down to bed and tucks his soft pillow beneath his neck, leaves the covers off because it’s too hot to climb back underneath them, and slips out of the room loose and limber, ready to start the day. hanzawa wants to invite him back to bed.
S is for sex: another specter, haunting him.
he makes better sense of the interplay between sadism and masochism than he does the physical hum that sets people alight. that, he’s been told, will happen to him someday, somewhere, beyond the black mass. now, looking to tashiro, an impulse catches his nerves—pull him closer. possess him. if that’s the sudden click of attraction and normalcy, it’s a half measure, unlike to others and isolating in its neediness. the end result is the same, he supposes: suppression.
T is for temptation: thy name is tashiro gonzaburou.
he can’t let go. hanzawa forms attachments and keeps them at bay, but tashiro broaches that distance with unrivaled persistence. thrown wayward, he can’t see where anything goes from here—tashiro, tucked into the corners of hanzawa’s apartment like he belongs, bringing a million difficult conversations home with him.
U is for uncomplicated: what tashiro lets him be.
in this he is singular; he defies logic. his mess of belongings have scattered across the apartment and into hanzawa’s life with an almost thoughtless cruelty. it should be cruel—it should be a problem—but instead he’s come to anticipate tashiro’s smile and the sudden lightness it affords his heart.
V is for vulnerable: how he feels, laid out on their shared bed.
to expose yourself is to share yourself. hanzawa has done this: the bed, the apartment, the burden. if tashiro’s realized it, he hasn’t said. but he’s stayed: in the bed, in the apartment, in his life. even now, he can’t escape him—he’s in his walls, humming floating in from the kitchen. the older hanzawa gets, the easier and harder it’s been to disappear—the better he’s gotten at hiding, the better tashiro’s gotten at chasing, and each time it takes more out of him to run. the part that survives revels in the burn of it—the way the world’s edges cut across him, intimate and hard. he wonders if tashiro can see it: every bone, aching towards him.
W is for want: what overwhelms.
a decade after that incident, fear remains hanzawa’s primary association with desire. he’d dated women, but no attraction, if it even exists, outweighs paranoia—it’s hard to separate the selfish need from genuine connection, so he ends up severing it altogether. a temporary measure, he soothes himself; his resolve hasn’t wavered. but as he straddles rest and wakefulness, he’s caught by the errant thought that’s chased him for years: what if?
X is for Xanthe: what tashiro won’t let him forget.
surely someone else should be his reference for bleached hair. hanzawa had watched hirano write apology essays like clockwork for three years. but tashiro’s persistence—the way he burrows into hanzawa’s head—is the stuff of myth. now, dyed blond to its roots, tashiro’s hair reappears in his vision, golden and haloed by the sun. do you want breakfast? he asks, hovering over hanzawa with a curious expression. I was making miso soup, tashiro continues, and I realized I could make it for two.
Y is for yes: his answer.
I'll come to you, he thinks with dizzying force, and says, help me up. tashiro holds his hands, grip strong and firm, and hanzawa lets himself be moved. at standing, his lips are inches from tashiro’s jaw. what inspired this bit of generosity? he asks. tashiro shrugs. well... now that I'm here, I figured, what's yours is mine, right?
Z is for zen: hanzawa masato, now.
he’s lived his whole life plunging into chaos so abundant that he can't think. but this is a new type of calm; all the thoughts in the world pale in comparison to tashiro before him. his mind goes blissfully, momentarily, still. he knows it won’t last, but he feels—he says—right.