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Chibita had been a teenager when he'd developed a taste for horror movies. There was something comforting about that jolt of fear, easily assuaged by a cup of tea and the soft glow of a lamp. He wasn't running for his own life when he watched those films. His feet weren't pounding the pavement, running away from the things that scared him -- or maybe towards them, he'd never been sure -- and he, for maybe the first time in his short life, was in no real danger. So the adrenaline would fade away, leaving no bumps or bruises in its wake, and Chibita would feel curiously strong. He couldn't control the years or the stars or those goddamn Matsunos, but at least he could control this.
It was fear, yes, but one that he held in his hands.
And he'd sit there and he'd think. What would he do if some wild killer jumped him in the street? What would he do if a ghost bled from the walls and beckoned him closer? Well, he'd fight, of course. He'd put those muscles, schooled as they'd been from long years of hard work, to use. He'd save himself, because no one else ever had, and he'd do it with a fierce smile on his face. He'd press his own fingers to the power button, and though his heart would beat fast, he would not be scared.
There was a peculiar sort of power in knowing your fear, and then tucking it away. Chibita liked power. He'd torn it from the world's icy grip bit by bit his whole life, and now it sat in him, a solid bedrock of stubborn confidence. And he was sure that he knew what he'd do in an emergency situation, should one ever arise. (And knowing his bizarre life, one probably would.) He'd greet it head on, fire in his blood and stone in his stance. With power.
He thought that for a long time. He thought that until Karamatsu came to share his home, his air, his life. (But not his bed, he'd started thinking with alarming regularity, and with a wistfulness that startled him.) It was only then that he realized that his plans had only ever accounted for his life as it had always been, himself against the entire world. Himself alone. And the thought stunned him, brought his quick hands to a halt as he speared oden for hungry customers. It crept like oil, slick and inexorable, into his mind. What would he do if a monster attacked both of them? What if the killer didn't want him, short and stout and full of a barely-contained rage? What if the ghost wanted weak, stupid Karamatsu instead?
It was a change of plans, and frankly, it was an uncomfortable one. Karamatsu was a constant nagging presence at the edge of his consciousness now, the splinter and the ointment both, and Chibita had found himself planning for two in all things. In the amount of food that needed to be bought at the store. In the number of cups he pulled from the cupboard when he opened a bottle of beer. In the number of breaths he could hear, overlapping but not quite in tandem, as they lay in the dark.
So of course, of course, he planned for two during his beloved movie nights. He made more popcorn, bought more beer, pulled his biggest oversized blanket from the closet. He invited Karamatsu to sit next to him, knee to knee beneath the blankets, and share that beautiful, controllable fear. But Karamatsu, sweet little idiot that he was, had never been much good at controlling anything.
He'd gotten his first inkling that the evenings, such as they were, would have a different tone to them when Karamatsu had lounged against the table sat behind them, had given him that lazy cat smile of his and assured him that he feared nothing in this world. Chibita had learned the hard way with Karamatsu that the ballsier the lie, the more weakness it was trying to hide. And the movie hadn't been on for more than five goddamn minutes before Karamatsu was ramrod straight beside him and fumbling for his hand beneath the blankets. It wasn't scary at all, Karamatsu had declared while squeezing every drop of blood from Chibita's fingers.
Chibita had it down to almost a science by now, how long it'd be before Karamatsu inched closer, thigh soft and warm against his. How long it'd be before the first jump scare that would send Karamatsu straight into his lap. How long he'd even be able to watch the screen before he'd have his nose buried in Chibita's ratty old tank top.
Always, always, eventually, Karamatsu would whimper and curl up close, half in Chibita's lap, and he would tremble like a child. No. Not a child. Chibita could feel the warmth, the wetness, of Karamatsu's breath against his neck, and his own breath caught in his throat when Karamatsu squirmed against him just so. Whatever Karamatsu was in his mind, it was not a child.
But that did not prevent Chibita from feeling protective towards him. And that was when he knew, with Karamatsu's hands fisted against his chest and their hips jostling against each other, that he'd been thinking about this all wrong. He watched the movie through the part in Karamatsu's hair, and he thought about that warm feeling that climbed up in him when Karamatsu hung onto him for dear life. It was in his fingertips as he trailed them down Karamatsu's back, a silent comfort. It was the lump in his throat when he laughed a little and gently mocked Karamatsu for his fear. It was a sudden, desperate need to protect, was what it was. And Chibita had never thought that set up against the monsters that lurked in the night, he would feel anything but the firebrand of self-preservation. He thought he'd be able to go against the monster, the future, the past, with everything he had, because there was nothing else left to save it for. He never thought that the heartbeat he could feel against his skin, quick and fearful, would suddenly mean even more to him than his own.
Now when he watched those films and saw someone go back for their lost friend, sibling, lover, he didn't scoff and throw popcorn at the screen. He'd never understood it before, the way they'd run back into the jaws of certain death for someone else. They always died, both of them, and for what? So they could hold hands at the end?
But now? He got it. Karamatsu clutched at his fingers and tried to hide a whimper deep in his throat, and fuck, fuck, Chibita absolutely got it. He'd never be able to leave Karamatsu to a monster's foul grasp. He hadn't even been able to leave Karamatsu to the street when the moron had absolutely deserved it. Would he be able to leave anyone?
He wasn't sure, not anymore. The warmth in him, that deep, necessary sense of protection, felt strong and weak to him both. It was fierce, fierce, but so unbiddable. It was running straight at a monster, with fire in his blood and stone in his stance -- and a terrible fear in his heart. Because there was something left he needed to save himself for, and there was something else to save.
He wanted to throttle Karamatsu. He wanted to kiss him. He wanted to shove him down on the floor and show him exactly what he thought of him. Exactly how much he needed him. He wanted to face the world's monsters with him, hand in hand, but he wanted to step forward, too, and protect him from all the world's cruelties.
He just wanted Karamatsu.
And when the movie was done, when Karamatsu was gulping sighs of relief and giving him a shaky, painful smile as he extricated himself from his arms, they would always lay their futons out. Separate, on other sides of the room. The lights would go out, and Chibita would listen to Karamatsu's breath stutter in his throat. He didn't feel powerful anymore. Because maybe power was defeating a monster, or maybe power was pulling Karamatsu close after the attack and pressing a comforting kiss behind his ear. Maybe the first was just as impossible as the second.
Those nights, Chibita would roll over in his futon, and could feel the eyes in the shadows heavy on his back.