Work Text:
It’s like staring into a distorted mirror.
Mikoto thinks so, as he traces appraising lines through the not-quite-his-own face with his fingertips, watching his lookalike’s nervous expression twitch.
It’s him, but also not.
He presses a thumb to those cracked lips, pushing as if to part and delve inside. Intently, Mikoto watches for a reaction, hoping to see a flicker of something negative at once. Yet. There is still no apparent rejection. No matter what he does to him.
This person is not him because Mikoto knows himself well.
He takes care of his appearance with utmost caution. He would not allow such things to fester and inconvenience him. Like those dry and worry-bitten lips that lack color, and sunken eyes with no concealer to hide the sleep-deprived lines accumulated beneath, or this unkept mess of two-toned hair.
His index and ring fingers reach inside the pliant mouth, and the wet warmth makes goosebumps scatter across his skin. The lack of a preferable reaction makes Mikoto rethink his cautionary kindness. Instead of idly exploring, he presses further down until a pathetic sound slips past the intrusion, and he can feel fluttering constriction around his fingers.
There is a weak, trembling hold wrapping around Mikoto’s wrist. Not tugging, not opposing. It’s… just there. Clinging to his hand, delicate as if Mikoto were the fragile one instead.
Mikoto looks at the not-quite-his-own face and sees nothing that he likes at all.
Even when drenched in humiliation, Mikoto would never allow himself to look like that. He could hear out the constant screaming of his boss or listen to the condescending scoldings his senior co-workers gave him, but he would never look this pathetic. He could be seeing another girl off at the metro station after she spends their date complaining about his skewed work-life balance and how it somehow affects her more than him, but he would never look at her this pleading, begging for something so debauched.
It pisses Mikoto off a little. So, he draws back his fingers in a sudden, harsh manner, translucent, gross saliva drenching the digits. This mirrored reflection of his doesn’t reflect him at all—all flushed red, panting, and grasping its throat.
He looks at Mikoto with nothing but a pleased (glad? enamored?) shimmer in his half-lidded eyes, and that alone pisses Mikoto off the most.
Just like that girl back then at the station that he dated on a whim did, Mikoto slaps the other him across the face.
It’s loud. Echoing in the dream-like realm throughout the shared near-empty space, sound drowned in the shallow water. For a few brief seconds, it all goes still.
The serene silence breaks with a quiet, stuttered-out breath. His gaze flicks up to Mikoto, his hand reaches out to cradle the wounded side of his face. Then he smiles. A missable tug at his lips, near-quivering.
“Sorry,” he rasps, guilt-laden and thin, his hands limping in his lap. “I’m sorry.”
What for? Mikoto does not ask. He stares, wordless, before realizing he is the slightest bit breathless too. His fingers twitching as if to do something.
So, Mikoto reaches out and wipes off his spit-covered fingers on his cheek, digging his trimmed nails into skin for no good reason but to watch that infuriating smile wobble. Instead, he leans into his hand, perhaps begging for skinship. Mercifully, Mikoto moves closer on the run-down couch until their knees touch.
Somehow, it is never different.
No matter what Mikoto does, he never refuses him. Not once fighting back, not rejecting bittersweet touches or stares. Kind of like a pushover.
Mikoto wonders if this is how others see him. Agreeable and placative in nature, willing to endure mistreatment under the pretense of stable work and relationships. He would much rather grit his teeth and fist his hands than attempt change. He cannot leave this workplace with how far he has gotten and risk getting a bad performance report. He needs someone to hold hands with for a while to keep up the lie he created for his mother. He is a kind and honest man, living the happiest possible life.
What was it called again? ‘Fake it till you make it’? He should leave that at his desk as a motivational quote for the week.
“... Don’t think about it.” something like a whisper, fanning against his lips. Mikoto blinks through the sleep-like haziness to find eyes nearly identical to his own staring back at him. He is too close for comfort, but also too far from what Mikoto would like. “I’m here. You can use me.”
I am here. Like his mother said, pulling him into a suffocating hug as if she regretted not being there for him at that time. I am here. Like his sister said, throwing subtle-ish hints that he could talk to her if it ever got too much. Mikoto never talked about it. He never called, never texted, until his overflowing voicemail made him feel too guilt-ridden.
Guilt. Mikoto cannot quite feel it as he breaches the breath's width of distance to press their lips together.
He swallows around the surprised gasp muffled against him, licking inside the parted lips to run his tongue through gums and rows of sharp teeth. It takes no show of strength to push him down on the worn-out couch and slot their bodies together. Mikoto can feel his heart pounding in a similar overwhelmed pattern that his pulse does, pressed chest to chest against him.
Oh. There is reciprocation. Near-desperate hands weaving into Mikoto’s hair to tug him impossibly closer, and a tongue moving against his as their breaths mingle. There is no need for air in dreams, but after a prolonged while, Mikoto decides to draw back, the sudden parting snapping the string of spit that connected them together.
His appearance is disheveled—hair spilled around like a halo and reddened lips shining with the wet-sheen of saliva. A view somehow exciting, although it is little different from staring into a mirror.
… Such a weird place. Can dreams recur this often?
Flowing waters that sometimes color themselves in red, familiar pieces of furniture like this comfortable couch in the middle, a reflectionless mirror, and collapsing walls. The one place that could still bring Mikoto rest.
And this… person.
His heart beating in loud pit-a-pat, unsure hands keeping Mikoto close as if he were to slip through his fingers like brittle sand. It could be comforting to have someone like that, Mikoto thinks. Someone irreversibly… his?
His to push and pull, his to scream out his worries at, his to bruise and hold, his to apologize to for the nth time, his to fall asleep next to, his to cling to, his to declare a savior–
“... It’s okay.” Those reverent hands move to cradle Mikoto’s face in a gentle gesture, thumbing the poorly concealed eyebags before shielding his eyesight entirely. Although he cannot see it, Mikoto can still feel that faint smile behind those words. “I’ll take care of everything.”
This webbing closeness is enough for Mikoto to remain willingly oblivious to how stifling such an embrace is at its core. Affection that felt maddeningly bittersweet against his lips, clinging to him and unable to find itself a meaning other than to take on the worst he can give.
The water had turned red again, but Mikoto tells himself he can’t see it. After all, it’s no more than another lucid dream.