“But the one thing I knew for sure was that I enjoyed being with you. Meeting you had changed my world. That day, when you saved me, my world became filled with colour.”
“At that instant, it felt as though he'd seen right through me in a flash and for the first time, I felt as if someone had affirmed my way of life up to that point. So this time, I want to affirm his future. I want to illuminate the path he walks from here on.”
Kotetsu doesn’t mean to say it.
It just slips out, the way things do when he is tired, the apartment is quiet, and Bunny is close enough that memories feel less heavy.
They are sitting on the couch, half-watching some late-night rerun, suddenly interrupted by a slick beauty salon ad.
"You know... Tomoe used to ask me to paint her nails. So silly." He laughs, but it is the kind that folds in on itself. "I always brushed it off. Said it was absurd. Too… too... I don't even know. And now it piles with the myriad of things I regret."
The room stills.
Bunny turns his head, and the fondness in his eyes is so tangible it feels like a hand on Kotetsu’s cheek.
No pity. Just understanding. Warm, steady.
Then he quietly says it.
"You can paint mine if you want."
Kotetsu freezes.
Actually freezes.
Like someone hit pause on him.
His eyes go wide, bright, almost sparkling, the kind of expression Barbaby pretends not to adore.
"Really???!!!" Kotetsu asks, voice cracking upward with this boyish, unfiltered hope.
Barbaby smiles. Small, real. The kind that tugs at the corners of his mouth like it is blooming from the inside. Irrepressible.
"Really."
And that is all it takes.
Kotetsu practically launches off the couch, rummaging through bathroom drawers until he finds Kaede’s abandoned nail polish bag. The bottles are glittery, chaotic, full of colors that absolutely do not match Barnaby’s aesthetic. He brings it back like he is carrying treasure.
They relocate on opposite sides of the kitchen counter. Kotetsu unscrews a bottle of vibrant red with little stars, tongue poking out in concentration like he is performing open-heart surgery.
Barbaby observes. The furrowed brow, the careful hands, the way Kotetsu is pouring every ounce of tenderness he never got to give into this tiny, ridiculous act.
After a disproportionately long time considering the task at hand, Kotetsu blows gently on the freshly painted nails, proud toddler showing off his drawing.
"Perfect, right?"
“It is” Barnaby answers.
And he is not talking about the nails.
Heated Rivalry night. Random thoughts.
The thing is.
I don't even feel like posting silly things. Or food. I mean. I would love to.
For example, today I had a stunning tattoo done.
And I'm obsessing with a new fandom.
I shared these silly things on other socials.
But then I feel like. Should I? Would people think I'm not shocked? That I think everything is ok? That I pretend that everything is ok?
No, it's not ok. Galaxies far from it.
I literally spend my evenings crying on my sofa watching the news.
And I'm so so privileged because, as an immigrant, I'm white. I'm white and privileged.
A student the other day told me "as long as you're not speaking, you should be fine."
They were right.
But this is very far away from fine.
