Freedom of Self

Chapter 6

Arata gulped the remaining food in his mouth and gawked at Matsushita-san, who was staring back at him, his walnut brown eyes boring into his, scorching his cheeks while taking him in.

The young man didn't dare believe his ears. Did it mean he occupied even the smallest space at the back of the older man's head? His heart thumped in his chest and Arata couldn't believe how delighted he was from such a small thing. Though Matsushita-san's tone was stern and admonishing, he felt spoiled by the attention he was getting.

"Sorry." the young man reflexively responded, unused to having someone fretting over his well-being. As a child, whenever Arata had caught a cold or stumbled and fell, his parents had nursed him back to health rather impassively, dismissing his pain as superficial and commanding him not to cry. Little and craving their time and attention, Arata had been all the more disappointed when his mother and father, busy with work, brushed off his attempts of showing affection.

"Apologise to your own body for not taking care of yourself." Matsushita-san reprimanded him further, getting up. "Why didn't you call anyone to help you? Fujita-san told me you could barely speak when you phoned her yesterday." the man spoke harshly and seemed to want to lecture Arata even more.

"Yes, you're right." Arata concluded apologetically, his expression grim with self-disappointment as he continued eating the porridge, his hunger surfacing above everything else.

The older man's expression gradually softened as he observed Arata's cheeks bulging with the food he had prepared. He sensed the weight in the pit of his stomach disappear and the tension in his shoulders ebb away at the sight. He sighed in relief. The boy would get better soon.

Setting the medication and the water on the nightstand, Matsushita-san rummaged through the pockets of his jacket, which had been messily thrown on the chair in front of the desk. After a few moments, he tsked, letting the suit fall back where he had left it.

"Where is it? Did I leave it at the office?" he mumbled, patting himself down, a slight frown of confusion appearing between his eyebrows.

Arata chewed content, his stomach appeased, as he gazed at the other man, who stood tall in the middle of his small apartment, looking so out of place.

The boy's eyes fell languidly to Matsushita-san's arm, resting on the back of the chair, halfway uncovered by his rolled up sleeve. Struck by a bizarre curiosity, Arata observed the traces of muscle and his gaze inched upwards, towards the curve of Matsushita-san's shoulder. His form, lean yet virile, was tinged a rusty shade of orange from the weak rays of the setting sun, casting shadows on his profile and reflecting as amber sparks in each strand of hair, once neatly arranged for work yet now falling messily into the man's eyes.

Did he always look like this? Was he like this at work? This... alluring?

Matsushita-san turned slightly, his other hand grasping the scruff of his neck in hopes of remembering where he had misplaced his business cards, and Arata found himself staring involuntarily at the man's broad back, his ribcage expanding with every breath, taut underneath his shirt. The shirt he had cried on. The shirt he had rested his cheek against. The thin fabric that had separated Arata's skin from his skin. The...

Matsushita-san abruptly moved.

He grasped a pack of post-it notes and a pencil he had found lying on the desk and began scribbling, the sound on the lead gliding effortlessly on paper filling the room as Arata subconsciously held his breath.

Why was I ogling at him like a woman?, Arata questioned himself, frowning. Geez, I'm still staring. Stop it!

The man had been so thoughtful and had gone out of his way to help him yet he had been eyeing him up so perversely. How detestable. Arata grimaced in guilt. He felt dirty, always dirty, despising himself and loathing the way he behaved around Matsushita-san, almost lecherous, inadvertently bringing to surface the sides of himself he wanted to hide the most.