Curate, connect, and discover
-Nagi x Mitsuki, introspective Mitsuki, fluff, slight angst-
Mitsuki lay on his side in bed, idly swiping through his phone. The only light left on in the room was the small square being projected onto his weary face. Mitsuki should be sleeping at this hour but he couldn’t bring himself to settle, allowing the soft music pouring from the speaker to create a more melancholic atmosphere than the day deserved.
Mitsuki was glad to be getting so much MC work lately. Really, he was.
It was just difficult to set aside the fact that their fans thought he talked too much, knowing that Mitsuki had only made it onto i7 as part of a package deal.
But Mitsuki knew better to dwell on that, so he swiped.
Everything I’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it.
-David Foster Wallace
Mitsuki lingered on this slide long enough for the music in the background to loop, then he laughed quietly.
How odd was it to go seeking a distraction and stumble across a mirror, instead?
Mitsuki held the moderation Yamato had given him close to his heart, but this- this desperation to keep a white-knuckled grip on the things he held dear- was something written into the very marrow of Mitsuki’s bones.
It was what kept him signing up for auditions- always reaching, even if it meant his hand might be slapped mercilessly away, again and again. It’s what kept him up at night when he ached from the brutal sting of rejection. It’s what had spurred Iori to glue them together in the first place, if only to spare Mitsuki the pain.
Gratitude and insecurity were glued in equal measure to that memory, but now that they were here Mitsuki knew he would never let go of i7 without engraving his desperate desire for their success beneath his fingernails, first.
The thought of ever being dragged away from the group was an uneasy one, though, so Mitsuki swiped again.
Achilles did not slur my name, as people often did, running it together as if in a hurry to be rid of it. Instead, he rang each syllable:
Pa-tro-clus.
-Song of Achilles, Madeline Miller
Again, Mitsuki paused. An image of Nagi’s shining face poked its way into his thoughts, unbidden, whining for Mitsuki to watch Magical Cocona with him.
Mit-su-ki, Nagi always said. Drawing the syllables out so the shape of Mitsuki’s name lingered on his lips.
Thoughtful, Mitsuki raised a finger to his own lips and pressed down.
Mitsuki was used to people wanting to be rid of him. Used to people batting away his outstretched hand in search of something more. Something better.
No one had ever lingered on Mitsuki, before.
The thought brought warmth to Mitsuki’s face and he slammed his phone down on the bed, throwing his room into a sudden, searing darkness.
Mitsuki’s heart pounded against his chest- a wild, fluttering thing- and he felt stripped bare, his racing thoughts thrown into sharp relief without the soft haze of the phone screen to blur them.
It was so warm, all of a sudden.
Had someone messed with the thermostat?
Surely that’s all it was, and not…
Mitsuki carefully grasped his phone, tilting the screen back towards himself.
he rang each syllable, it said. Pa-tro-clus.
A nervous smile tugged at Mitsuki’s burning cheeks, a gentle weightlessness skittering through his stomach.
Mit-su-ki, Nagi always said.
Mit-su-ki.
Surely Nagi knew the emphasis didn’t belong in the middle of his name, and yet…
And yet, he rang each syllable.
Mitsuki pressed his face into his pillow, carefully cradling the belltower resonance that had been struck each time his name was spoken with such care, building and building and building until the brass echo brought blood rushing to the surface of Mitsuki’s smile.
Mit-su-ki, Nagi always said- sparkling and golden and princelike.
“Nagi Rokuya,” Mitsuki whispered into his pillow. “Na-gi.”
The music on Mitsuki’s phone looped gently again.
Mitsuki carefully rang each syllable.
“Ro-ku-ya.”
Delighted laughter bubbled past his lips, swallowed by the walls keeping watch over Mitsuki's feelings.
Maybe…maybe that’s what Iori had meant the other day. When Mitsuki was sitting on the couch with Nagi, watching the man far more than the anime, and he’d placed a hand on Mitsuki’s shoulder, leaning down to whisper, It’s okay, onii-san.
Maybe it would be, Mitsuki thought.
Maybe Nagi Rokuya was another one of those things Mitsuki wouldn’t let go of without a fight.