Ten Numbers; SanaYana, PG, 1086 words, complete.
Ten.
The number of times Sanada walks to Renji’s front door, then back to his car, jumping into the driver’s seat, planting his hands firmly on the wheel and gripping it until he thinks he’s calm enough to get back out and go and ring the doorbell.
He tells himself he’s an adult. He’s being silly and childish and irrational and stupid doing this. So he walks stiffly along the path, nearly falling over his own feet, dragging his feet up the steps and tentatively raising his finger and, before he can change his mind again, jabbing at Renji’s doorbell.
Nine.
The number of seconds Renji takes to open the door. Sanada counts every one and nearly chokes on a breath when the door swings open and Renji’s standing there in a bath robe.
Sanada had no idea Renji even owned a bath robe.
He think about the fact that Renji’s probably not wearing any clothes underneath.
He hopes Renji has no idea he’s two seconds away from a nosebleed.
Eight.
The number of girls Renji’s dated by the time he’s seventeen, and before Sanada finally gets up the courage to ask him out.
Renji accepts straight away, and the only problem with it is that he doesn’t quite seem to get what Sanada means by ‘going out’. His speech was long and muddled, and Sanada thinks Renji thinks he meant just going out together, in that boyish, check out girls sort of way, until Sanada finally gets up his courage and pulls him into the bathroom of the cafe where they’re eating French toast and drinking coffee, presses him up against the wall and smacks his lips to Renji’s, in what Renji would later describe as a ‘fish kiss’.
Renji is unexpectedly good at kissing, Sanada learns quickly. And he’s not such a bad teacher either.
Seven.
The number of marks Sanada has to hide on his neck the next day at breakfast and at tennis practice.
Sanada’s mother complains that she can’t find her regular concealer in her bathroom and his father bats an eyelid at the scarf Sanada nearly wears to school in the middle of spring. His mother pulls it off him, insisting that he’ll overheat if he wears it, and it’s then that she discovers just where her concealer went.
Sanada wonders if there’s a hole somewhere he can crawl down and hide in so his parents will stop staring at him as though he’s grown a third eye.
Six.
The number of laps Yukimura makes him run for all the times he can’t quite stop staring at Renji.
Multiplied by ten.
Five.
The number of years they’ve been dating when Yukimura happens to mention that he saw Renji out earlier that day with a woman he looked particularly cosy with.
She was wearing heels and a short skirt, Yukimura says, and Sanada imagines her arm touching Renji at lunch, her legs brushing his under the table, and her fingers brushing his as they both reach for the pepper at the same time.
Yukimura hadn’t mentioned lunch, stockings or flirting, but when it comes to Renji, Sanada’s imagination can never be underrated.
Four.
The number of minutes Sanada’s able to sit still after Yukimura stares at him and asks what exactly is wrong with Renji seeing women. It’s not as though Sanada’s about to pop out a diamond ring and ask Renji to marry him, settle down and start wearing aprons around the kitchen and baking pies.
Three.
The number of days Sanada deliberates before deciding he has to ask Renji about the woman he was with. He can’t sit still and let it slide because it’s taking up every minute of his spare time just worrying about it but he knows that asking Renji might just do more harm than good.
He’s a rational man. He’ll just ask a question and Renji will give him an answer. He’s sure of it. There has to be some normal reason why Renji was lunching with a woman in a short skirt, and silky stockings who kept leaning across to touch his hands and smile at him in a ‘come hither’ way.
Two.
The number of minutes Renji lets Sanada stutter and mumble for before reaching for his hand and gently tugging him inside to close the door behind him.
His parents aren’t home, he says, and neither is his sister. He saw her just before she left for Munich the other day and she won’t be back for three weeks.
Sometimes Sanada feels stupid when he’s with Renji. Now is probably one of those times.
One.
The number of times Renji murmurs Sanada’s name with a smile on his lips, before pulling him in tiny steps towards him, arms folding behind Sanada’s neck and warm lips kissing his.
“Have you eaten already?” he asks. “Do you want to go upstairs?”
Zero.
The number of minutes it takes Sanada to realise what Renji’s just asked.
The number of seconds he has to think before saying yes to the first and no to the second; he doesn’t think he can wait long enough to go upstairs. The sofa in the TV room is good enough and he knows because they’ve tried it before.
He tilts his head and kisses Renji again, pulling back to run his thumb over Renji’s lower lip, his other hand going to Renji’s dressing gown tie and pulling until it comes undone. Luckily he doesn’t tie his gowns the way he ties his shoelaces, Sanada thinks.
He watches as Renji pushes the two sides of his gown apart and lets it fall from his shoulders to the floor, lips curving into an almost-laugh when Sanada’s cheeks flush pink.
Sanada tries not to feel indignant, tries not to let the blush spread to his ears and to his neck, and tries not to fall over anything in his rush to get his shoes and pants off.
He knows he can have an overactive imagination when it comes to Renji, but when it really comes down to it, he’ll always take the Renji in front of him - the one who probably wouldn’t wear an apron even if he asked, and the one who’d put it on him instead. The one who’d ask just what funny ideas Yukimura had been putting in his head and who’d half-scold him before asking if he had seriously been contemplating them.
The number of other people Sanada thinks he’ll ever love as much as he loves Renji.