SEE ME LIKE I SEE YOU . . . yukimiya kenyu + reader
warnings/notes : gn reader, written in second person (you/yours), hurt/comfort, yukimiya backstory spoilers, in my head they're an older couple in this, blindness/visual impairment, unedited I'm sorry this came to me in a vision and I had to write it, use of the pet name “angel”
Yukimiya can't remember what you look like.
Through years of shared glances, stolen moments, and graced presence, he can feel the image of you slip through his fingers like sand with every day that passes. At night, he stares at the ceiling, an inky blackness mingling with the very few shadows his eyes allow him to see, unable to fall asleep next to you. Whenever he thinks of you, he's met with the haunting picture of an undefined figure and fuzzy edges; you're indescribable as he gnashes and claws at his mind to remember just one thing.
He knows what you look like underneath his finger tips. How there's lines beginning to take root on the corners of your mouth from smiling at him all these years, how your nose crinkles and you get goosebumps when his hands are cold, he knows your face gets hot when he gently traces over your features so he doesn't forget - but he has, and it makes him want to heave.
Yukimiya's sight is nearly nothing but shadows.
He leaves lights on, despite your protests for saving money on the electric bill, just to have a slice of normality. He's memorized the layout of the apartment, and every piece of furniture and knick knack there is so he doesn't run into them; although, his knees are still bruised regardless, because his memory is often skewed by two inches to the left. He knows what your shadow looks like; where your height lands next to the door frame, can tell what shoes you're wearing from the height difference if there's enough light to see, and knows what clothes you're wearing based on your silhouette alone.
It leaves a bitter taste in the back of his throat over the notion he doesn't remember you to a tee.
The pictures he used to fawn over are now lost to time. Framed photos on shared walls collect dust, as he can't even remember what he truly looks like either. He can't remember the silly faces you made at him when you caught him staring, how you'd look at him in adoration despite the sweat dripping off of him from football, nor can he remember his favorite picture of the two of you that still remains his lock screen picture - it's him and an undefined blob, frayed edges, and inky blackness.
“Kenyu?” Your voice is soft, gravelly from sleep, and holds a concern that makes his heart sink even further. You've realized he's still awake, staring up at nothing instead of sleeping. “Why’re you still up?”
There's a split second where he wants to spill his guts. To divulge all his sorrowful thoughts about the mourning of a person who still lays next to him. But the man only smiles gently, and lets out a small breath; he'd never tell how he truly felt about the loss of such a precious memory. Because to him, he'd lose you all together if he did. “Can't sleep.”
“Again?” He feels the bed dip down as you shift closer to him, now turning around to face him and your breath tickles his neck. There's a warmth on his chest that pulls him out of a state of shock; you're warm against him, and he's suddenly shot back to being a child again when his mother would console him. “What's that pretty head of yours thinking about at 3AM anyway?”
He pauses as his fingertips find your cheek; he's gotten particularly good at finding you in the dark, as that's how he feels he lives his life most days. “A little bit of everything, I guess?” He follows with a half hearted laugh that stings when it hits your ears. “Go back to sleep, angel.”
He hears you hum, and he closes his eyes. The man knows he's an awful liar, especially to you, and the hum always follows with a declaration of being caught. “How can I sleep knowing you're awake, racking your brain?” There's a certain sense of care to the question, despite the groggy tone, that makes his heart feel a little less war torn.
The words leave his lips a little too quickly, absentmindedly blurting out his own thoughts from lack of sleep and a downtrodden mind. And instantly he wants to take them back, to retract the words from the universe and forget they ever happened. But he hears another hum, and he feels his heart beat out of his chest.
You know what he means when the words hit your ears, you're not stupid enough to tell him he sees you every day. All he wishes, if he had one chance, was to glance at you like he did the first time you met and fall in love with you all over again. But the cruel reality hits you in the chest, as you can't bring back his sight nor fully understand his disposition.
His hands are cold when you take them in your own, perpetually chilling you with every fleeting touch. There's a sliver of light in the room from the curtain that wasn't pulled far enough on the bedroom window, and it allows you to see his brows scrunch in confusion. He can't tell what you're doing, but trusts you all the same as you sit up.
“What are you-?” But he's cut off when you give him a small tug, silently asking for him to sit up with you as well. He does, and you smile.
He feels you press his own hands to your cheeks, feels your breath tickle his hands from the sudden inhale from the cold, and feels you smile, your lips pulling upward underneath the pads of his fingers. “Touch every part of me if you have to, but I want you to see me.”
