☢OXYTOCIN☢

Belleza

Oh yes, Javi. The Spaniard was truly a saint. At first, Yuzuru worshipped him like a God, but soon came to realize he wasn't one. Firstly, because he, too, showed weakness – more often than people would think, and more passionately than anyone else – and secondly, because he could do no harm, unlike God. For God had the ultimate right to destroy and create, while a saint could only help and protect.

Well, Yuzuru thought, "only" wasn't a good word to describe it; helping and protecting was better than the qualities of the higher being. At least, it was far more efficient for humans – to have someone to help and protect them. Therefore, Javi wasn't a God; he was a saint.

But, of course, he never told the older man how he viewed him. Sure, Javier knew Yuzuru adored and looked up to him to a certain point, he respected him like no-one else, but never knew the Japanese thought of him as a being created for the purpose of pure good.

On a different occasion, before the Olympics (as he remembered), he spoke his mind once more. But he was still far too shy back then, so he only mentioned it without directly addressing it.

"I look forward to questions about Jabi. I really want to answer them!"

The statement made the female report smile and let out a soft "aw" after she heard it, and a part of him was happy she took it like that, but another part of him was angry because it didn't come out as strict and strong as he wanted it to be. He wanted it to be a firm statement, not just a silly mention.

Nonetheless, the moment he came back to his hotel room that day, and connected his phone to Wi-Fi, a bing rang from his phone. It was a notification of a new message, which would wait if it was from someone else, but since it was from Javi – sweet, wonderful Javi – it was to be answered right away.

The message consisted of a "thank you" and words of surprise at the sudden courage the Japanese got. Yuzuru felt pride swell in his chest; hearing words of praise from the older man made his heart jump in joy, cheeks heat up, and made him feel good about himself in general.

It wasn't the meaning of the words which got him feeling like that, though. It was the soft look in the brown eyes, the voice that dripped with sweetness, and the pat on head or back, or even a hug, that made the Japanese lose consciousness and his head went spinning, small balls of joy exploding in every part of his body.

He wanted to be good for Javi, his Javi, and he was, and God, it made him so, so happy.

But, as all things go, there is a dark side to the whole thing. It's the fear kicking in again whenever he saw how the Spaniard's lips twitched as yet another question about his rink-mate came towards him. Javi was great at hiding his annoyance and irritation behind a bright smile and gentle words, but Yuzuru could see right through, and a part of him scrunched in fear when a pair of bottomless brown eyes gazed at him.

He knew how to care about Javi, how important it was to never mention a press conference after it was done and over with. But he also knew he couldn't hug or touch him in any sort of way until the next day's morning, because the Spaniard would know – he always knew everything – that it was Yuzu showing pity. Pity left a bitter taste in Javier's mouth, and Yuzu knew, for when he kissed him, he could taste it, too.

Nights after something like this were the worst; they both suffered, just in a different way. The Japanese would blame himself, even though his lover told him on multiple occasions not to, because it wasn't his fault, it was the reporters' fault. Meanwhile, the Spaniard would belittle himself, torture himself with made-up scenarios of utter defeat and humiliation.

The morning afterwards was slightly awkward, but quickly corrected with the right amount of hand squeezing and fingers locking. All that was had to be done, was a kiss from Yuzuru on Javi's foreahead, and Javi's hands on their favourite place – all the way down on the other's waist.