Call Me Yours [BL]

Chapter 12

Valen meets Kahili when he's 22 and Valentine is a steadily rising name in the modeling industry.

Valentine sprawls across the deep maroon envelope his manager leaves on his vanity in neat, handwritten cursive. Valen weighs the letter in his hand as a steady buzz echoes in his temporary dressing room. Its aggressor, an old and broken fan, does little to subdue the rising heat. Still, he keeps it going. The buzz brings a comfort that silence cannot.

Valen opens the letter.

I designed this with you in mind.

It's signed, Kahili Wailani.

The letter feels weighted and alive in Valen's hands. He handles it with unnecessary care as his eyes take in every fine detail. His hands are damp, he wipes them on his robe, and he stares until he's sure he's memorized the distinct stroke of Kahili's pen. It's unintentional and unconscious. He stares at the design until it's no longer a promise on paper, of what could become and be, and instead a wish.

He stares until his dressing room door swings open and he's called for an outfit change.

The letter folds closed.

Valen stands.

"What did it say?" his manager asks.

Valen thinks of the immaculate sketches and the heavy-handed cursive. I think you'd look lovely in red. "Nothing," he answers softly.

Later, after he's picked Clementine up from school and they're picking out groceries, Valen's steps slow when they pass the greeting cards. His eyes catch on the envelopes—a pristine maroon that matches the red of Kahili's design to a tee. Valen's fingers skim the envelopes. He grabs it.

"What's that for?" Clementine asks.

"Nothing," he answers softly.

Valen holds out a handwritten letter to his manager the next day. His manager's eyebrows shoot up, a silent question etched in them. A question Valen deliberately ignores in favor of watching himself in the vanity mirror.

The yellow turtleneck doesn't suit him.

Eye contact, Valen!

It's said again and again. Enough times for his manager to coax the director into a break. He feels eyes of annoyance on him when he walks off the stage. His fingers twitch in his lap when he sits and his manager hands him a water bottle.

He's having an off day.

The break does little to help.

"I can't have a lead that can't even look at the camera!" The director looks two more mistakes off from telling Valen to get off his stage. The designer's clothes feel wrong on Valen's skin, yellow and loud and unremarkable. He wishes for the quiet buzz of his dressing room, but someone took his fan. It was an immediate and startling revelation he had walking into work today.

The silence ate at him as he got dressed.

"Do you need to leave?" his manager asks.

Valen looks around at the other models, how they shift from foot to foot as they wait for him to find his mark so they can make theirs. He doesn't care for the mix of impatience in their eyes, the sympathy, nor the annoyance.

He wonders who took his fan.

"Yes," he answers softly.

They leave.

_____

Truthfully, Kahili doesn't expect a reply back. So, when his younger sister waves an alluring red envelope in his direction he feels his nerves jolt.

She snatches it away before Kahili can grab it. "Pizza for dinner?"

His eyes roll, but he immediately agrees.

She holds the letter high. "And dessert?"

He agrees again.

"Can you stop?" He chuckles when she attempts to bargain for a third item, then easily grabs the envelope. He holds her head under his arm when she struggles to snatch it back. Her increasingly loud protests go ignored as he opens the letter.

He reads it once, twice—four times.

He releases his sister and digs through his pocket for his wallet. Her whining immediately subsides when he gives her forty dollars. "Pizza," he says, "And ice cream." He's already walking to his room. "And take Kiana with you!"

His fifteen-year-old sister catches his wrist. She shoves twenty dollars back in his hand. "Pizza isn't this much."

"It's fine. Keep it—"

"I don't want it." She's off and running before Kahili can get another word in. His fingers curl around the dollar bills. They feel as heavy as the letter.

Kahili's door clicks shut and his desk is cleared. He tosses his textbooks on his bed to let his future self deal with, then pulls out his sewing machine from its hidden place under his desk. He clicks it on.

Red is my favorite color, Valen wrote.

Kahili searches too quickly for his thread. His designs go flying off the desk.

I looked you up.

He scoops them up from the floor.

You already followed me.

Kahili threads the sewing machine with practiced ease and hears that satisfying click. Maroon fabric pools in his lap, pinned and inside out.

I'd love to see the finished product.

Valentine.

_____

They meet in person two months later.

Valen could've found his email, he could've sent Kahili a message through i********: after he looked him up and found Kahili already followed him, but he sent a letter just as Kahili had. And for two months after that, they exchanged letters back and forth until Kahili finished the two-piece set. It would've taken less time, Valen knows, if there wasn't that prolonged pause each time they waited for the other's letter, but Kahili never stopped sending them, so Valen never stopped writing him.

Soft jazz music plays in Valen's dressing room when they meet.

It's just the two of them, their silence bleeding into the thrum of the music after their initial greetings.

Valen stands on a small, elevated platform with his arms spread and his head held high. He watches Kahili through the full-length mirror in front of them, the concentration in his brow, and the careful way he adjusts Valen's body. His hands are a startling heat on Valen's skin, and his scarce personal photos on i********: don't do him justice.

Even with the small platform, Kahili bends a considerable amount to hand-sew the waistband of his creation. The tailored pants pinch Valen's waist.

Valen's eyes track his movements with a serene smile. He catches Kahili's gaze once, the unexpected click of his eyes raising to meet Valen's in the mirror.

"I was right." His voice carries a low and appealing timbre Valen likes. "You look lovely in red."

His hands are calloused and he's tall, and Valen smelled his cologne the moment his manager showed him into the room. He writes in cursive that grows messier toward the end of the letters, and his sketches are elaborate, but nowhere near as magnificent as what Valen wears. The clothes fit on him in ways that don't make his skin crawl.

They're pleasant and he's so lovely.

"How does it look?" Kahili asks, standing back to admire his own work.

"Stunning," Valen answers softly.

After months of mailing each other, Valen is struck by how well it came together. Kahili's portfolio was nothing short of perfection, each piece as captivating and creative as the last when Valen scrolled through his i********:, but it feels different wearing it. Knowing Kahili was a silent admirer of his for months—enough to reach out—it settles something warm in his veins.

Valen feels lovely as he stares at Kahili through the mirror. He smiles. "I have more letters sitting in my desk at home," he says, "but I don't think I could handle waiting for a response when I ask you out."

Valen sees him falter with his pin cushion, then their eyes meet through the mirror.

A slow smile pulls at his lips. "So," he says, "ask."

_____

Valen hates that even after years together, he still lashes out at Kahili.

Valen wakes up past 8 AM when his alarm doesn't go off. 9:06 reflects on his phone screen in their dimly lit bedroom, and it makes his chest fall with a slow exhale. He peels the comforter back and sits at the edge of the bed. His hand runs through his hair only to find a tangle. He pauses, then turns his head to find his hairband came loose when he was sleeping. It sits on his pillowcase, silky and black.

He carefully grabs it. It's too tight on his wrist. He leaves it on anyway.

Valen dresses in the clothes Kahili set out for him with practiced ease that comes only with years of trust, and like every other day, Kahili's knowledge of fashion and his extensive adoration of his husband come together to reflect Valen's preferred aesthetic.

Kahili picked a black sweater for him today. It's loose and doesn't hug his skin in ways that make his whole body itch. He slides on gray slacks next, similarly loose and pinched at his waist. It's past nine o'clock when he's dressed, his hair wasn't in the low ponytail he tied it in last night, and the silence itches his ears, but Valen finds a water bottle routinely placed next to his morning pills.

They slide down his throat as they normally do.

He breathes a little easier.

Valen stares into the mirror when he's in the bathroom. The sweater fits well, the pants fit even better. Kahili moved his face serums.

Valen pauses when he reaches for where they normally are, where all three bottles are supposed to be lined up in an order Valen hasn't disturbed in years. They're on Kahili's side of the bathroom. Valen silently grabs them and rinses off the bottles until his hands are red from the heat, then he starts his skin care.

Kahili is up and making breakfast by the time Valen pads out to the kitchen. His hair is brushed and his wrists are damp with cologne. He accepts Kahili's kiss with a pleased hum. "You're making breakfast."

Kahili's hands linger on the small of his back. "I am," he replies happily, then indulges in another kiss simply because he can't help himself. "Just eggs and bacon. There's toast, too."

Valen peers into the pan curiously.

Kahili chuckles, "They're scrambled, I promise."

"Right." Valen tears his eyes away and gives Kahili a small smile. "You didn't have to do that. I figured you'd be working already."

"I got some work done," he assures. "Just taking a break."

Kahili turns, his touch abruptly slipping from Valen, and he looks around until he finds what he's looking for. A remote—small and black and connecting all the speakers in the house. He clicks around on it until soft jazz music starts spilling into the kitchen. "Okay," he exhales and guides Valen to the dining table with gentle hands on his waist. He pulls out Valen's seat and then prepares him an ensemble of food.

Valen watches him with his chin in his palm, an affectionate smile starting to play at his lips. He watches Kahili carefully plate his eggs, then messily dump the rest onto his plate.

"Is there a reason you're spoiling me?"

"Do I need one?"

No, Valen thinks. Kahili's never needed an excuse to move mountains for him.

"Nothing touching," Kahili assures when he places Valen's plate in front of him.

The music is soft and gentle as they eat together, coming from a carefully curated playlist Valen's made over the years. He knows each song beat by heart, and he finds comfort in the routine of it. Kahili tries to get him to add new songs when the same ones have looped endlessly for hours, but Valen always declines. There's no comfort in change, only a deep unsettling feeling that takes too great of an effort to shake.

"I figured we could eat together before I leave," Kahili says.

"Leave?" Valen muses. "I thought you were working from home today?"

"We got some fabric samples this morning," he explains. "I wanted to go check them out sooner than later."

Valen hums his understanding.

"You could come?" Kahili suggests, misinterpreting Valen's nonverbal reply. "No work today, right? You should come, baby."

Valen considers it, just as he considers the amount of people at Kahili's office. How his staff will be in full swing with preparations for Fashion Week and Valen will inevitably be asked to model some piece of clothing. It's a field day for them, any time Valen accompanies Kahili to work. His staff gush over him, Kahili is all grins as he shows Valen off, and there are too many people.

"Another time," Valen promises.

Kahili nods and bends to kiss Valen's cheek after he gets up to clear the table. Valen's entire face itches with serums that suddenly feel alien.

Kahili's washing their plates off when he suggests, "We could see what Ardyn's doing. He doesn't work until later."

"I thought you were going to work?"

"Yeah," he nods, "you guys could hang out, though. You spent a good amount of time together yesterday."

Valen hums again, but he doesn't consider it this time. "I'm sure he's busy."

"It doesn't hurt to ask, my love."

"Why?"

Kahili looks up. "Why?" he parrots, confused.

"Why do I need to 'hang out' with him?" Valen asks. "Or come to work with you?"

Kahili sets the plate he's holding down in the sink. The water runs as he stares at Valen, progressively more confused. "Why—? You told me you had a nice time yesterday. I was just," his hands move around, trying to find the words, "It's just a suggestion, my love. You don't have to do anything you don't want to."

"I'm not lonely, Kahili."

"I never said you were lonely, Valen."

They stare at each other until it quickly, and inevitably, grows too much for Valen. He looks away.

"It was a suggestion," Kahili repeats. "Evidently, a poor one."

Valen's fingers twitch in his lap. He pinches his wedding ring to distract himself from it. "I thought we'd spend today together, that's all." He pinches again. "You don't care that we see each other without you there?"

Kahili stares at him. Valen feels it. He doesn't look over to see.

The water turns off. "Should I?"

"No," Valen immediately answers. "Of course not."

He hears Kahili's steps. The chair beside him pulls out. "Should I care, Valen?"

The way Kahili enunciates each word pricks him. He frowns. "Don't talk to me like that."

"I'm just asking you a question, Val."

"I already said no."

Kahili leans back in the chair. His finger taps the table, a habit that never bothered Valen until now. "Okay," he eventually says. "Can you tell me what's wrong?"

It's Valen's turn to be confused. "Nothing's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong," Kahili repeats, nodding with

blatant disbelief that Valen doesn't understand. "What, then? I don't get why we're arguing."

"We're not arguing." Valen's eyebrows pull together and his frown deepens. His hands twitch in his lap, and he rips the hairband off his wrist when he becomes aware of it again. It's too tight and overwhelming on his skin. He sets it on the table between them.

Kahili stares at it.

Then he stares at the ring it created around Valen's wrist.

His eyes lift to Valen's, and they're considerably softer than before. "Can you please tell me what's wrong, Val? I don't..." His voice trails into nothing. He sighs. "I'm sorry for talking to you like that. I know you don't like it."

"Nothing is wrong," Valen stresses, and it's the truth as far as he knows. He doesn't understand Kahili's shift in attitude or the progression into this uncomfortable conversation. His insistency on answers Valen doesn't have only works to confuse him. The confusion itches at his skin. He rubs at the red circle the hairband left around his wrist.

Kahili studies Valen and must see the truth. His finger taps at the table again, enough times to prick Valen's skin and make his ears itch.

They talk at the same time,

"I don't get it—"

"Can you stop?"

Kahili's finger goes still on the table.

He makes a show of smoothing his entire hand out on the table, silently raising his eyebrows at Valen as if saying, better?

"I don't get it," Kahili repeats. "Something is wrong between us right now, right?"

Valen hesitates. He feels uncomfortable, so he agrees, "Yes."

"I don't understand why."

Valen thinks over the entirety of their uncomfortable conversation. He thinks about the uncomfortable feeling that followed him into the kitchen, and that uncomfortable feeling that started when he woke up.

"You always make us breakfast, so I wanted to do it for you for once," Kahili says. His eyebrows are drawn like Valen's. "You slept so late last night. I felt you get up at least three times, and you were just—walking around. Something was bothering you, I could tell, so I just.. wanted to do something for you. I tried to get you to sleep in later, I wanted you to wake up to the house clean, so I woke up early and cleaned. I—"

"Did you turn my alarm off?"

"What?"

"My alarm," Valen says slowly, "did you turn it off? It didn't go off this morning. It should've gone off, but I woke up late," Valen explains, unbeknownst to how his voice quickens with each word. His face feels itchy and the serums feel like they're crawling on his skin. "I woke up late. I never wake up late. And my face creams, they weren't where they're supposed to be. And you're leaving—"

"Val."

"Why would you turn it off?" Valen can't make sense of it. "That's mine, Kahili. I woke up late, it's almost 10 already." Looking at the clock stresses him out. He adverts his eyes to his twitching hands. "You can't just—just—"

Kahili grabs his hand.

Valen tears it away.

He realizes his mistake right away. "I'm sorry," it tumbles from his mouth immediately. His chair scrapes back when he stands and he starts pacing. "I'm sorry—that—I didn't mean to do that." His hands twitch in the air. He balls them in fists. They unclench, his fingers twitch, and he balls them again. "Kahili—I'm sorry."

He paces around the kitchen, unknowing of a desired direction, but he paces and his chest grows tight.

Kahili's chair scrapes back. "It's okay," he soothes. "You didn't do anything, my love. It's okay. Valen."

Valen knows he did something wrong. He saw it in Kahili's expression when he ripped his hand away.

His chest feels unexplainably tight when Kahili approaches. Valen stops pacing.

"I'm not gonna touch you," Kahili says and Valen hates the relief he feels. "I shouldn't have touched your things, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have turned off your alarm either. Those are your things and I shouldn't have touched them." Regret pinches his face. "And I knew that. I knew you needed your routine and I shouldn't have—I shouldn't have done that, Val, I'm really sorry. I was thinking about myself and I wasn't thinking of you."

Valen rubs at the red mark around his wrist. He knows he should offer something, something of equal comfort to Kahili. I love that you thought of me to do those things, but his face itches, and his day started late.

"What do you need?" Kahili asks, voice pitched soothingly, but there's a helplessness layered underneath.

I don't know, Valen thinks. He feels overwhelmed.

"I want to shower," he answers softly.

Kahili runs him a shower, and then he leaves him alone.

He skips work, and for hours, Valen shows no signs of leaving the bathroom. Kahili hears the shower shut off at some point, but Valen doesn't come out.

Kahili waits in the living room with his eyes trained on his laptop in the appearance of working.

Valen does, eventually, come out.

He always comes out and finds Kahili.

"I'm sorry." And he melts into Kahili's arms like every other time this happens. Because Kahili inevitably makes mistakes that set Valen off. It's not always gradual like this time, sometimes immediate and explosive, where Valen lashes out at Kahili for something he doesn't understand.

When Kahili's emotions are too much at times, too overwhelming and expressive for Valen, when Kahili doesn't notice the signs that it's too much, to tone down all the abrupt touches and increasingly loud noises.

"Don't say sorry."

Valen sits in his lap and tips his head on Kahili's shoulder.

"I don't mean to be like that," Valen whispers, and his voice sounds so thick with emotion.

"You aren't like anything, my love. You did nothing wrong."

"Your face," he rasps, "when I pulled away."

"Stop," Kahili soothes. He leans back into the couch and takes Valen with him. His arms hold him delicately. "You did nothing wrong. I knew those were your things, and I knew I shouldn't have touched them. I wanted to do something for you, but those aren't things you like." His voice tickles Valen's skin. "You don't like surprises and you don't like straying from your routine. Those are things I like, and I'm sorry I didn't think about you."

Valen was diagnosed with autism when he was three. He revealed this to Kahili when they'd been dating for almost a year, and not by choice.

He had a meltdown the first time he ever brought Kahili home. All his brothers and parents were there for dinner, and as the night progressed, the suggestive pats on his backs, the shaking of his shoulders, the brotherly touches they all gave him, over and over and over again made him want to scratch his skin off.

He held it together fairly well until Taylor accidentally brushed his arm against his. Valen had a meltdown in front of his entire family that night, including Kahili.

Then, he promptly ignored him for three days.

Kahili has seen more over the years, more than Valen wants to think about, and Kahili's always visibly unsure what to do no matter how many he's seen, but he's always understanding.

"I ordered you new face cream," Kahili mumbles, after time has passed and their tender embrace with whispered apologies turns into cuddling.

Valen smiles into his neck.

🍃🍂🍃

hello my loves. very gradually inching toward prince chapters. we are almost there i promise

i hope you liked it. ty for reading and ily, maddie