Chapter Text
Yatora. In the art room. After hours.
Yuka knew he would show up.
"Can you not touch that? It's not dry yet."
They bit the inside of their lip as she met Yatora's anxious gaze. It annoyed Yuka. Chewed her inside out. What was that look for?
"Here to check out the arts club? You should come on Tuesdays or Thrusdays." She watched him squirm as she clenched the plastic-wrapped cigarette box in her hand, feeling its rubbery texture. "Or.. are you here looking for this?" Yuka was acutely aware of the other art club members watching by the door, but they weren't the least concerned, her eyes fixed on Yatora's looming form, on his narrowed eyes.
"...Thanks." He gritted out, reaching for the pack, but Yuka's eyes were focused, still, on Yatora's.
"So you only smoke when you're with friends?" This close, they could see how Yatora's eyelashes were so long. It was unfair. He probably hated them for being too girly. Yuka would've been only too happy to take them.
When was the last time they'd been this close? "It's all crumpled up, but you've barely used it. If you don't like it, you shouldn't harm your health just for the sake of socialising."
Yatora's face had been all up in their's, eyes staring into her own, but this was the first time he actually met their gaze. It was like his soul was sucked back into his body. Or like he remembered who he was. Yuka diverted her eyes. She could never face him when he got like this. He usually acted all nonchalant; even when he was talking to you, he wasn't really listening, but when he looked at you, he really saw you. It unnerved Yuka.
They turned on their heel. "You worry me." Whatever. Yatora; Yuka didn't understand him, and didn't want to. She knew he'd judge them. She knew he already did.
"You make me worried too, Ryuji. When I look at how you're dressed." The name grated on her skin as she whipped around, her long hair swishing in tandem. She always felt happy when that happened. It reminded her that they weren't a boy. They weren't. They weren't.
Yatora was leaning by the window, his stupid pack of cigarettes still in his hand. And he was giving Yuka shit? Him?
Sometimes Yuka wasn't sure other people existed. Yatora was one of those people. Did he exist? Behind his glass front and detached smile. Well, Yuka existed. Yuka. Not Ryuji.
If Yuka took two steps towards Yatora, he took four towrds her. "What, Ryuji, you think you're better than me?" His eyebrow was twiching, as if he was the one slighted. Ugh.
"Can you not call me by that name?" Yuka was sure their own eyebrow was twiching. She was sure her face was twisted. Well, whatever. Yatora had seen the ugliest side of her already. That's how they'd met in middle school, when Yuka was stuck between her family's expectations of her. And Yatora was like a star at the time. Quiet, and slow. But bright.
But the Yatora that stood before her now was bitter. With his effortfully undone tie, his crumpled cigarettes. Yuka pitied him, really.
"Oh, did the comment about smoking socially strike a nerve?"
"Huh, sorry. I don't speak weirdo. Can you speak Japanese, please?" Still in middle school. Tch. What did that even mean?
"A-"
"Still as pretty as ever, huh?"
Whenever Yatora got like this, Yuka didn't know what to say. But he wasn't fooled by Yatora. He knew the other show was yet to drop.
"Theres no future in art school anyway. Might as well use that face to be a gold digger."
Yatora. That guy. Yuka took it back. He wasn't bright. He wasn't a star. Maybe even in middle school, it was the same. Maybe Yatora saw right through Yuka. And he didn't like what he saw. Whatever. Yuka was long used to such comments. It didn't affect her. It didn't.
🔵
Yuka blinked at the painting. It was blue. All blue. But not in the way an ocean is. In the way their heart was. In the way her head felt when she tried to look away from her shithole of a life. This. This blue. "This is good!" Their cheeks were warm. "Whose painting is this?"
Her eyes travelled down to the bottom.
...Yaguchi Yatora.
Before she had even finished reading it, her eyes had twisted, almost preemptively. "Maybe I shouldn't have praised it..."
From her peripheral, they were aware of Yatora's own warm cheeks, his soft smile. His actual smile.
She pitied him. Really.