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i.
In Jun’s esteemed opinion, they go from being teammates to flatmates to roommates in the blink of an eye. There is first year at school, with a teammate in a uniform two sizes too big; there is third year of university, with a flatmate too short to reach the highest shelves so he orders Jun take down the casserole dish, the pasta, the coffee mugs Jun didn’t even know Ryousuke had; there is a grainy two years later montage, with a roommate in their small flat, bringing home a cat one rainy afternoon when he’d gone to fetch some groceries, well-preserved despite the rain outside.
Jun runs through these thoughts quite often. It’s mental exercise, or so he tells himself. He’s currently thinking about that arc in his life-story, sometime right after his final official game (the one they lost, incidentally, a traitorous brain cell reminds him) and he thinks about how he couldn’t bear to look at anyone else, least of all Ryousuke, who didn’t even get to be on the field. At the time, he’d been selfish, too preoccupied with his own thoughts, frustrated and uncertain and—
This is how Ryousuke wakes up, with a flick to Jun's unsuspecting forehead. Jun crash-lands back here, on their bed that’s got its covers kicked off completely. Impatience is a funny look on a half-asleep Ryousuke, who has enough presence of mind to bring Jun down to earth, yet not enough to fully commit to it.
Jun stares at still-closed eyes and a too-big shirt, he stares at the smooth slope of shoulder meeting neck, he stares until Ryousuke flicks at his forehead again, and Jun hears the unsaid warning—don't think so much. It’s Jun’s fatal flaw, thinking he thinks too much about himself, and Ryousuke is well-versed with convincing him otherwise.
He dozes off soon enough, wrapping both of Jun's arms around himself in an uncharacteristic show of adoration. Jun can't say he minds, tucking Ryousuke under his chin.
ii.
When they'd first moved in—not into their university dorm, but their own private one-bedroom flat in a halfway decent old-people neighborhood—Jun had spent the first afternoon putting up things & Ryousuke had spent the first afternoon gently scolding Jun for narrating why and how and when he screwed in the kitchen lights.
iii.
Haruichi comes by at least twice a month, and to Jun’s immense surprise (and delight) he brings treats. The first time, he brings a loaf of banana bread, and only barely gets away by saying he’d made too much for Furuya’s birthday. Jun doesn’t miss the way Ryousuke’s eyes narrow or the imperceptible smile Haruichi quirks.
They celebrate Furuya all week and Jun’s almost upset to say he’d eaten more than his fair share but he doesn’t admit it, at least not until Haruichi brings a fresh batch of chocolate chip cookies, citing something something Eijun-kun something. Jun’s already lost track of the conversation, too busy dividing the cookies up so he doesn’t accidentally eat them all.
It comes up in conversation once Haruichi leaves and Jun is comfortably full, but the implications of Ryousuke’s words don’t escape him. All said and done, Ryousuke’s happy for his little brother, and there’s no one Ryousuke would trust more than dumb and dumber, even if he doesn’t quite say it in words.
Jun’s just glad there’s no bloodbath involved this time around.
iv.
Jun sits down next to him on the couch, and Ryousuke makes space for him automatically without looking up from his book. Jun wonders fleetingly if Ryousuke is his own prison-master because he reads—for fun!—when he has piles of novellas to read for class anyway. He buries himself in the shock of pink hair that sticks out and hums contentedly.
Ryousuke's smile doesn't change save for just a little, more content, more genuine. Some new brand of knowing walks into the unspoken conversation and Jun thinks Ryousuke doesn’t really need to go to class to study poetry when he can see free verse and sonnet and limerick all rolled up in a person he wants to kiss right now.
So he does, and he remembers that Ryousuke kisses like a haiku, in a perfectly synchronised 5-7-5 beat, and he kisses like a perfect ballad, with so much said between the lines without saying anything at all. If Jun’s feeling particularly charitable (read: like putty under Ryousuke's spell) he’ll call it an epic with a heavy-handed Shoujo manga influence, a poor choice of words for what it really feels like.
v.
Ryousuke takes his coffee with no sugar and no milk; it is a fact Jun has resigned himself to live with. He'd asked to try it exactly once, just when they'd moved in and the kitchen was still brand new, and he'd gagged and gasped and viscerally felt his soul leave his body, all while Ryousuke watched it unfold from behind his awful cup of demon water.
vi.
Ryousuke doesn't blush. He doesn't giggle. He doesn't go wide-eyed when Jun does things that he thinks are strong and manly. It's his own strange charm that Jun's come to admire.
But the tips of Ryousuke's ears turn pink when Jun says I love you before going to work, they go pink when Jun gets him a new horror anthology for their anniversary even though they'd decided not to exchange gifts in favour of effective cost management and other phrases Jun doesn't want to be acquainted with. They go pink as he watches Jun giggle and blush when he gets Jun a bouquet one day without any explanation.
Ryousuke doesn't blush, but it doesn’t take much to see he loves.
vii.
Most nights feel the same. Ryousuke in his ratty shirts from high school and Jun's faded sweatpants find themselves in front of the TV, watching a taped baseball match, with Jun muttering something churlishly about umpires and leniency.
viii.
Ryousuke hasn't always been in love with Jun. The realisation comes to him one Sunday, in their second semester of college. They're both busy around the house; Jun's in the kitchen, humming an old supercell song which makes its way to Ryousuke on a wave of vinegar and lemon and something distinctly cinnamon.
It strikes like lightning Ryousuke when he’s folding laundry. The realisation occurs in nanoseconds, in a sequence of events completely out of order:
3) He’s folding his roommate’s laundry, an old shirt soft against the calluses on his palm.
2) He’s waiting for said roommate to cook them both lunch. Unfortunately, lunch seems to contain cinnamon, for some godforsaken reason.
1) He’s thinking about the roommate’s kiss the cook! apron Sawamura and Kuramochi had given to him as a gag gift for graduating college,
And he’s only just now realising the implications of what this means.
ix.
A few weeks after The Match (capitalisation necessary), Jun plops down on the bed next to Ryousuke. Divine intervention had made sure they were in proximity to each other, even here, even now.
“I know what you’re going to say,” Ryousuke says when Jun opens his mouth. “Don’t.”
Jun shuts his mouth. He thinks it over. He opens his mouth again. “I’m sorry for that. You know. Shutting you guys out.”
Jun doesn’t look at Ryousuke when he speaks. Ryousuke thinks Jun might’ve been crying again.
“It’s been a while since we’ve heard you scream and fuss around the first-years,” Ryousuke says lightly. Jun is, for all his bravado, good-hearted, far kinder than Ryousuke could ever be. Would Ryousuke ever apologise for taking his own time to come to terms with his grief? Absolutely not. And yet, Isashiki Jun—wild-hearted protagonist, an open book, the kind the makes Ryousuke curl his lip and root for in the secrecy of his heart—had sought his friend out to issue an apology. He doubts he’s the only one being apologised to, Jun’s always been rather…considerate.
“Well,” Ryousuke says, standing up abruptly, “Since I know you’re not going to do your homework, let’s go see what the kids are up to. Can’t let them feel too at peace, you know.”
That gets him a snort. “You’re too hard on them,” he tells Ryousuke.
“Someone has to compensate for how soft you are.” He makes a run for it before Jun can explode all over him, lip curling into something more than a smile.
x.
"Ryou-san." The voice, even from a hundred kilometres away, sounds equal parts disappointed and just on the edge of wanting to argue but not having the words to. In typical Kuramochi Youichi fashion, he repeats Ryousuke's name, and in typical Kominato Ryousuke fashion, Ryousuke doesn't give in–at least not to Kuramochi.
He wonders if Jun knows how far Ryousuke's willing to go for him. He's spoken to three people so far, all of whom have had to reach through the phone and take Ryousuke by the shoulders and tell him he's making the right choice.
("What are you afraid of?" Chris had asked, and in typical Takigawa Chris Yuu fashion, he hadn't expected a reply.)
He fiddles with the catch on the tiny box that holds the rest of his future, and he thinks and thinks and thinks until he hears the familiar grumble of I'm home two rooms over, and he concludes that he might as well have been one of Jun's shoujo manga girls all along with all the long-winded monologues he's been having with himself lately.
Deep breath.
"Jun?"