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It’s almost choreographed — the way that Nino rises dramatically from his chair in front of the mirror, eyes narrowed in a way one would suppose should be seductive. His fingers trail daintily along the benchtop, finally lifting off the linoleum surface when he extends his arm out. He hasn’t put on the opening number’s plumed jacket yet, and his wrist is exposed, lily white, the slightest glistening of cologne still visible on his skin.
Ohno steps towards him as if magnetised, lithe steps practised and elegant. He offers out his own wrist and presses against Nino’s for a long moment. Then he is gone, out to join Aiba and Sho and bathe in their tense but confident energy. Something else that hasn’t changed in years. Nino stays behind to shrug on his jacket.
“Don’t you get tired of doing that?” Jun says from the door, arms crossed and eyes not rolling only because they’re too preoccupied with boring a hole into Nino.
“Never,” replies Nino lightly, checking himself in the mirror and adjusting his collar.
“It’s not like you’re a new couple that still finds everything exciting and romantic,” Jun continued, coming in to examine his own costume. It’s perfect.
Nino puts on his best offended face, and it is a good one. “I’ll have you know that I sweep Ohno-san off his feet with how romantic I can be.”
“Right, because throwing out anniversary gifts every time you have a fight is so dreamy.”
“Well, guess I’m just not a materialistic person. I just...” Nino pauses for dramatic effect and looks up at Jun with a quirk in his lips.
“...need a way to know what’s really mine.”