Work Text:
I.
The first time, Kiyama's stuck by Nippori on the bus ride home, and either the two yankees have wildly different notions of personal space, or the younger boy is simply that oblivious to the fact that he's hit his neighbor in the face no less than a dozen times. Kiyama figures that he could grab Nippori by the collar, scold him or something like that, but he decides against it. Everyone is tired and sore from the events of the training camp, in more ways than one.
It is around the time that fact crosses Kiyama's mind that the story Nippori is telling reaches a climax, and he spreads his arms wide.
Kiyama flinches, resigning himself to another elbow to the face, but the blow never comes.
"Nippori!"
When he opens his eyes, he sees Nippori sitting backward in his seat and staring wide-eyed at the boy who just shouted at him; Mizusawa. Kiyama cranes his head around to see Mizusawa gesture to the junior, to tone it down a few levels, a soft but firm "watch it, please?" at his lips.
Then their eyes catch. Mizusawa falters a bit, looking down before he raises his eyes to meet Kiyama's again. He flashes a grin -- the first smile he'd ever received from the other boy -- and it throws Kiyama for a loop. It takes him a moment to return the smile (his is small, shaky, he knows, he's working on it) and Mizusawa nods in acknowledgment before he turns back to talk to Yuuta, leaving Kiyama to avert his gaze to the window and think.
He considers all the dirty looks and frowns and leers he's gotten from Mizusawa since freshman year, and contrasts it with what he just saw. If someone likes another person like that, you'd think they'd use any tool possible to subdue them, right? And if that person has such an effective weapon...
Kiyama rubs a spot on his forehead. It's tender to the touch, and a dull pain makes him wish for an aspirin. Yeah, his head is about to start hurting much too badly for him to be thinking about such strange things.
He leans against the window and closes his eyes, but can't quiet his mind enough to catch a nap before the bus reaches town.
II.
The second time, they touch.
Mizusawa is weary ("I can stop, do you want me to stop?") every time he comes into contact with Kiyama during stretches. At first, his touch is light, butterfly wings against muscles Kiyama didn't know were that tense. It's a little firmer next time, as Mizusawa works out the knots in Kiyama's shoulders, but the latter barely notices because the sensation's almost overwhelming in its gentleness. No one's touched him like that since he drifted away from everyone, and his world became cold and dark.
But Mizusawa's touch is pleasant, knowing, stirs him up at the core. The excitement reminds him of being in the middle of a fight, while still feeling completely different.
It's worrying.
It's because he's good at this. Stretching and all. Knowing people's bodies, Kiyama explains in his head. Mizusawa moves a little lower, working on his spine. It's a gymnastics thing. Kiyama sighs, and Mizusawa pushes against him, stretches out his back against the resistance of his inflexibility. The gym is silent, save for the pair's metered breathing. It makes the racing of Kiyama's mind seem that much louder as he tries to pin down a reason for his discomfort.
Of course it hurts, it's supposed to. But it's not that bad. Not at all. It's a little nice. Maybe this is what being with a girl feels like--
At that moment, a there's a crack, and suddenly Kiyama's back feels a million times looser. It makes both freeze, and Kiyama can feel a tremble from Mizusawa before the other boy can compose himself enough to speak.
"That happens sometimes."
"Yeah."
Kiyama looks back in time to see Mizusawa smile that same smile as on the bus. It's warm and bright and makes Kiyama look away, like he's staring into the sun. This time, Kiyama can't return the smile, but he focuses as much as he can on his stretches instead. He never quite manages a handstand that day, but the two agree to meet every Wednesday evening until he can.
Kiyama looks forwards to those sessions. Because he has a lot he wants to learn, a lot he needs to figure out.
About gymnastics, of course.
III.
The third time, Kiyama is in his room, opening the tiny package Mizusawa slipped him in between classes. He really doesn't know how the other boy knew of his birthday but what baffles him more is what the gift is. He's staring at a middle-aged woman in pastel hues, and considering the few -- very few -- times he's referenced his love for enka music.
'How did he know?' becomes 'he noticed' in Kiyama's mind.
And he starts to feel grateful and horrible as it finally crosses mind that all the time that someone was looking at him, thought the world of him, he barely noticed that they existed.
He slips the disk in his stereo. The woman sings of lost love and broken hearts, and Kiyama looks up at the ceiling and can see his teammate's twisted, tear-stained face as if it were yesterday. He wonders what he can do in return, but every idea is shot down by his conscience -- you don't have the right, you'd be leading him on. Kiyama offers a 'thanks' the next day at school, Mizusawa just shrugs and smiles that damn smile that makes time slow down and his heart sink and he realizes something.
When he listens to the CD after that, he recalls Mizusawa's pain and tears and grins and joy and feels a little proud, a little special that he's caused someone so much worry and happiness. Then the guilt creeps up. Kiyama considers what he can't have -- shouldn't have -- in real life, but imagines it as the woman sings of kisses by the sea. He doesn't have the right, but he figures he can be a little selfish every time he presses the repeat button.
IV.
The fourth time, Mizusawa is glowing a shade of pink that would rival those godawful practice shirts the gymnastics team ordered.
At someone else.
When Kiyama rounds the corner to the senior hall, he sees him, talking to a boy in a jersey outside homeroom 3-D. Mizusawa is fiddling with the strap to his bookbag as he looks up to the stranger, and Kiyama realizes that the smile -- his smile -- no longer belongs to him.
It burns Kiyama up.
Their eyes meet as Kiyama passes by. It's a moment that lasts an eternity, a forever that ends when Mizusawa breaks contact and looks back up at his companion. By the time Kiyama takes another pace, his mind is spinning. He fishes through his head for some reason to turn around and interrupt their conversation when he remembers: he doesn't have the right.
So he continues down the hall, looking back one last time. It might not be his smile anymore, but it's still a nice one.
It's good that he's smiling more these days.
V.
The fifth time, it's nothing, but it's everything.
Mizusawa heaves about half a dozen manga digests out of his locker he'd borrowed, chattering about something or other. But Kiyama hears nothing. Instead, he stares, taking in every detail of the other boy's face as if it were the last time he'd see it; how he'd miss those long eyelashes, the dimples in his cheeks when he's laughing, and the way his eyes crinkle -- sparkle --
And god, all the symptoms are there, they've been there for weeks. His mom always told him that you feed a cold and starve a fever, but never how you cure a lovesickness.
After so, so long trying to fix it, Kiyama does the only thing he has left.
"Can I take it back?" he blurts out, completely cutting Mizusawa off.
There's a moment of silence, confusion. Mizusawa blinks, then holds out one of the manga.
No, not that. Kiyama shakes his head, and grabs Mizusawa by the shoulder, and leans in. The books fall to their feet, but it doesn't matter, because the next moment they're both exploring each other the way they thought they always couldn't, shouldn't, wouldn't.
It seems both after an eternity but all too soon when they break apart, and Mizusawa can do nothing but stare up at him, looking all too much like that day at the bus stop at the training camp.
-- I'm sorry, I can't return your --
"Can I take it back?" Kiyama repeats, voice ragged, eyes desperate.
Then Mizusawa takes his hands. They're as warm and pillowy soft as Kiyama -- he's thought about this so much -- but the way Mizusawa looks up at him, that's what Kiyama never anticipated. This time, it's different, the way he smiles. Bittersweet, the way his eyes gleam and he looks as if he could cry at the same time. And Kiyama's scared, ashamed, powerless, in a way he hadn't felt since the last person he really cared about slipped away in his arms, and he prays that this time, he's not too late.
There's another moment that feels like days when Mizusawa squeezes Kiyama's hands, takes a deep breath, then finally speaks.
"Kiyama, I--"