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Kuramochi rushes into the classroom and says, “Sawamura got confessed to.” He pivots among tables and students, eyes bright and smirk in place, and says, “Sawamura Eijun, confessed to. Can you believe it?” He drops down on his chair and laughs, laughs, laughs.
Kazuya's fingers twitch around his pen, pressing harder than necessary just to subdue the ugly feeling at the back of his throat.
“Are you sure?” he asks, trying to sound like he wants to join in the fun. Like he wants to laugh too.
Kuramochi takes out his phone and flips it open.
“Nori saw them behind the gym.”
He shows Kazuya a picture.
It was a matter of time, if he's being honest. It was a matter of time before somebody else noticed the way Sawamura smiles, warm confidence and absolute dedication. The way he's loud and boisterous, but calm and quiet when he has a book in his hands. The way he can light up the room without meaning to.
It was a matter of time before somebody acted on it, too.
Kazuya couldn't be the only one after all.
His fingers pop the tap, a snapping sound that breaks the silence. He sits on the stairs, eyes trained on the field, on the darkness surrounding it. He takes a sip, bitter taste of coffee dripping down his throat, through his chest, into his stomach. From the tip of his nose to the tip of his fingers, bitter.
Oh-so-fitting bitter.
A rustling sound at the top of the stairs and Kazuya turns around. Scrawny shoulders and messy hair, frame malleable like molten gold. Sawamura stops dead when he sees him, eyes widening with recognition. He looks soft, sweatshirt thick and warm. Gentle curve of his nose and round lips.
Kazuya stares at him, hands gripping his bitter, bitter coffee.
“Miyuki Kazuya,” Sawamura chirps, blinking. “Sorry, I—didn't—see you there.”
No, Kazuya guesses he didn't.
“It's okay,” he says. “Just taking a break.” He adjusts his glasses, frame shadowing his eyes. Sawamura nods, body frozen where he stands a few steps above him, fingers playing with the hem of his hoodie. The fidgeting mess Kazuya loves to watch. “Come sit down,” he offers against his better judgment, patting the space beside him.
After a moment's hesitation, Sawamura complies, feet violently dropping on each step. Body sharp and awkward off the field when he sits, hugging his knees to his chest, fingers hidden under the frayed cuffs of his sweatshirt. Some locks in his hair are still wet, drying messily over his nape. Sawamura Eijun, brown and gold and red.
Kazuya smiles, forcibly going back to his coffee.
They sit there in silence, bodies probably closer than necessary. Closer than advisable. And yet never close enough, the distance fitting between Kazuya's ribs like bitter reminders. Sawamura releases warmth for the both of them—and Kazuya wants to lean in, wants to bury his face in Sawamura's neck and suck in a breath, fresh grass and hot skin, arms sinking into that thick sweatshirt, fingers crawling underneath it.
“Back home,” Sawamura speaks, voice tiny. Fingers catching in his jeans, strong hands and shiny fingernails. “Back home, they are brighter.”
Kazuya taps the coffee can out of rhythm.
“What is?”
Like a cat, Sawamura nuzzles his knees, arms tightening around his legs. So soft, so different from his usual self, a hurricane waiting to happen.
“The stars,” he answers, huge eyes looking up, a leftover smile clinging to his lips. A faraway expression Kazuya wants to chase despite himself. “You can see shooting stars clearly, you know. When you ask for wishes and stuff. It's a very beautiful sight.”
Kazuya already has a very beautiful sight every time Sawamura gets on that mound with fierce determination and brave grins. Shining brighter than anything he knows. The stars, Tokyo lights, the sun. People orbiting around him without knowing why.
He gulps down what's left of his coffee, cold liquid sliding on his tongue. Bitter. Disgusting.
“So,” he starts with a low voice and apparently, an even lower self-esteem, “I heard you got confessed to, today.”
Sawamura groans, hiding his face against his knees. Kazuya curls his toes inside his sneakers and puts on a dumb smile. Pretending. Acting. Waiting.
Waiting, waiting, wait—
“Yeah, I did,” Sawamura replies, voice muffled against denim, cheeks blushed when he looks at Kazuya. That molten gold solidifying. “Please, don't be an asshole about it. I already have to deal with Kuramochi-senpai.”
Of course Kuramochi would be a teasing little shit. Kazuya is both proud and appalled.
Grinning (fake, fake grinning so he isn't discovered), he throws an arm around Sawamura's shoulders, hauling him in. Strong shoulder blades digging into the muscle of his forearm. Nose catching the fresh scent of lemon soap. Sawamura goes with it, sides pressing tightly and warmth seeping through their clothes. Feels so right. Too right. Too dangerous. Kazuya bites the inside of his cheek, and brings Sawamura closer until his face is half-hidden against his chest. This way—this way he can't see. This way Kazuya's safe.
“Congratulations,” he says, voice thick and throat dry. “But don't get used to it. You are not exactly Prince Charming,” he jokes, hearing Sawamura's angry growl and feeling his fist against his ribs. Retaliation that only brings them closer. “So how is she? Is she cute?”
He doesn't really care. He doesn't care if she's pretty, or smart. He doesn't care if her laugh's contagious or if her smiles can light up the room (because they can't. How could they, next to stupid Sawamura. She's no match for dumb Sawamura and his thundering laughs. No match for his pitiful tears. No match for his heart, big and golden and in display for everyone to see. She—).
“She's nice,” comes the reply, hushed against Kazuya's chest and—oh. He hasn't let go of Sawamura yet, his fingertips pressing against cotton and muscle. “She's not in my class, so I barely know her.”
Kazuya pushes his thigh against Sawamura's, hand buried in the soft fabric of his sweatshirt. So close. So tempting. And shit, he's going to slip. He's going to screw up. He has to let got right now.
“It doesn't matter anyway,” Sawamura continues and Kazuya freezes, his cheek tickled by messy, wet hair. Sawamura sounds embarrassed. He sound shy and Sawamura is never shy. Never.
Kazuya wants to see him. Browns and golds and reds. He wants to see the curve of his jaw, still too round, a few growth spurts still hiding behind his ear. To hell with running away, he wants to see.
He tugs gently at the thick sweatshirt, angling his head down until his chin grazes over his own chest, looking down, down, down until Sawamura gets on with the program and looks up. Eyes bright, cheeks painted red, ears pink.
“What do you mean, it doesn't matter?” he asks, sounding the wrong side of breathless.
He doesn't even know what they are talking about anymore. Sawamura straightens, moving a couple of inches away from him, but still close. Really close. (Not close enough). He parts his lips, full and a little chapped, tongue wetting the seams.
He rubs the back of his neck, not looking at Kazuya.
“I—I turned her down.”
A second ticks by. Two, three, ten.
Kazuya crushes the happy feeling coiling in his belly.
“Why?”
Sawamura scowls at him, eyes squinting.
“Because I don't like her!” he yells, back to his loud self. Lightning and thunder. “I'm not going to date someone I don't like! What is wrong with all of you, you stupid—”
Kazuya chokes, laughter bubbling inside his stomach, through his chest, dripping from his mouth. From the tips of his fingers to the tip of his nose. A barely controlled sound that rolls off his tongue. His own thunder. A happy laugh, relieved. A laugh that brings tears to the corner of his eyes.
Sawamura is blushing furiously when Kazuya calms down, knuckles wiping his eyes under the glasses.
“Well, that's very noble,” he pants.
Sawamura crosses his arms over his chest and looks away, pout still visible even in the darkness.
“I'm going to sleep,” he announces, standing up. Kazuya misses the heat instantly, hands almost tugging him back down.
“Sure,” he lies. “See you tomorrow.” A quick good night thrown over his shoulders. Safer like this. Hidden. Sawamura is silent while he climbs the stairs, rustling sound lost to Kazuya's ears.
Stars shine, blinking down at him. Little dots of light that don't look quite as impressive as they should over Tokyo's sky. Not to Kazuya anyway, who knows no different. He knows neon lights of every color. Red, gold, brown, blue. Not alive, no. Never alive. Not a natural disaster, shaking the ground beneath his feet. Making him blind with true light.
Back home they are brighter.
Well, then.
“Sawamura!” Kazuya shouts, standing up and turning around. He can probably still catch—
Sawamura is standing two steps above Kazuya. Has been standing two steps above Kazuya all this time. Shining down on him. His golden eyes are wide at being discovered, cheeks slowly blushing royal red. Body frozen, taut like a bowstring. Brighter than the sun.
Kazuya bites down on his tongue, mouth dry.
“W-w-what,” Sawamura croaks, face so flustered he'll catch fire.
Kazuya sucks in a breath, his own cheeks burning.
“Nothing, I—it can wait,” he whispers. He looks at his feet, smile tugging at his lips until he has to bite them. “I'll tell you later.” He dares to glance up at smoldering eyes and full lips. “Just—try to be patient.”
(With me, he doesn't say.)
Sawamura's face softens, realization flashing through his eyes
“Sure,” he mutters. “Sure, I—just don't take forever.”
He turns around and stomps his way up, hurrying out of sight like the setting sun.
Kazuya sticks his hands in his pockets.
This is okay. This is fine.
Two confessions on the same day would be too much for Sawamura's ego, anyway.