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It’s a little too cold when Haruka leaves the house—made painfully evident when the wind slashes against his puffed cheeks and he brings his fists up against his lips in a vain attempt to warm them. It’s moments like these where he believes there might be something a bit wrong with him, for the sensation doesn’t seem to bother him in the slightest. In any case, he enjoys the biting cold. It’s oddly comforting.
The cram school isn’t technically open this early on weekends, but at this point, Haruka will use anything he can to get away from his sisters’ arguing. There is only so much talk about the latest Johnnys’ idols he can withstand, after all. A tired chuckle tumbles carelessly from his lips and Haruka finds himself reminiscing of age-stained memories. Oh, to be young again. Perhaps, if there is one thing in life that Haruka would give up art for, it is that: innocence.
A quick sweep of the building’s hallways and Haruka is sure that he is the first to arrive. Sooner or later, the rest of the oil painting students will file in, and the day’s dull pattern will continue once more. There’s something so simplistic, so reassuring about the routine, however. Perhaps it is the knowledge of conformity that keeps Haruka grounded on days like this. A dry laugh emerges from his chest. He’s thinking too much.
Haruka is about to set down his bags and enter the empty classroom when he hears the familiar scratch of canvas and clink of brushes. It’s not a surprise (or at least, it shouldn’t be) when Haruka instead finds Yatora with his back to the entrance, one hand clutching a palette knife while the other grips at a corner of the wooden easel. Haruka has to bite back a chuckle. Of course, of course. If not the young master himself.
A few minutes pass and Haruka is still standing in the open doorway, arms crossed as Yatora continues to fiddle with the materials before him. This is something beyond the bounds of routine; something that Haruka has least expected. The scene is endearing in its own right, yes, but suddenly there’s a slight annoyance that creeps across Haruka’s pursed lips and he finds that his right eye suddenly twitches. His feet begin to move by themselves.
“Yaguchi,” Haruka keeps his voice sweet and bends down so his mouth is level with Yatora’s ear. The corners of his mouth curl up when he can feel Yatora tense in front of him.
“O-oh! Hashida-san… I didn’t know you were here this early.”
It’s Yatora’s turn to smile. Sheepishly, he reaches up to scratch behind his head and gives a small shrug as if this sudden appearance had in the end been expected. Haruka’s eyes travel down to the palette before him. Yatora’s paints have already begun to dry.
“Well, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to get ahead in class, right? But more importantly, Yaguchi…” Haruka has not moved any further back, and instead, shifts his stance so that his body is directly behind Yatora. “What are you trying to do here?”
It takes a moment before Yatora seems to comprehend what Haruka has just said. Perhaps it may just be wishful thinking, but Haruka swears he sees the flush of embarrassment spread across the boy’s cheeks.
“This? I’m just trying out a new technique I read somewhere in a museum book. Impasto, I think. Van Gogh used it quite often.”
Yatora gives way to a small exhalation, like he can’t believe his own words.
“I’m sure you already know all about it though. God, I’m so behind with all of this stuff.”
And once more, Haruka is suddenly reminded about how out of norm this all is. After all, Haruka should not be here, Yatora should not be here, and this odd feeling of attraction should not be taking hold of his heart like this. He only smiles.
“Ah, pessimistic as ever, Yaguchi. Here, watch this,” At this point Haruka isn’t even thinking clearly—barely comprehends how one of his hands manages to clutch Yatora’s in his own and keep the palette knife steady. Haruka’s hands are still cold from the outside weather and being so close to Yatora—Haruka can feel the other shiver against him.
“When you’re doing impasto, you want to make sure your paint isn’t too dry. It defeats the purpose of using impasto in the first place.”
A thick slash of paint is added to the canvas. Yatora sucks in a breath and holds it close to him like it is the only thing he still has.
“On the flip side, artists using pastels can also recreate the impasto effect by pressing a soft pastel firmly against the canvas. There are quite a few ways to do it.”
Another gash of paint is smeared across the surface and Haruka suddenly wonders how long Yatora must have been in the classroom for the paint to have dried this much. If anything, the red resembles congealed blood more than it does a painting medium.
“Do you understand?”
Haruka stops. Even if Yatora is to respond, the thumping in his chest is far too loud for him to begin to comprehend anything said. The sound, annoying as ever, clogs his ears and forces him to bite down on his lower lip in an effort to steady himself. It is a wonder how Haruka is still able to clutch Yatora’s hand.
It’s the split second in which Yatora decides not to respond that changes everything. Suddenly, Haruka’s gaze has dropped low to Yatora’s lips, and he presses a soft kiss (he’s too nervous to do anything else) against the corner of the boy’s mouth. The kiss is nothing special, but the red that has now spread from Yatora’s face to his neck and ears becomes even more evident when Haruka pulls away. Yatora can still feel the ghost of Haruka’s fingertips against the nape of his neck.
“I… I’m sorry.” The back of his hand is against his lips and Haruka has taken two steps back. There is no reason to be this embarrassed, but the feeling is one Haruka can’t seem to push down. Nothing here is normal.
“Oh, it’s… it’s fine.” Yatora weakly offers. “I think-I think class starts soon. If you wanted to get your things ready.”
“Ah,” It’s the perfect excuse to avoid confronting the situation, and Haruka mentally applauds Yatora for his adaptability. “You’re right. Thanks.”
With his mouth still tingling, Haruka makes his way out of the classroom and feels the blood begin to rush back to his face. God, is he an idiot? His back hits the hallway wall and he slides down onto the floor. There must be something wrong with him. There must be. It’s the only real explanation to his impulsivity.
A moment passes and students begin to crowd the halls. No one pays much attention to his slumped body until Haruka hears a familiar voice from further down.
“Hey, Hashida!”
Haruka takes the risk and looks up, not too surprised to see Maki walking towards him, one hand in her pocket while another reaches up to snap a stick of CalorieMate between her teeth. There’s a flash of puzzlement that crosses her face before she suddenly grins.
“You look unwell, Hashida. Something happen? Perhaps…” She bends down so her face is at his level now. “Are you lovesick?”
If there is any surprise in Haruka, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he merely laughs—waves the accusation away and dismisses the protests of truth that begin to bubble up at the back of his throat.
“No, no. I’m fine, Kuwana.” Haruka only laughs. “You’re as wrong as ever.”