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during the summer, motoya gets tan, in a way where his smooth legs appear smoother and his cheeks turn golden and his hands gleam under the sun. he always bemoans his skin, how it will make his blemishes darken and his face all ruddy, but rintarou wants to tell him that it isn’t like that at all, that motoya only appears as if dipped in bronze or something just as unobtainable.
he doesn’t, of course. during the summer, rintarou keeps his emotions to himself and gets sunburn instead. he gets sunburn because he spends his entire afternoons sitting in his car and watching motoya’s blinding smile from across the street; watches him dribble the ball against the asphalt without a care in the world and weave between the other neighborhood boys with childish finesse.
rintarou wonders how much boy is left in motoya to still be shooting hoops in the community court every day with the other kids, no matter how shitty that place is. it’s the summer before he leaves for college, but motoya does not act like it; he still chases after the ice cream truck for a block, still ties his shoelaces the butterfly method, still makes rintarou drive him around because he failed to get his license for the third time this year.
rintarou rolls the windows down and sighs. he’s itching for a smoke right now but it’s fucking hot today, the mid-july season without a lick of humidity in the air. the leather seats broil under him, even after he went as far as illegally parking by a fire hydrant just to catch some shade under the trees. he doesn’t know how motoya frolics around all day in this heat, but maybe it’s only a thing for boys who are kind and beautiful. god just loves them better.
motoya’s game is to end soon. rintarou doesn’t know the score, he just got here, but the victory seems to be in motoya’s hands, with another layup from the boy: motoya sprints past an opponent, jumps with his might—the ball softly leaping from his fingers and against the backboard, then circling on the rim for an unbearably long moment, that the rest of the players halt their movements to watch it, and, wait— yes ! the ball drops in and through the net! it’s a winning point by motoya for his team!
rintarou realizes he’s involuntarily pumped his fist in the air, is a little disturbed by it as he contains himself. though, he can hear the cheers from here. soon after, everyone begins to leave in happy spirits, sweat trickling down their faces as a number of them tackle motoya with glee, back-slaps and elbow-jabs and whatnot. rintarou looks away with an ugly feeling lodged in his throat, doesn’t like when motoya is smiling at other people besides him.
“hey, thanks for picking me up.”
motoya has made his way from the barbed wire gates of the basketball court to rintarou’s car, shorts clinging to his legs as he wipes his face down with his tee. rintarou’s about to berate him about being too sweaty to get into his car, but then he sees the navel of motoya’s stomach show and clamps his mouth shut and unlocks the front door.
“sorry,” motoya says, as if he hears rintarou’s thoughts. “i’m a little sweaty, aren’t i?”
rintarou swallows. “it’s fine.”
“alright, then.” motoya gets in and throws his gym bag in the backseat. rintarou hits the gas.
the car starts beeping.
“door,” rintarou says.
“fuck,” motoya mumbles, and opens his car door to slam it shut again. “sorry. you need to get this fixed, though. don’t you work at the auto shop for a reason? like, they don’t give you discounts or coupons or anything?”
“i said i would this weekend,” rintarou defends. “plus, it’s my baby. i can’t let just anyone have with it.”
“yeah, yeah.” motoya closes his eyes as the breeze enters. he likes the wind, tastes the tinge of summer on it. smiles. “your baby. trash baby.”
when you live in a small town, there’s not much to do, that even on break, the days are dreadful and slow, lazy and hot. rintarou makes the most of it. he’s saving money, and so he’s been picking up more shifts since the summer started. he likes the auto shop, but it’s unclear if rintarou’s to make a living just from working there. he has already turned eighteen and his dad wants him out of the house, too. but for now, motoya’s turned on the radio, and he’s singing the wrong words, and rintarou stashes those worries away for the future.
they get milkshakes after motoya pesters him for something cold. it’s ten degrees hotter than it was this morning and motoya knows rintarou has a sweet tooth, so the boy fishes out the last of his coins from his pockets, dishing them out to rintarou’s hand. rintarou tries to refuse, ears turning red at motoya’s tight grasp, but before he knows it, they’re coming out the drive-thru with two vanilla shakes and cherries on top.
“see? wasn’t this a good idea?” motoya grins with triumph and rintarou has to steer with one hand on the wheel while the other turns numb from holding the cold drink to his mouth, but he agrees anyway.
“it’s hot.”
“it’s summer ,” motoya says. he laughs quietly, wiping the sweat off rintarou’s forehead. rintarou tries to ignore his heartbeat stuttering at the sudden gesture. “you’ll miss it when it starts snowing again.”
and then motoya moves his hand to rintarou’s neck, unable to let him go just yet. motoya’s always been this touchy, too gentle and forgiving when every other guy their age tries so hard to be an asshole. rintarou is an asshole. he doesn’t want to be an asshole, but he’s somehow glad that out of all the people that do see him as one, motoya doesn’t. no wonder why everyone has such a soft spot for the kid.
“your hair,” motoya unthinkingly curls his fingers below rintarou’s nape, “it’s getting long.”
“whatever,” rintarou says, not wanting to admit he doesn’t want to dip into his savings for a measly haircut.
“i can do it.”
“what?”
“your hair,” motoya proposes breezily, “i can cut it, if you don’t mind. i always do mine, actually.”
rintarou snorts, flicking the turn signal. “yeah, i think i can tell you cut that freak nest head of yours.”
“hey!” but motoya’s laughing anyway. “you can trust me. we’re on the way back to my place, anyway.”
“hm, i dunno.” rintarou’s just teasing him now, enjoys kindling motoya’s outbursts.
“if you don’t like it, at least it’s free,” motoya insists. the sunlight passes over his face, kisses his smile. “don’t you know the barber downtown always overcharges?”
motoya wasn’t really meant to get under his skin. if anything, motoya’s friends and rintarou’s friends don’t fuck with each other at all, so motoya was never even supposed to go near him. and that’s not to say it crudely. because no one has shit to do around here, all the boys with their pent-up hormones and anger and deadbeat parents pass their time with fights instead. they hang around alleyways too long and get caught up in gang business or find themselves building some sort of crew with their friends, pissing people off at night just to have a taste of violence. or causing uproars at school, for things to end in amateur fistfights and saturday detentions. at the same time, it’s an unlikely form of protection. rintarou chalks it up to the social being, or whatever the fuck they learned in biology.
of course, rintarou and motoya are no exceptions to it. it’s the only reason why they ever crossed paths back then. rintarou with the twins and shinsuke and aran, since middle school days, and motoya in sakusa kiyoomi’s misfit band. they didn’t start off hating each other, but all crews eventually clash. so ever since one of kiyoomi’s guys (tendou satori, that crazy bastard) pulled a pocketknife on shinsuke in freshman year, it’s been bad blood between them.
rintarou wasn’t very fond of motoya, or anyone associated with kiyoomi, as a result. it’s not that rintarou hated sakusa kiyoomi’s cousin, per se, but he didn’t know him or care to know about him. if anything, he thought of komori motoya as sort of a prissy—he never fought, didn’t like fighting at all, and wore this innocent face all the time, so it seemed to him motoya was just riding the coattails of a bunch of giants like their lapdog or something. (he did feel sort of bad, about motoya’s drunk of a father and how his mom died from lung cancer, but—everyone has some sort of sob story, around here. shit, shinsuke’s parents left him to rot in an alley before his grandmother could find him.)
but then was the time rintarou ended up in motoya and kiyoomi’s kitchen. after a night of bloody brawling at a parking lot, and the cops called on their asses, rintarou lost sight of his friends. but motoya, of all people, caught him in the midst of the chaos and insisted on bringing him back to get his wounds treated.
“why?” rintarou had asked again, angered, when motoya brought back the emergency kit from the bathroom. “really, what the fuck is this? is this some plan where the rest of you come out and ambush me?”
motoya blinked. “what did you say?”
“c’mon, you think i don’t know you hate me?”
“why would i hate you?”
“ ‘cus, y’know,” rintarou faltered, watching motoya rummage through the kit on the kitchen island, “our friends don’t… we don’t fuck with each other, you know that. stop acting like you don’t know shit.”
“oh, that,” motoya gave a wheeze, amused. “don’t worry. kiyoomi’s not gonna come around and jump you. plus, you’re with me. he’ll tolerate you as long as i’m here. so just stay until i patch you up.”
motoya winked and softly dabbed an alcohol wipe across rintarou’s chin. rintarou remained silent, unable to speak out of disbelief. where was the timid boy he had framed motoya to be? he narrowed his eyes.
“you don’t have to do this, y’know.”
“hmm,” motoya said, peeling a bandaid, “maybe i want to.”
rintarou glowered. “fuck does that mean?”
“or maybe i’m just good at fixing broken things.” motoya let out a wistful, melodramatic sigh, patting his thigh. “okay, hotshot, show me your knee.”
“you can put your shoes, here,” motoya says to rintarou, closing the door behind them. finally, they’re greeted with the air-con on full blast; both of their shoulders seem to loosen with the cool air. “we’ll be in the bathroom, so i don’t want you trekking dirt all over the tiles. kiyoomi will kill me.”
rintarou tenses at the passing mention. “he’s not here, is he?”
motoya laughs. “no, nothing to piss your pants about. c’mon, now, we haven’t got all day.”
rintarou follows as told. he hasn’t been to motoya’s house often, after that first time, but it’s as comforting as his own home. it’s a little bit rundown like the rest of the town, but despite, the house is tidy, courtesy of kiyoomi, who, according to motoya, is a total clean freak (which makes sense, considering he’s wearing gloves nearly every time rintarou has seen him). it’s almost too decorated to look like two teenagers live in the space; a suede couch, a mahogany coffee table, a strange framed painting of a shepherd next to the fridge. though, rintarou likes motoya’s room best: the comic posters, the trinkets all over his desk, the chipped green walls, and the family pictures on his nightstand, like a real teenage boy’s room.
the bathroom is small. there’s wallpaper peeling, and there’s a lot of rust, especially around the edges of the bathtub, probably due to the crampness: what would be a sink, a toilet, and a shower, is just sinktoiletshower. it’s already a little snug with the both of them in there, even keeping the door open, but motoya brings in a stool from the kitchen, too, for rintarou to sit on. like a real barber , motoya lilts, scanning the cabinet for a comb and scissors.
“or because you’re too short to reach my head,” rintarou retorts. motoya’s not actually that small, but still, rintarou can tower over him easily.
“i’m above average, i’ll have you know. you’re just giant. now sit down and we’ll see who’s short.”
rintarou seats himself to face the sink mirror. “it’s cracked,” he observes. the angry lines across the top left of the glass, a spiderweb of jagged lines. it looks almost as if someone…
“oh, yeah,” motoya grimaces, “it was satori and tsukasa, they were—they went a little too far knocking each other around yesterday, and well, you know how satori is. we forget to put away the knives once—” he’s giggling— “sorry, i just think it’s sort of funny. kiyoomi’s going batshit over it, he nearly strangled satori to death, but i’m sure he’s calmed down a bit this morning. now, you really won’t let me use a razor?”
when rintarou turns to glare at him, motoya pouts, “alright, fine, no hard feelings.”
motoya brings over a handtowel and drapes it across rintarou’s shoulders. he starts to brush rintarou’s hair, but before he gets through the first comb, he jolts.
“shit!”
“what?” rintarou startles, checking his hair. “you didn’t cut it yet, did you? dude—”
“no, no, we forgot to wash your hair, it’s procedure!”
rintarou breathes a sigh of relief. “fuck, you scared me. man, i don’t care about that, i’ll just wet it—i can do that by myself, at least.”
“what, don’t trust me?” motoya places the comb and the scissors down on the sink.
“think of it as a favor before you do the big job,” rintarou jabs, and slides off the stool. “by the way, can you get me a cig? i haven’t smoked all morning and it’s making me jittery. and you’re making it worse.”
“no need to be cranky,” motoya releases a delighted laugh, is pleased to get reactions out of rintarou, “i’ll find some right now, dear customer.”
rintarou shakes his head and turns on the sink faucet. the cold water gushing over his neck to the front of his head feels good, after being outside in the sweltering, stuffy weather. just when he’s about done with his hair, motoya returns with a box of marlboro’s and a lighter.
“you look like a drenched cat.” motoya giggles as rintarou takes them from his hand.
rintarou scowls.
“now, you really look like a cat. and i meant that in a cute way, y’know!”
rintarou shoves a cigarette between his teeth.
“should i get you a magazine, too, customer?” motoya quips, cracking open the window above the toilet by a margin, to let the smoke through. “just to make sure you’re comfortable, of course.”
“shut up,” rintarou grunts, cupping the lighter to his mouth, but it’s a harmless snark. he blows a plume of smoke, now content. “okay, let’s make this quick.”
motoya has gentle hands, that his fingertips ghost over rintarou’s skin and makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand. the comb bristles through rintarou’s hair, now wet, until the very ends of his longest strands stick under his chin. rintarou watches motoya through the mirror unabashed. motoya’s too focused to notice him looking anyway, and might think he’s just being very keen about his cut. rintarou decides he likes this position, likes motoya’s tenderness, being under his attention.
“how’s my hair, doc,” rintarou drawls.
“hmm,” motoya threads his fingers through the locks. “stable condition. a little finer than most but you have a lot of them, so. it’s a green light from me… you know, your skin tone would suit a lot of different shades. i sort of want to dye it—don’t look so mean. i was just saying , i’m not actually going to do it.”
rintarou should have never agreed to that deceivingly goody-two-shoe’d face of his. “no antics, smartass.”
“just a little trim.” motoya tilts rintarou’s head down. “have some faith, suna. i’m starting.”
rintarou takes another drag as motoya starts working from the back. motoya’s hands are surprisingly steady and expert. without any hesitation, rintarou hears the first snip. he can feel the small blades, their feather movements trailing across from behind his head. it’s almost a tickle and barely a slice.
a quiet air settles between them. motoya is focused. he’s always been a talker, but he knows rintarou’s silence and knows how to ease himself into it. by nature, motoya is a person of balance: he is outspoken, but not stubborn; clever but not pretentious; kind but not overbearing. no wonder, rintarou thinks, he is so compatible; that he can fit between people without diffidence, that he can make himself so transparent, so fitting, yet so vital.
soon, motoya has finished the first layer. he proudly dusts the stray hairs off his hands with a whistle. “i should be charging you.”
“cocky bastard,” rintarou says, unable to take his eyes off of motoya’s face in the mirror. “do you have an ashtray, by any chance?”
“there’s one in here.” motoya opens up the cabinet once more. “neither of us like the stench in our rooms, so.”
he brings the small tray to the countertop of the sink, where rintarou taps the end of his cigarette. motoya pushes the window open further to keep their eyes from smarting.
“you’re better at this than i thought,” rintarou admits, as motoya resumes.
“a compliment from the suna rintarou. how’s that?” rintarou watches a grin stretch across the boy’s face; though the mirror, with its cracked glass, doesn’t do motoya’s expression justice. “see, i knew you had it in you.”
motoya works the comb through his hair once more. rintarou rolls the cigarette between his fingers, letting the last of smoke leave his lips before another hit.
“keep your back straight, now,” motoya warns. “i’ll mess it up if you don’t.”
rintarou stills obediently. this time, motoya is quicker, with his slender hands gliding through rintarou’s wet strands. the scissors are almost extensions of his fingers, sharp and unwavering. motoya’s warmth radiates against him; rintarou feels his sweet breath, sees his tan forearms flex with every concise maneuver.
for a brief moment, motoya lifts his eyes up to the mirror and their gazes lock.
motoya smiles. how soft, rintarou thinks. motoya and his soft gazes, motoya and his soft hands.
“let me,” motoya nods to the cigarette in rintarou’s hand, “bring it over here.”
rintarou nearly drops it as motoya angles over his shoulder, his breath fanning at rintarou’s pink ear. it’s hot, but it’s pleasant, a honeyed sigh that leaves motoya. he raises the smoke to motoya’s lips, unable to turn from the mirror, and very slowly, very coyly, motoya lets the cigarette slip into his mouth and grabs it with his front teeth. his eyes never leave rintarou’s, glinting in the glass.
rintarou bristles, slightly.
motoya raises rintarou’s head, checking his hair up in front. parting a bunch of the strands towards him, and running the blades to meet where his fingers halt. he does this again, and again, the tiniest of hairs falling from his hands, the cigarette dangling from his mouth and his brows furrowed.
motoya looks at rintarou to the mirror and back.
“you’ve got a cut, here,” motoya points with his scissors, to a gash beneath rintarou’s eyebrow. and then moves to look at the dried blood on rintarou’s knuckles, purpled and browned. “and here, too. huh, i didn’t notice that. did you get into a fight, yesterday?”
“no,” rintarou lies. a customer was being rude yesterday, and rintarou had nearly gotten fired for his hot-headedness, but he’d rather not say.
motoya raises a brow, doesn’t say a word. he swipes the rest of the stray hairs from above rintarou’s ears, instead, and clips the middle layers along with the bottom.
“i think you think i like being violent. that i want to get into trouble,” rintarou says.
“what i think,” motoya says, “is that trouble sure does follow you a whole lot.”
distantly, the front door opens with a clang. it startles motoya, who almost accidentally cuts rintarou with the scissors. they both freeze.
“that,” motoya straightens up and slides the comb behind his ear, “would be kiyoomi.”
he takes the cigarette out of his mouth and swiftly puts it between rintarou’s lips; rintarou who barely registers motoya’s fingers against them. “i’ll just be a minute.”
motoya leaves and rintarou curls into himself a little. he’s not scared of sakusa kiyoomi, but he would rather stay neutral today. any tension between him and kiyoomi, especially with motoya’s presence, would be awkward.
“...a what?” he overhears kiyoomi. rintarou raises his head, struck that he can actually raise his voice when he wants to. “in our bathroom?”
“i’ll clean it up, i swear,” motoya frantically salvages, and rintarou can hear the sound of their footsteps nearing, “plus, it’s rintarou! he’s the neatest out of anyone that’s ever been here.”
oh, now he’s done it. rintarou sinks into the stool.
“rintarou…?”
kiyoomi turns the corner and into the open bathroom. right when rintarou snaps his head back, their glares meet.
“sakusa,” he bites, waving his cigarette a little just to pass the smoke over.
“you’re only here because motoya’s here,” kiyoomi snaps. wrinkles his nose. “and don’t even think about going near my room.”
really, rintarou doesn’t have a clue how the nicest boy in town is related to this bastard. “right, because i want to see your hand sanitizer collection so badly.”
kiyoomi only levels him with a glare and stalks away. motoya lets the lasting moments of the exchange fade, before sending rintarou a beam.
“is it just me, or is he in a better mood?”
“what do you mean? is he always like that?” rintarou grumbles once kiyoomi is out of the earshot.
motoya giggles, “hey, now, he’s just a little shy. plus, he doesn’t like atsumu and you’re close with him.”
rintarou snorts. “hardly.”
“you know, both of you are quite similar, i think.”
“that’s your worst take yet, komori.” he and kiyoomi couldn’t be any more different.
“hey, think about it this way,” motoya combs through another layer of his hair, clipping the other side back. “you’re both quiet, strangely pale, and always wear the same tired asshole look—yeah, the one you have on right now!”
rintarou faces the mirror and scowls because motoya is right. “screw off. and finish this up.”
“i’m almost done,” motoya promises, and cards the comb through rintarou’s hair one last time. it’s too nice, rintarou flutters his eyes shut at the feeling, lifting the cigarette to his mouth again. “just a touch-up. it’s looking good.”
rintarou’s eyes are closed, but somehow, motoya’s touch is all the more vivid. he’s humming as he does it: a lovely, divine sound, something that shouldn’t come from a teenage boy and maybe something else, like an angel. rintarou wants to ask about it, the song coming from motoya’s mouth, but motoya beats him to it.
“i used to play piano, you know,” motoya rests the comb on the sink, and begins to touch rintarou’s hair with just his fingers, instead. it sends a small shiver down rintarou’s neck. motoya’s hands, how they stroke and press and hold. “it was a long time ago, before my mom passed. nothing cheesy, like i stopped ‘cus she died, or something. we just didn’t have enough money.”
soft laughter rumbles from his chest. “i don’t know. anyway, i used to play this on the piano a lot—” and he hums the same tune, just as before— “it’s catchy. it’s just weird, because all of a sudden, i thought, ah, if i still played piano, you would definitely like this song … so i just hummed it, isn’t that funny?”
motoya’s hands rest at the slope of rintarou’s jaw, thumbs at his cheek.
“and i thought, if you liked this song, you wouldn’t be a bad person. i don’t understand why you think you’re not a good person, anyway. maybe i’m just good at seeing the good in you. even if you can’t see it. i don’t think it matters who’s right. i just really like you. and so i thought, for some silly reason, if you liked this song, you would probably like me, too.”
they’re both facing the mirror, once again. rintarou’s chin, tilted toward motoya’s touch; motoya’s fingertips, skimming to a stop. carefully, rintarou stubs his cigarette without looking.
“you’re right,” he says, after a beat, “i do like it. the song.”
motoya tips his chin up, and their eyes meet.
“hey,” motoya whispers.
he’s hovering over rintarou; so close, so close. maybe motoya is an angel, rintarou decides. maybe motoya is unreal and a projection of rintarou’s desires. maybe motoya is real, and is a really beautiful boy, and maybe rintarou could kiss him, right now.
“hello,” rintarou murmurs.
“your hair’s been dealt with, dear customer. but i’d like to apologize. i’m backtracking about what i said earlier. i would like a form of payment, after all.”
rintarou snakes his hand over motoya’s neck, brings the boy closer.
“no need to be sorry. i think i’ve got some change left, lucky for you.”
and he smiles, and he leans.