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Boys aren’t supposed to like boys.
They can’t, not when ‘fag’ is the worst and most deliberately used insult in the schoolyard. It’s shrill and cuts through the air like an arrow, and if it hits you, it sticks.
Hitoya wrings his hands together where he sits on the ground behind the bicycle shed, and looks sideways over at Jakurai. He’s fiddling with his sleeve and Hitoya can’t quite tell where he’s looking, and hes still sniffling, even though his tears have dried on his cheeks.
The other boys made fun of his hair. It started as just teasing. Typical for any gaggle of fourteen-year old kids, really. But it escalated, and it picked up speed so fast and then they started pulling.
And then that word. That stupid, sharp word that Hitoya doesn’t like anymore.
“I like your hair,” Hitoya tries after a while. “Fuck them.”
Jakurai sniffles again but he’s looking at Hitoya now, at least, and he smiles. It’s small and looks like it hurts, but it's marginally better than his tears.
“Thanks,” he mutters, and tucks a stray lock behind his ear.
***
They’re cleaning out their lockers for the summer when the impulse strikes. Hitoya isn’t sure why he does it, or if he even has a reason. Jakurai straightens his back, clutching the last of his books to his chest, and Hitoya just notices. He notices the way Jakurai’s hair falls over his shoulder, and his arm moves before his brain can tell it to stop.
“Huh,” he says, gently pinching Jakurai’s hair between his fingers. “It’s getting long.”
Jakurai blinks. His gaze jumps from Hitoya’s fingers, to Hitoya, and back to his fingers. “I suppose I should cut it,” he replies, and it sounds like a question.
“Nah, it’s nice,” Hitoya assures him, and he means it. Jakurai gives him a look, then. Sort of like a deer in the headlights, and Hitoya cant make sense of it.
Hitoya doesn’t notice how close they’re standing until he hears voices down the hall. It’s like something in him jolts, and he lets go of the silky strands to quickly duck back into his own locker, even though there are no books in there.
He ignores how the feeling of Jakurai’s hair between his fingers linger.
***
“Damn it, I’m a hundred yen short,” Hitoya glares over his wallet at the coke behind the glass. It seems he has a talent for passing by vending machines on hot days when he doesn’t have any money.
“Ah, hold on,” Jakurai says and starts shuffling around in the bag he’s got hanging from his shoulder. Hitoya will never understand how he manages to fit so much shit in there, he just watches as Jakurai pulls out one neat stack of paper after the other. For each piece of paper he pulls aside, ten more takes its place and Hitoya doesn’t get it. They’re both med students and they go to the same classes, but Hitoya has never had that many notes on him. Hitoya has never had that many notes, period.
The amount of time he spends rummaging is almost comical, and Jakurai is starting to look a little ridiculous where he’s standing in the middle of the sidewalk. One hand full of paper and the other still fruitlessly searching around in his bag, navigating through graded math tests and medical notes. His hair falls around his face like a curtain and he blows at it to get it away, but it flutters back down and flawlessly wedges itself back in its place. That doesn’t seem to deter Jakurai though, he just keeps stupidly blowing hair out of his face over and over again, and it’s getting him absolutely fucking nowhere.
That’s it, Hitoya decides he can’t watch this anymore. “Here,” he says, and threads his fingers through the hair that’s hindering Jakurai from getting whatever it is he’s looking for. Hitoya tucks it firmly behind one ear, then the other.
That’s when Jakurai just kind of… freezes. He stops jostling the library in his bag to look at him, and his eyes are so wide and confused and Hitoya doesn't understand why, until it dawns on him that his fingers are still behind Jakurai’s ear.
It’s a bit like tugging on a rope that suddenly snaps. Hitoya reels back, sputtering something, before he pivots and starts walking away.
“What about the soda?” Jakurai asks behind him.
“Fuck the soda,” Hitoya snaps.
Jakurai buys the Coke anyway, because of course he does. Hitoya lets him have the first sip, since it’s his money.
He doesn't think about it when Jakurai hands him the bottle afterwards, and Hitoya presses his lips to the rim. He doesn’t think about it at all.
***
Hitoya doesn’t know what time it is. He just knows it’s late, late enough for the hustle and bustle of the city to have diminished into a bare simmer, and the pier they’re standing on is dark and empty, except for them.
Jakurai has both his hands on the railing, face turned towards the sea. His hair sways gently with the wind, with the sound of the waves. The backdrop of dappled city lights shimmers through the strands, and Hitoya can’t look away.
He wants to ask why. There’s probably a word for it, when people ask questions they already know the answer to. When they know exactly what something is and what it means but ask anyway, on the off chance that the answer will be something different.
Hitoya doesn’t ask this time. He’s been asking for years, and the answer hasn’t changed. It doesn’t ever change, even if he’s wanted it so badly sometimes.
“Jakurai.”
It’s the first thing he’s said since they started staring out at the water, shoulder to shoulder. The sound of his own voice makes him acutely aware of how quiet this pier is.
Hitoya doesn't have any words for him when Jakurai turns his head. He just hovers, while Jakurai looks at him the same way he always has; steady and gentle, with something swimming in the pools of his irises that Hitoya has pretended he can’t put his finger on. Sometimes he wonders if he has given himself away in the way he looks at Jakurai, too.
It’s Jakurai who moves first. The way he leans in is almost stilted, stopping just a hair short of Hitoya’s mouth as if he’s having second thoughts. Hitoya feels his breath on his lips, and his heart is in his throat. It makes something churn in his stomach, like he’s getting away with something he really, really shouldn't.
He decides to ignore it, the same way he’s been trying to ignore every little thing he’s noticed about Jakurai since they were kids. The part of him that wants to stay in denial screams as he pulls Jakurai closer by the neck, fingers gently weaving into his hair.
And then it’s quiet. Completely drowned out by the sound of Hitoya’s own heartbeat and the relief of finally letting go of this secret he’s been clutching so hard for so long. It rises in his chest and Hitoya laughs , laughs at how fluttery he feels, at how easy it was, at how long he’s been so scared of nothing.
***
Boys aren’t supposed to like boys.
At least that’s what Hitoya used to think, when he was fourteen and the scope of everything he knew was about the size of a pinhead.