Archive of Our Own ^beta

"I just don't think 'nostalgia' is a good enough reason for you to drag me all the way here, Yaguchi-san."

"Come on, we want to be artists, don't we? Nostalgia has always been a good motif," Yatora bargains. He takes comfort in knowing that if he were talking to anyone else, that remark would have earned him a smile at the very least.

Yotasuke is not like anyone else.

The eye roll he supplies as an answer feels more fitting than any hypothetical praise, anyways. Yatora finds himself smiling as he steps closer to the art supply store, activating the automatic sliding doors.

Earlier today Yotasuke mumbled under his breath something about needing new brushes, and, to his dismay, Yatora heard him. After a couple of minutes of pleading that would embarrass Yatora if he were a more dignified man, Yotasuke agreed to go with him to this store. Sekaido, Yatora went on to ramble about while they walked towards the train station, is a massive building in the middle of Shinjuku, imposing with its five floors and entrance dutifully guarded by various portraits of a surprised Mona Lisa. The place is enormous and quite frankly iconic; close to the cram school, too, so Yatora still has a hard time believing that Yotasuke has never heard of it before. 'I just walked straight to the academy and then headed straight back home' does sound exactly like something Yotasuke would do, though, so he lets it go.

This is the first art supply store Yatora remembers ever going to, or at least the first one he went to after he decided to pursue art. Even though he had been in the art club for a few weeks, he was still using the equipment Saeki Sensei lent him the very first day. The borrowed tools fed into Yatora’s uncertainty without threatening his comfort zone, using them meant he wasn't fully invested and he had an out in case he ever regained his senses —or chickened out, if he were quoting the voice inside his head instead of Gotou's, the school advisor.

It all changed that December afternoon when Mori Senpai announced she got into Musabi, which rekindled the ever-dimming fire inside Yatora and convinced him, right there and then, to major in oil painting. This was real, and what better way to start committing than buying your own supplies.

A recording reminiscent of a little chiming bell plays over their heads as the door slides open and they step into the store. Yatora lingers on the entrance. The place is huge but it looks… smaller, somehow. He isn't sure if he has grown taller since last time, but his head is definitely held higher. The thought softens Yatora’s features.

"Sorry to cut your daydreaming short," says Yotasuke, not sounding apologetic at all, "but let's just get this over with."

As Yatora’s eyes refocus and he's returned to reality, he sees Yotasuke already a few feet ahead of him. His back is turned to Yatora and he seems impatient, hands fidgeting inside the pockets of his jacket.

A sheepish chuckle escapes Yatora’s lips, who then rubs the back of his neck and closes the distance between the two. "Right, sorry, brushes!"

Yatora is about to direct Yotasuke toward the right aisle, —on the third floor, at the right, then pretty much all the way to the back, you can't miss it— when he hears a sigh. His gaze follows the sound and he sees Yotasuke’s head, a few inches higher now that he's standing on his tiptoes, presumably so he can see over the shelves. It’s a futile task and the sight has Yatora’s heart stuttering, so he firmly shuts his mouth before it starts to stutter too. He made a bet with himself that he wouldn't be called a creep by Yotasuke today. Alright, he wouldn't be called a creep by Yotasuke this early today. You gotta set realistic goals for yourself, Yatora has come to realize.

"I know where they are," he manages to say, "the brushes, I mean. You just gotta head to the thir-"

"I can find them myself," Yotasuke interrupts louder than necessary, forcing Yatora to look at him again. Yotasuke is back to his usual height now that he is no longer standing on his toes, yet Yatora can't help but feel small next to him. Negligible, even. He wonders if the time will come when that all too familiar feeling finally fades.

Yatora doesn't notice he zoned out until he recognizes the voice next to him saying all supply stores are pretty much intuitive or something, and when his eyes start to focus again he sees Yotasuke, closer now. He has his head lowered, so there is hair covering his eyes, and all the words Yatora is able to make out of his mumbling are "—even a sign right there. So yeah. It’s fine."

The silence on Yatora’s part is apparently enough to leave Yotasuke anxious, making him look up from the ground and tug strands of hair behind his ears. "It's fine," he says, and it ends up sounding more like a question than a statement.

"It’s fine, Yotasuke-kun," Yatora confirms.

For all the time they have known each other, Yatora can't recall a single instance where Yotasuke apologized. The guy can be a rude, condescending and tactless asshole, and Yatora would hate him for it. He really would hate him, if he wasn't aware that Yotasuke resents that part of himself too, deep down. It's not like Yotasuke is a cold-hearted narcissist or something, —apparently he isn't even confident— it's just that he has always been good at what he does so he doesn't question or praise himself on what comes as second nature to him.

Yatora has grown to weirdly admire that aspect of him. So what if the guy is too blunt at times? he has earned the right to be.

And Yatora has had to put up with it, so he's earned the right to despise Yotasuke from time to time. Yeah, sounds reasonable enough, he can make his peace with that.

Yatora feels his mouth tugging into a smile. "Okay so… see you there?"

Their eyes meet and Yotasuke nods, to which Yatora replies with a nod of his own. Neither of them moves right away and Yatora revels in the comfort of it, thinking it'd be nice if they just...shopped. Together. He's about to playfully brush his arm against Yotasuke’s shoulder and suggest that when the latter suddenly launches forward, clearly feigned interest washing over his features as he inspects the paperback sketchbooks in front of them.

Yatora huffs and rolls his eyes. He'll leave the guy to shop on his own, damn. He swears, Yotasuke can be so theatrical sometimes. Yatora walks over to the next aisle before he starts to actually laugh.

The place has in stock basically all a student like them could need, and more. The wide assortment of supplies is absurd and almost dizzying, so Yatora allows himself some time to peruse through the first two floors and let his fingers wander and pick up anything that catches his eyes. He then promptly forces those fingers to put everything back down after checking the price tags and convincing himself he didn’t really need any of that.

As arranged, Yatora meets Yotasuke on the third floor, and they both nod in acknowledgement before continuing to walk around. Minutes pass and they browse the shelves, hands grasping around bottles of oil and heads turned sideways as they read labels and book titles. Yotasuke didn't go straight for the brushes, instead he's taking his time looking around the store and examining everything in detail, only a few feet away from Yatora. Although he knows he is biased, Yatora entertains the idea that Yotasuke doesn't want this to be over with as quickly as he claimed. It’s wishful thinking, really, but a guy is allowed to wish every once in a while, right?

Despite the size of the place and how easy it would be to use that as an excuse to stay apart, they gravitated towards each other, and soon enough they found themselves walking side by side through the aisles. There was a comfortable silence neither of the two cared to break, and if it were up to Yatora, he wouldn’t mind leaving it forever unbroken. That is something Yatora had thought impossible a couple of years ago, comfortable silences. He loves his friends to death, but whenever they hung out he felt he needed to fill the gaps between conversations, as if the air was heavy and he alone bore the burden of clearing it. As if he needed to justify his place on Earth one empty conversation at a time. One thing Yatora noticed as he grew accustomed to Yotasuke is that he isn't expected to fill the silences. There is no need for empty words between the two, or any words at all, for that matter. They understand each other well enough in the quiet.

The afternoon sky bleeds into watercolor marigolds and mauves, diluted hues dancing on every surface of the store that the light trickling through the few windows dares reach. Yotasuke remains focused on the products in front of him, —all these oil paints of every conceivable shade— his cheekbone bright under the sunset's colors. As if he could feel Yatora’s eyes burning a hole in his profile, Yotasuke turns his head and their gazes meet. Yotasuke then stands with slightly furrowed eyebrows and his head cocked in puzzlement, like demanding an explanation as to why he's being stared at.

The way light reflects on the crown of his head paints a halo over Yotasuke’s ink-black hair, and you bet Yatora is staring; who wouldn’t? The holiness of the scene dawns on Yatora, who suddenly gains a new and deeper understanding of Mori Senpai’s art.

He feels like praying, too.

Yatora wants to paint this scene as soon as he gets home, though that desire is battling with his need for this outing to never end. He doesn't concern himself with doubts about how worthy or not the scenery is to be immortalized on a canvas, like he worries every time. Of course Yotasuke is a worthy subject for a painting, right now he would be a worthy subject for the Sistine Chapel.

After swallowing a knot in his throat that tasted an awful lot like a confession, Yatora decides to shorten the distance between them, stumbling right up to the other’s side.

"Hey," he practically coughs. "Found anything interesting?"

Yotasuke doesn't meet his eyes at first. He is now walking over to the display of brushes at the end of the aisle, one hand wrapped around a bottle of linseed oil, the other raised as his fingertips slide over brush bristles.

"The usual," he finally responds. "There is a surprisingly wide assortment of supplies here, though."

“I told you this is literally the biggest art supply store in the world, of course there is,” Yatora grins, and he finds his words come out more fond than annoyed. "You just underestimated the place because I was the one to suggest it, there's nothing surprising about that, Yotasuke-kun." Yotasuke hums, and Yatora could have sworn he saw the ghost of a smile on his lips. Probably just a trick of the light.

As he follows Yotasuke’s gaze toward the display, Yatora is struck by a memory from his first time there and his heart skips a beat or two. He couldn't, right? He shouldn't. One of Yatora’s hands grabs one long brush in front of him and hides it behind his back before his mind can object, and, with a convincing bravado that impresses even himself, his mouth blurts out,

"Give me your hand."

Yotasuke finally looks him in the eye.

"What?"

"Your hand,” Yatora repeats as he extends his.

The seconds seemed to strech into hours and they were still standing there, neither of them moving or breaking eye contact. Holding his breath, Yatora tries to control the trembling of his own hand as he reaches for Yotasuke’s, hesitant, half-expecting him to turn around and leave, fully hoping he doesn't. And he doesn't.

He takes the bottle of linseed oil from Yotasuke’s grip and rests it on the shelf, leaving it out of the way. Yatora’s fingers graze the back of Yotasuke’s now free hand, which he then grabs and rests over his own palm. Yatora feels the weight of an unblinking stare on him, and he senses rather than sees the way Yotasuke is anchored in place, feet heavy as lead and mouth unspeaking.

Yatora stretches his fingertips under Yotasuke’s wrist, feeling the way his pulse jumps at the touch. It’s comforting, in a way, to confirm that Yotasuke is as nervous as he is. Taking a steadying breath, Yatora accommodates his palm perpendicular to Yotasuke's, wraps the other’s fingers over his own and then rests his thumb over Yotasuke’s knuckles.

The two of them stand holding hands at a corner of the store, the dying rays of sunshine their only witness.

Yatora closes his eyes, allowing himself to get acquainted with this foreign and warm weight in his hand, basking in it for just a second longer. He inhales as his eyelids flutter open again and then, raising the brush in his other hand, he swiftly traces a soft circle over the back of Yotasuke’s hand.

Funny how silences can suddenly stop being comfortable.

"Wh-" Yotasuke trails off with a sigh, his eyes blinking rapidly as his chest rises and falls. "Yaguchi?"

Yatora notices the dropped honorific and his fingers twitch in hope Yotasuke doesn't drop them as well.

"It’s a Japa-... it's a Japanese brush? A friend of mine told me that people who do oil painting use them since they have high sensitivity."

The expression on Yotasuke’s face is unreadable.

"You can tell how good a brush is," he continues, trying to ignore the way his tongue starts to go numb, "by how well it draws circles on your hand."

Was the store this quiet before? Yatora could swear it’s impossible for a place so big to be this quiet.

"So you held my hand," nails were suddenly digging into Yatora’s fingers, "because you were... what, testing a brush?"

Yatora’s lips repeatedly part and close, feeling their way around unfound words. After a few seconds the words seem to find themselves, running out of Yatora’s mouth without his consent.

"Why else would I want to hold your hand?"

Whatever this emotion flashing in Yotasuke’s eyes is, —this... shock? anger? this hurt— it's too much. Yatora now wishes Yotasuke’s expression had remained unreadable.

With a violent jolt, Yotasuke jerks his hand away from Yatora’s as if its mere touch were burning him.

Yotasuke stumbles away from Yatora, knocking over a couple of brushes that barely bounce on the floor before they threaten to roll under the shelves.

"Yotasuke, please," he tries, and his voice cracks on the last syllable, “I didn't mean it like- shit. Here, let me help you."

Yatora braces his hands on his knees as he bends over and looks for the brushes, but apparently Yotasuke, who is now sitting on the tile floor, already got them all. He stretches one hand to help Yotasuke up, the same hand that was buzzing with the touch of Yotasuke's less than a minute ago and is now stinging from being swatted away.

Yotasuke pushes himself up, puts the brushes on their place, adjusts his fur-lined jacket, grabs the bottle of linseed oil and strengthens his hold on whatever other items he had, then starts to walk away.

"Yotasuke-ku-"

"I will go pay for these."

His voice is shaking, like that time they visited Geidai and he asked Yatora why he was trying to step into this side when he already had everything. He didn’t, and it feels like he is losing what he does have, right now.

Yotasuke mumbles, maybe to himself, as he crosses the aisle, "I should not have come."

Yatora wants to follow him, to intercept Yotasuke before he reaches the register and convince him to stay, to please stay and don't walk out into the darkening streets. He wants to, but he can't. Instead Yatora stays helplessly planted in place, his vision blurring as he barely discerns Yotasuke's frame storming out of sight.

He wonders how many times he has stood staring at Yotasuke’s back.

The first thing he notices when he comes to is that he's shivering. Yatora considers it fitting. The second thing he notices is that it's dark, the shades of gold and purple that engrossed him earlier are now gone and replaced by grayish blues over his head. He's outside, then. Third thing.

Yatora looks around and finds himself standing next to the store entrance. The sidewalk is illuminated by streetlights and store signs, as well as the occasional car headlights that partially blind him when they drive by. The air is cold and it bites into his skin, stinging his eyes even more than the tears did, but it's fine. He can handle it. He just needs to wait for Yotasuke to walk out.

If Yotasuke hasn't left already, that is. Yatora was spaced out for who knows how long, so it's entirely possible that he missed the moment Yotasuke came out the door or that he arrived there after Yotasuke had already gone. Yatora vaguely remembers catching himself on the railings after tripping down the stairs and nearly falling face-first on the edge of a step, so he figures he got out fast and discards that second scenario. Now, would Yotasuke really see Yatora crying and trembling in the cold and decide to say nothing and walk away?

Oh god, he would.

Yatora sighs. The cool weather turns his exhale visible, white clouds of air leaving his mouth like smoke. He could really use a cigarette right now. Defeated, Yatora reaches into the inner pockets of his jacket and, sure enough, he finds an old and faded little box with the name Marlboro printed on its front. He checks inside and finds one lone cigarette in there, its colors muted. When he goes to grab it the shaking of his own fingers betrays him and he ends up dropping the cigarette on the pavement.

"Shit."

Yatora crouches down to try and salvage it, which is more than he can do for what little is left of his dignity.

"Smoking is a nasty habit as it is, do you really want to add all those germs to the equation?"

Yatora’s eyes widen and he feels a little lightheaded at the speed with which his legs propel him up.

"Yes!" he practically shouts, his gaze adjusting to meet that of the person in front of him. "I mean, no, I don't want that. Hi."

Yotasuke exhales deeply and his grip tightens on the plastic bag with his purchases swinging at his side. "What are you still doing here, Yaguchi-san?"

Yatora has never been particularly fond of honorifics, but hearing them in Yotasuke's voice once again just feels right, like the world regained its balance and is now turning on its correct axis.

"I was waiting for you, I want us to talk," Yatora answers.

"There is nothing for us to talk about." Yotasuke shifts his feet as if preparing to walk away, but Yatora won't allow that again, so he moves to block his path.

"Hey," there's more animosity than usual in Yotasuke's tone. A warning. Against what, exactly? Yatora doesn't know, but he's willing to find out.

"Please? I don't want to end today on a bad note."

The pleading in his voice appears to partially disarm Yotasuke, who lifts his head to level Yatora with his gaze. "Seems like you always end up saying that when we are together. Maybe that's a sign for you to stop talking to me, save yourself the hassle."

The words fall heavy on Yatora’s chest and he loses his footing for a second. He has no choice but to compose himself again, though, so he adjusts his stance and straightens his back.

"Is that what you want, Yotasuke-kun? For me to stop talking to you?"

"I... I think th-"

A breeze of cold air passes through the two, leaving them shivering in its wake as Yotasuke's sentence hangs interrupted, also frozen in place. Yatora is then made aware of their surroundings, of the way groups of coworkers head to karaoke bars nearby, too tired to care about how loud they're being. He's aware of how the elderly woman across the road walks under an umbrella even though it's not raining yet, but it might start to, soon. Yatora is aware of how this rather busy street is not the right place for Yotasuke to answer that and break his heart. Not like there is a right place for that, anyway

"Let's go there," Yatora says, demanding.

"Where? No, I don't care. I'm going home."

Yatora can't help the smirk that tugs on the corner of his mouth as he steps back and turns to lead the way. "I told you we're just a few blocks away, we'll be there in no time. We can talk on the way. Or not."

Yotasuke doesn't seem big on nostalgia but Yatora tries anyway, "For old time's sake?"

It would be almost impossible to notice if he weren't used to Yotasuke, but Yatora is, so he can see how the tension bleeds out of his shoulders just a fraction, his words a tacit surrender.

"My mother is probably waiting for me."

Yatora’s smile is so bright it rivals the neon store signs.

"She won't be waiting long. Come on."

And their shoes trample over the forgotten cigarette.

Here it is a lot less crowded than before. There are no cars driving by and just a few people on the sidewalks, the only lighting coming from the peering moon, a vending machine to their left, some rooms inside the building in front of them and the flickering streetlight that reveals the name of the place: Tokyo Art Academy.

The walk here was quiet and almost peaceful, if you don't take into account the biting cold air and the tension that could be felt through it. Yatora tried again and again to break the silence, but everytime his mouth opened it ended up closing immediately, unable to find the right words. Were there any right words? 'Yeah so I'm really sorry I tricked you into holding hands and then kinda implied there's no conceivable reason for anyone to want to hold your hand at all. Here, let me drag you to yet another place today: the school you hated and dropped out from!' Fucking idiot.

But here they are, standing side by side as they look up to the building, and if Yotasuke is debating murdering him and living with the consequences it doesn't show in his features any more than usual.

Yatora counts his blessings.

"It looks the same, obviously."

The fact Yotasuke was the one to break the minutes long silence startles Yatora, who fights his initial instinct of glancing at his companion in order to keep staring at the building.

He clears his throat. "Yeah, you're right."

It does look the same, not that Yatora was expecting otherwise. The academy is still a few stories tall, with a gray brick exterior and blue kanji written over the plaque on its facade. At this time of the year the flowers of the couple of cherry blossom trees near the doors are toned down, and that's okay, Yatora thinks, not even the best of us can be always in season.

"We're the ones who have changed," Yatora adds.

Yotasuke hums, not once taking his eyes away from the building. "Guess so."

Silence descends over them. It's a gentle kind of quiet, the type that lingers in the air pleasantly and is soft around the edges. It feels tender. Private. Yatora savors the moment for a while, before he decides to try his luck and talk again.

"Want to go inside? I'm sure they've got the heaters on and Ooba Sensei would be thrilled to see us. She did say we were welcome back anytime."

That earns him Yotasuke's full attention, who stops glaring at the building and shifts to glare at Yatora instead.

"Absolutely not," he states. "I do not have the energy to deal with Ooba Sensei right now and I no longer need to. I would rather be cold."

Yatora chuckles deep from his chest, feeling lighter than he has felt for a while. "Come on, don't be rude," his mouth twisting into a sly grin as he nudges Yotasuke's side with his elbow, "you probably need stocking up on new cool marine animal facts by now."

"Why were they always about marine animals?" Yotasuke wonders, smoothing over with his palm the spot on his jacket where Yatora touched him. Neither of them leans away.

"I don't know!" Yatora laughs. "It's good that she found her niche though, I think every artist needs that," his big grin then drops into something small and shy, "I'm kind of jealous of her for that, to be honest."

"You are always jealous, Yaguchi-san. It's not helpful or needed."

Yatora shuts his eyes as he mentally curses himself. He thinks he tried his best but it's barely been a few hours and he's already managed to sour the atmosphere at least twice. Is this his best, really, complaining and making everything about himself? Shit, maybe he should stop talking to Yotasuke.

"Sorry I ruined your mood," He offers. "Again."

Yotasuke sighs that deep sigh of his that Yatora recognizes as exhaustion from having to spell out something he thinks obvious. He sighs like that far more than Yatora would like.

"It is not helpful because that feeling seems to hinder you more than encourage you," Yotasuke moves the plastic bag from one hand to the other, flexing his fingers as if to get some circulation back in his free hand, "and it is not needed because there is no reason for you to be jealous."

He looks straight ahead, avoiding any eye contact as he concludes with a strained voice, like it pains him to say,

"You are good, Yaguchi-san."

There is a sudden heavy hole in Yatora’s chest where his heart would be, if it hadn't dropped to his stomach and started making rounds across his entire body. He feels it racing through his fingertips, drumming in his ears, climbing up his throat. He feels it pumping inside his cheeks, painting them crimson and leaving them hot against the contrasting weather.

Yatora’s vision blurs around the edges before it gets too overwhelming and he is forced to blink, blink it away. He opens his mouth to speak but soon realizes that's pointless. Yotasuke's words meant the world, —or maybe not the words per se, but the fact Yotasuke was the one to utter them— and Yatora could never string together the right words of his own to make them justice.

And it looks like he doesn't need to, since Yotasuke has apparently decided the conversation ended right there and is now walking backwards so he can better see all of the cram school.

"She was a big part of the reason I left," Yotasuke says.

"I-... huh?"

"She was always so loud and —Are you-? God, Yaguchi-san, you are too quick to cry— so loud and lively. It annoyed me, and that seemed to amuse her all the more."

It takes Yatora a few seconds to drown out the throbbing heartbeat in his ears enough to process that Yotasuke is speaking, let alone comprehend he's talking about Ooba Sensei again. He very rarely speaks unprompted, and it's not like Yatora has the ability (or desire) to talk and interrupt him anyway, so he wipes some tears with the back of his shaking hands before placing them back in his pockets, and then he hums so Yotasuke knows he's listening.

"And the way she smiled," Yotasuke continues. "She smiled like she could read my mind and knew how I was feeling," his eyebrows knit together and his tone changes, bitter now. "Like she knew I would drop out. Like she knew about me and you. There is no way she could have, and yet..."

He trails off and his gaze falls to the floor, where he starts to idly kick at pebbles on the pavement.

Yatora huffs through his nose, both at the appropriate little rant about their past instructor and the sudden display of shyness from Yotasuke after its conclusion. He adores Ooba Sensei now and he will be forever grateful to her, but Yatora is aware she is an acquired taste. Ooba is loud and lively, and more often than not Yatora wanted some quiet and to not be reminded of how dead he felt in comparison, so he gets it. It's also true that she had a rather unsettling, all-knowing smile. Yatora tended to be freaked out by how intuitive Ooba was sometimes, so he supposes she could have easily sensed Yotasuke's discomfort with the class and, based on his character, predicted he'd drop out. It's not hard to believe that she wou-

Yatora freezes in place. He tries to make some sense of those words before getting his hopes up, to puzzle it all together by looking at Yotasuke's face, but his head is still lowered, black hair darkening his expression and making it undecipherable. Clearing his throat, Yatora dares ask,

"What did you mean by 'like she knew about me and you', Yotasuke-kun?

Yotasuke visibly tenses underneath his jacket. He seems to stop breathing for a second and, here glued to the floor, he looks just like a frightened rabbit. Yatora doesn't miss the shade of pink that paints the tips of Yotasuke's ears as he remains quiet.

"Yotasuke," Yatora can't help the nervous laughter that escapes his lips now that he is stepping right in front of him, "what did you mean by that?"

Impatient for an answer he apparently won't get, Yatora reaches for him, his own cold hands cupping Yotasuke's cheeks and gently tilting his head upwards so their gazes meet. They stay still, locking eyes for what feels like infinite seconds. One of them is breathing raggedly and the other is holding his breath, but Yatora couldn't for the life of him tell you who does which; not that it matters, anyway.

Yatora's thumbs itch to wander, to gently touch every bit of skin in Yotasuke's face and trace each delicate feature in it, to commit it all to memory until he could draw him blind, sculpture him in the dark.

So he gives in.

Moving his thumbs, Yatora caresses Yotasuke's face, ghosting over his lips, mapping the bridge of his nose, and finally stretching to reach those two moles that rest under his eyes. He lightly presses his thumbs to them, making Yotasuke pointedly blink up at him in response. Yatora doesn't want to withdraw his hands, like he is almost afraid of lifting his fingers and finding he accidentally wiped the moles away. That's impossible, Yatora knows, but he still has to suppress a relieved sigh when he lifts one thumb and confirms the little black dot remains drawn on Yotasuke's upper cheek.

Yotasuke's cheeks. They're warm. They are so, so warm under Yatora's hands that he no longer envies whoever is inside the cram school for the heaters they've got on, 'cause this is so much better.

"I've never seen you blush before," Yatora realizes out loud. Red is a good color on Yotasuke, but Yatora keeps that second realization to himself.

"You're touching me so much today," Yotasuke mumbles before grabbing Yatora's wrists and pulling them down, away from his face. "Stop it."

Yatora's eyes widen as they settle on the space between the two of them and find Yotasuke's fingers still wrapped around his wrists. Yotasuke all but jumps when he follows Yatora's gaze and notices, instantly loosening his grip and then nervously rubbing his palms against his jeans.

There is a loose strand of hair sticking to the sweat on Yotasuke's forehead and it's very hard to resist the urge to reach out and fix it, but Yatora is nothing if not a hard worker, so he keeps his hands to himself.

"Sorry about that," he then raises those hands in front of him so Yotasuke knows he won't touch him for now. "It's just that… are we on the same page, then?"

"I'm not sure I know what page you are talking about," Yotasuke's eyes look almost black under this light, like an ocean at midnight, so deep and rich that Yatora feels he could walk right into them and drown in there. "I don't know anything anymore, apparently."

Yotasuke's shoulders ease but his expression turns puzzled, head tilting to the sky like there were invisible dotted lines and equations up there explaining the truths of the universe, something out of his reach that only he can see but can't quite understand.

"I used to be so sure before," Yotasuke says, his voice carried by a cold breeze. "I knew I was good and that was enough, there was no reason to doubt or aim beyond that. No need to." He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, the plastic bag swivelling behind him as he links his hands at his back. "But then I met yo- people, I met people, and I guess things changed along the way."

Yatora smiles sweetly, a fond kind of smile that spreads all the way to his eyes and should probably embarrass him, but doesn't. "Yeah?" he asks.

"Yes," Yotasuke answers, lowering his head to face the building in front of them again. His eyes are sharp and his lips are pursed into a flat line, but he doesn't seem particularly upset, Yatora thinks. "People always told me all I had was drawing. I hated that so much I took the advanced academic course instead of the art one, just to prove them wrong, to show them I had other options. I thought that way I could change everyone's minds, but I guess that decision just delayed the inevitable and I only ended up changing mine. Maybe drawing is all I have."

It's disgusting and he feels like the worst person alive for feeling like this, but Yatora can't help the jealousy bubbling inside him at the prospect of someone telling him that drawing is all he has. Even so, it sickens him to think that Yotasuke heard those words so much that he believes them wholeheartedly, that they are now entrenched into his very bones and he, too, reduces himself to being good at art instead of feeling contentment in being.

And the fact that Yatora, unintentionally but surely, added to it, well, that's too much to take. Something inside him tightens and his heart thumps painfully against his ribcage, suffocating.

"I'm sure that's not true, Yotasuke-kun."

When Yatora turns to look into Yotasuke's eyes he finds them already locked on his own.

"You have implied so yourself, Yaguchi-san," and Yatora winces, guilt washing all over him like a bucket of ice cold water.

"But you also invite me to museums," Yotasuke says. "You make sure we exchange numbers afterwards in case I want to call, and then you get excited when I do. You drop your friends to join me on a Hatsumode, and you share your hot drinks with me —though I'd prefer you wouldn't because that tasted horrible." Yatora chuckles at the memory of it. He treasures that as one of the best nights of his life, but this one could easily dethrone it. Yotasuke keeps talking, "and you ride the train with me and take me across the city to art supply stores just because you knew I needed a new brush."

Yatora has never heard Yotasuke string these many words together before, has never had a chance to listen to his voice so much as to notice how it cracks at times, the way his sentences pick up the pace and then slow back again, on par with his fluctuating emotions. It thrills him, noticing all these little mannerisms, like it also thrills him to notice that Yotasuke still has more to say.

"One time you mentioned you would probably like me more if you weren't doing art," Yotasuke remarks, pensive.

"I like you just fine," Yatora blurts out before he can stop and beat himself up for it.

His regret is short-lived because now Yotasuke's mouth is tugging into this soft little smile, and Yatora is sure he could burst into tears again just looking at it.

"So that got me thinking," Yotasuke continues simply, "maybe drawing is all I had, but it's not all I have now."

At that moment Yatora is struck by a ridiculously obvious realization that he already understood subconsciously and should definitely not be as groundbreaking as he feels it, and that is:

Yotasuke is human.

Yotasuke is a breathing, feeling, erring, hurting, living human being, and not whatever unreachable figure Yatora made him out to be. He is not untouchable, —neither literally, as a delighted Yatora confirmed earlier, or figuratively speaking— and the thought of it is equal parts exhilarating and mortifying.

Yatora's train of thought is interrupted before it loses control and comes off the rails, and for a moment he thanks Yotasuke's voice for serving as a distraction from what would have been an imminent crash.

"I should go home now," the voice then finishes saying.

Yatora almost wishes he could have had the big realization tonight, too, right here on this very sidewalk, beside this faded tree and with the cold wind blowing through their hair. But he couldn't because he'd realized it long ago; how stupidly, helplessly in love he is.

Wow, he really is too quick to cry.

"Sure," Yatora smiles softly, "let's go, then."

"What?"

"To your place. You take the Chūō line, right?"

Yotasuke stumbles backwards. He stares at Yatora like he just proposed to sneak into the Prado and steal Velázquez's Las Meninas after explaining that attempting to heist the Mona Lisa is too much of a cliché.

"I won't go inside or anything like that," Yatora amends, "I'll just walk you to the door. Or I'll stay in the train when we get to your stop, if you prefer that," He really hopes Yotasuke doesn't prefer that. "I just… want to go with you."

Yotasuke sighs. It's a new sigh, one Yatora has never heard before and can't accurately interpret just yet, but one that, by the looks of it, Yatora wouldn't mind hearing again.

"Fine," Yotasuke grumbles. "But stop smiling like that or I'll change my mind."

Like fuel to the flames, Yatora’s smile widens. "You won't."

"And stop talking, too," Yotasuke turns, readying to walk to the station.

Yatora laughs loud and heartfelt, the sound of it reverberating through his ribs and shaking his entire being.

"But wait," he commands, his feet coming to a halt and making Yotasuke, who's already a few steps ahead, follow suit. "That's been bothering you for a while, let me carry it," and Yatora reaches down between the two. Yotasuke quickly understands what Yatora means and tries to jerk the plastic bag out of his reach, but Yatora is faster.

He closes his fist over both of the bag's handles, snatching it from Yotasuke's hands as he briefly resists and struggles against it. There is a bottle inside that smacks Yatora’s arm as the bag swings with the sudden movement, and he guesses that's the linseed oil Yotasuke was carrying around the store the whole time. He wonders what else is inside, if there is any obscure item that Yotasuke tends to buy and keep quiet about, something subtle yet tangible that makes all the difference and explains the gap between his art and everyone else's. But of course there isn't, because such a thing doesn't exist and it's cowardly of Yatora to hope otherwise.

He's about to move on and start walking when he catches a glimpse of something thin and wooden peeking outside the bag, something he recognizes instantly.

"You bought one," Yatora mutters in awe, taking the Japanese brush out and holding it preciously between his fingers.

Yotasuke jerks the brush from Yatora’s hand and throws it back inside the bag, shrugging with a feigned indifference that would be convincing to anyone who didn't know better. Yatora knows better.

"I went back for it," he says. "You did make a compelling argument, after all."

He knows his cheeks will be sore tomorrow from all this smiling, but Yatora can't help himself. "So you liked that? Me holding your hand, I mean."

"You're such a creep," Yotasuke says in lieu of an answer, that pink tint crawling up his nose and ears again. Did Yatora lose that bet he made with himself earlier? Okay so he was called a creep but it's night now, and wasn't there a time clause to it, technically? That has to be a sufficient loophole for him to count this as a win, he's sure of it. Yotasuke continues, "you and that friend of yours you mentioned."

Yatora tilts his head back and chuckles again. He used to think so too, not long ago. He used to think a lot of wrong things about the right people, now that he reflects on it.

"Nah," Yatora replies, "she's alright."

And that is an understatement, at the very least. Yatora makes a mental note to tell Yuka all about today and have her tease him over some beer. His treat, of course. He owes her that much and more.

"I didn't do it right," He adds before Yotasuke can ditch the conversation, which it looks like he was trying to do, "It was inconsiderate of me and you deserve better. I'm really sorry, Yotasuke-kun."

Nervous, like he's finally coming down from the adrenaline rush and the enormity of this matter is just dawning on him, Yatora all but begs,

"If you'd like, we could… try, again? Holdin-"

Yotasuke pointedly avoids looking at Yatora as he stretches out his arm and demands, voice loud yet shaky, "Just shut up and give me back my bag already!"

As Yotasuke stands there, his face flushed pink, eyes transfixed on a nondescript point in the distance and hand outstretched, palm up, it strikes Yatora.

"Meet me halfway?" he proposes.

And then he is wrapping one of the bag's handles around Yotasuke's palm, whose eyebrow arches in confusion before he instinctively clenches his fist around the strip of plastic.

"This way you'll hold one end of it," Yatora then directs Yotasuke's gaze toward his hand, where the other handle of the bag rests hooked by the heel of his middle and index fingers, "and I'll hold the other one."

Yotasuke stares at the suspended bag between them, blinks up at Yatora, and then stares down again. He tugs at it this way and that until he apparently decides it won't rip or burst into flames, and then his grip tightens around his end of the bag. He nods once.

"Okay," Yotasuke says simply.

Yatora exhales. His shoulders drop, both in relief and in surprise he wasn't met with more resistance.

"Yeah?" he asks, just to make sure.

And Yotasuke nods again, more decisively this time.

They lock eyes for a while and Yatora is glad Yotasuke is the one to take the initiative to move, 'cause he doubts he would have been able to do it otherwise. It's awkward at first, the way their steps are stiff and uncoordinated, the bag swinging lopsidedly in between them due to their height difference. But soon enough they manage to synchronize well with each other and make it work, somehow, like they always do.

They lapse into silence, the comfortable kind this time, the one they have mastered and effortlessly made their own by now. The walk to the station should take about 15 minutes, 25, maybe, if Yatora were to really drag his steps and lead Yotasuke through some farther alleys after claiming they're shortcuts. He'll figure it out later. All that matters right now is that Yotasuke is right here, walking by his side and knitting his eyebrows in concentration as he tries to sync his steps to Yatora’s; whatever comes next is unimportant.

This silly little indirect hand-holding Yotasuke has agreed to forces a change of perspective out of Yatora. He's no longer looking at Yotasuke from an immeasurable distance where he is removed from everything and everyone, grander than life. Now they are walking side by side, like Yotasuke casts no shadows in this dimly lit sidewalk for Yatora to coward in. Like they could be equals.

Yatora shakes with the thought he might never stare at Yotasuke's back again.