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Why is it so goddamned hard to just buy him a freaking cup of coffee?
If he had to describe the urge - the urge to, as the brunet passes by, heading off to the classrooms far on the other side of campus where the reserve course students busied themselves with the sort of work that none of the talented Hope's Peak kids would ever have to deal with, reach out and catch him by the shoulder, call enough attention to himself for just five freaking seconds to request a stupid coffee date - he supposes the word that is the best fit is "chronic."
Chronic. Recurring. That's almost indicative of...illness, isn't it? He wonders if a crush could be equated to something like that, but it sounds melodramatic, dumb, and sappy, much like every romantic manga subplot that he has ever read and every last one that would be published until the day the next comet hits the earth and all the moronic human beings upon it perish in passionate flames.
Death from above... He ponders it, ponders it as he checks out her breathing - because she turned as purple as a plum while she was dashing down the hall today, and he's listening for some sort of rattle or struggle or sign that she has a lung issue on top of her self-induced shitty memory - and decides to ask, ridiculously, for her perspective, the perspective of the one chick he knows that is legitimately - and just as ridiculously - head over heels.
"Hey, ugly. Does love ever make you ill?" His stethoscope is in his ears and under her shirt, on the skin of her chest, cold to the touch.
Her face is on fire all the same, of course. She's probably thinking something like, 'Matsuda-kun is touching me! Kyaaaaaaaaa! It's true love!'
That thought makes him a bit ill, too, but not in the same way, no. Not in the way his crush on Mr. Broad Shoulders and Cute Grins keeps him up until four in the morning thinking gushy bullshit.
Not that he ever sleeps, anyway.
"Ahhhhhh, what? Love, making me ill?!" Ruby eyes widen in indignation at the very idea as she vehemently shakes her head, as if having been asked to drink some sort of poisonous venom, or if she would enjoy being punched in the face, or some other less-than-pleasant thought process. "Never! Never ever, Matsuda-kun! My love for you has never made me sick! A love that makes you sick is... It's...!"
"It's what? Spit it out, already." He's repressing a sigh as he watches her face, and he probably looks bored, although he could never truly tire of her. Never, no.
"S...Something like that could only be unrequited love! And...my love for Matsuda-kun isn't like that at all! Because...he loves me too, right, right?" She's offering him this warm, beaming smile, and it's so lovely that it could melt the ice on a thousand glaciers, speeding up global warming such that the ensuing flood could drown Matsuda Yasuke entirely.
But Matsuda's heart is nothing like a glacier, no; he only pretends that it is, covering up his vulnerability, and it's for that reason that his skin heats up like a sauna, and the room is suddenly too suffocating for him to bear, atmosphere converging as he removes his stethoscope and - abruptly, very abruptly - turns for the infirmary's door.
Her voice echoes around the corner as he drifts out of there, impossible to tune out, shrill and whiny and pleading. "Eh? Matsuda-kun, wait! Where are you going? Did I say something wrong? I'm sorry! If I have, please just set me on fire at the stake and be done with it so that Matsuda-kun can forgive me again!"
But all he says in response, as he yells back at her, still taking his leave, is, "Your lungs are fine. Go to bed, clumsy."
The bell rings, indicating the beginning of class, and - lo and behold - he sees him, dashing off toward the other building, because he is late, late, late, and...he doesn't think he can do it, but he tries, reaching out and clutching at the fabric of his shirt's broad and easily gripped shoulder as he attempts to stop his mad dash down the wide hall, but...
"H-Hey! Let go!" The boy wrenches himself free, continuing, because he doesn't have time for this right now, no. Whatever it is, it can wait, because he's biting at the inside of his cheek and praying to every god that may or may not exist that this doesn't go on his permanent record as he tries to conjure up some acceptable story as to why he's late.
Time. Timing. Things like that are...not something that Matsuda has ever been good with, and so, as he exits his sight with the speed of a goddamned cheetah, he...decides to just let it go.
He drinks his coffee alone that afternoon, as per usual. It's black and bitter, and as he shakily grips the handle to stay awake, he...figures it doesn't matter.
He's used to being alone, anyway.