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Contrary to popular belief, Rui wrote a whole lot.
Maybe not in the way that you would first interpret, but it still counted nonetheless, did it not?
Actually, there was an indefinite ton of subjects and topics and tropes to write down — from romance stories to character analysis, there was always something on his mind that he could write down. His brain was like a ball pit, in a sense. So many different ideas, some possibly more damaged and worn out than others, just piled up with a few scraps that have been collected along the way. Truth be told, he could compare his thought process to something akin to a slot machine or a claw machine, but the concept of a bright ball pit satisfied the little tingling in the back of his brain.
However, there was always a certain subject that the boy found his hands trailing back to: his insecurities. Guilt, or perhaps embarrassment, was what he felt when he found himself in these 'dilemmas' of sorts. Oh, how selfish of him it is to be dwelling on his own wrong-doings when it has been drilled into his head that so many people have it worse! The crippling self-consciousness and vulnerability could wait for another day, in another life, where his problems held a greater significance.
More often than not, these sheets of paper went straight into the trash, with a vast amount of scribbling to ensure that any messages on there were illegible to anybody of average eyesight. Nobody should see Kamishiro Rui falter and tergiversate with himself.
Very early on in his life, Rui established that he hated his hair. An indescribable, harrowing abhorrence for the coloured mess on his head occupied his thoughts more than one would like to admit.
When he was younger, he would situate himself by the bathroom for countless hours, brainstorming ideas on how to simply get rid of whatever the fuck was going on up there. Once – multiple times, actually – the boy had attempted to obliterate the problem by cutting the horrendous cyan strands off, just for them to return unnaturally fast. To counter this, he thought he was an absolute genius for thinking he could dye the strands a purple similar to the rest of his head.
This was proved to not work either, the prominent cyan strands refusing to disappear.
It was so frustrating! The cyan accents just made him an obvious target for teasing and bullying and made him look awfully unfinished and unclean. All in front of his face, the blue tormented him for years endlessly, belittling him and degrading him to the point of capitulation.
In general, his hair was annoyingly long and messy, unwanted sections sticking out or in and whatnot, never listening to his demands. It had a mind of its own, in feasibly the most humiliating way attainable. Physically looking tired and unwell because of it had caused many unwanted positions.
It wasn't a rare occurrence for Rui to find himself staring at other people's eyes. Envious of their beauty, he was able to find charm in every pair in one way or another.
The colour of the iris was something that potentially revealed a lot about an individual, whether it is intentional or not. The liveliness of the eyes was exponentially hypnotising, and by this Rui had come to read one’s emotions by their eyes and posture rather quickly.
On one hand, gaining the ability to analyse a person in a matter of seconds just through a glance of the face was wonderful, amazing even, yet there was the overwhelming emotion of never being able to live up to the same expectations of those around.
Yellow wasn’t the best colour for the eyes. Hell, there was even proof for it! Countless polls, websites and statistics proved the fact that somebody who had such a colour for a distinguished part of the face was going to be less respected in the community. Maybe he was overthinking it, or maybe he was just observant, but for sure he had become misfortunate in the shade sense. In simple terms, there was nothing saving him and his piss-coloured eyes (the cyan accents there didn’t help either. Really, what was with him and attracting the ugliest colour combinations?)
If only he looked something like Tsukasa, or Toya, or even Akito. Just wishing to be somewhat pleasant to look at seemed like an unreachable dream, let alone generally attractive.
Rui knew he was annoying. Tall, lanky, ugly, loud at the wrong times, crazy ideas, accidentally hurting others, creepy smile, space out too much, weird hobbies, he's heard it all before far too many times. There must have been at least some truth behind the words those years ago, he wouldn't have been isolated from his peers for nothing. It really hurt, though, when people pushed him away and ignored him, or stared at him as if he was an alien from another universe: he should have been used to it. With new friends, Rui thought it would bring a new life. Much to his displeasure, his abnormality followed.
It wasn’t all too bad.
Sometimes he managed to replace the anxiety with the faces of Tsukasa, Nene and Emu. In the beginning, there was a sort of hesitance that lingered when it came to hanging out with them, yet it was disregarded rather swiftly. Easily, he found himself caring less and less about surrounding people and focused on satisfying those who actually appeared to care for him. It felt more freeing that way, fewer standards and better results. If he kept it up, there was a chance he could be respected more in general.
Time could only wait and see - at least, that's what Nene told him. Told him that he has to believe and have confidence in himself before others start seeing it too. Logically, she would be right, but Rui would much rather put others before himself.
And so, a cycle was created.
Fear himself, please his friends, momentarily achieve happiness and satisfaction, regret, then it repeats.
Tired. He was so, so tired, but he had to keep going if he wanted to be viewed as anything more than a pebble on the pavement.
Truly, Rui had such a spectacularity that no other could achieve. Fascinated and engrossed, Tsukasa felt a type of interest that he had never before.
What was it about Rui that was so captivating?
Well, he was certainly pretty. The way his golden eyes would soften at the sight of his friends, the way they would shine and sparkle in admiration and excitement while trying to stay calm, the way they looked so innocent and sweet in those moments he thought nobody was watching him; they were a beautiful cacophony of locked emotions that Tsukasa just wished to fully understand one day.
That was wishful thinking, Rui had never really been much of the sentimental type. A collection of jokes and teasing with a dash of hard work, Tsukasa wondered if he ever got to know Rui at all. Or was that all he sincerely was? A carefree jokester with an interest in mechanics and making people happy?
Sometimes, Tsukasa would be amazed at how softly the taller boy looked at the others. An undiscovered glint of kindness, of peace, that would probably make things so much easier if it was acted upon instead of the mass load of jokes and complications. (He would later come to realise that he wouldn't have it any other way.)
Whenever he looked at him with that kind of expression on his face, he couldn't help the heat that rose in his cheeks, the loud pounding against his ribcage, the sweaty and shaky hands. Could anybody, really? It was like alarms going off in his head, shouting at him that there was a pretty boy looking at him. Honestly, the things he would do to have his gaze on him all the time were rather embarrassing.
It was warm. It shocked Tsukasa at first, the physical reaction he had to Rui, but the more it happened, the more comforting it became - whether the taller boy knew it or not, he made Tsukasa feel safe and secure. Multiple times, the shorter boy was left wondering how it would feel to have Rui's hands in his, or his arms engulfing him in a hug. Was he good at giving hugs? Would he hold on tightly or rest gently? Would he be warm like the dancing flames of a fire, a fire that ignites in his eyes, or cold to the touch like ice, like the sharp scowl that appears when you aren't careful with your words? How many times has he been hugged or given hugs?
When had Tsukasa begun to think of this boy so much? When did thoughts of Rui bring comfort and consolation? Was it normal to have so many thoughts like that about your friend? Sure, he thinks about Nene, Emu, Toya and others, but this didn't feel the same. Just what on Earth made Rui so special to him? Him just being around him had an effect on him.
Moments like these were moments to be treasured. With the faint breaths, accidental touches, subtle laughs, dulcet teasing and hushed whispers, hanging out with Rui wasn't as dreadful as it first seemed.
Under the nebulous glow of the night light, the taller boy lay so quiescently. His head lay upon some papers, eyes shut and lips parted ever so slightly. Tsukasa felt his throat clog and his heart stop.
He was so graceful, the light capturing all the shapes of the face in the most gorgeous ways imaginable. If only he could reach out and just—
Oh. Rui's hair was so soft, so delicate, his skin so warm, so tender.
The shorter boy ran his fingers through the cyan and purple strands, gently scratching at the boy's scalp. Wonder in his eyes, Tsukasa shifted closer to the tall boy and continued to caress the strands on his head, occasionally brushing his hand against his cheek too.
Rui stirred, Tsukasa paused. It would be so, so embarrassing if he awoke to this position.
The taller boy shifted, turning his head and curling up tight, rubbing his head against the shorter's leg. Like a cat, Tsukasa noticed. Affectionate like a sleepy cat. He doubted that it was anything personal towards himself, however, just having the boy leaning against him assembled a domestic atmosphere.
A couple moments of stillness passed until the boy deemed it safe enough to continue giving in to this guilty pleasure of his.
Tsukasa could see Rui so much more clearly like this: his eyelashes were long and dark, curling upwards; he had a small mole beside his right eye; the ends of his hair looked almost choppy in a sense, but overall added to his pleasant aesthetic; he had light freckles spotted across his cheeks and nose; he had a second ear piercing that went unused; his lips were soft and rosy. How did such a stunning person come to exist? Like a statue of a god, his beauty was intimidating, yet could be analysed and appreciated from every corner and crevice of his face. An honest piece of art that Tsukasa would never grow tired of.
Causing him to flinch, a sudden warmth became present on top of Tsukasa's hand. As if the clocks stopped ticking, as if time itself had come to an abrupt end, the short boy felt his breath catch and motions come to a halt.
He could hear everything now. The rustling of the leaves and pounding of the heart would have been distracting if he wasn't preoccupied with the sheer panic and fluster that surfaced after hearing his name be called in that tired, whiny voice of Rui's. His stomach felt like it was sucking in on itself, aching in such a way that burned his body, mind and soul. The taller boy was hot like the sun.
Eyes remaining closed, Rui's hand gripped firmly onto Tsukasa's.
Tsukasa, Tsukasa, Tsukasa. It was evidently him — the atmosphere was homely, snug and cosy. So much time spent together, this genus of ambience had become unmistakable. Granted, why would one decide to be this intimate with him? Nothing has been done to earn this, so why?
Trying to ask, Rui found his voice to be hoarse, hardly being able to murmur his name. A lack of response didn't quite conciliate his apprehension.
Again, he called out, this time the other boy snapping out of his trance, pulling away in alarm and apologies slipping out hurriedly. Perplexed, Rui sat up from his position on the floor, examining Tsukasa through slumberous eyes (there wasn't much opportunity to see, the duskiness of the room and blurriness of vision making things strenuous). Tortuous hair, widened sunset eyes, a deep blush decorating his face, this was a vulnerability that Rui never expected to see. The possibility of him being the cause of this made him overwrought.
For a third time, the taller boy mumbled the other's name. Subsequently, a silence followed, in which Rui grabbed a sheet of paper, a pen, and performed a show with his hands. He folded it and then turned back to Tsukasa.
Drowsily, he crawled in his direction. Shaky hands, he placed the note in the other's lap, afterwards allowing his head to drop on Tsukasa's shoulder. So tired, he could just linger like this forever: Tsukasa's fondness was cathartic.
Tsukasa read over the note for the nth time, yet his cheeks flared up the same way they did the first. Only after calling the taller boy a dillard and fool, was it that he ministered to the weight on his shoulder. Fingers threading through the purple strands with one hand and finding Rui's hands with his other, Tsukasa rested.
Rui wrote a whole lot. Whether it was for the worse or for the better would be up to interpretation upon the receiver of the note, but it was a known fact that he wrote.
An aspect of language can portray a certain affinity with just the right words, just the right aura and just the right time. The benignity of words was magical and twisted with people's hearts; Tsukasa knew of this from experience (if only Rui had been awake enough to clutch his emotions and save them for a time he would actually remember).