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Technically, make-up goes against the rather strict code of conduct at Aoba Johsai Senior High. Lucky for Issei, though, Takahiro is well-practiced at flying under the radar.
She’s subtle with it, simple and casual and balancing on the edge that will have her enemy, their enemy, actually, the chemistry teacher who hates them and sneers whenever they walk past, her tightrope act will have even him pausing before he scolds—because is she even wearing make-up? Or is that just her face?
‘He doesn’t even teach either of us,’ Takahiro points out irritably, for possibly the seventh time this week. ‘I don’t understand this war but fuck if I’m not winning it.’
It doesn’t occur to her that he’s just a grumpy, washed up asshole who hates all students, because to Takahiro, it’s just her and her current circle. Her and her MySpace top eight, her maxed out Mixi followers, the select few who know her Twitter handle. Nobody else even exists. It’s what she likes and that's all that goes—Issei would know. Issei’s the one making sure of it.
Subtle is good, and even with subtle (or without any make-up at all) she’s the hottest girl Issei has ever seen. But there’s something to be said for when she goes all out.
High, arching strokes of glitter and dark plum on her eyelids, highlighter on her nose, lips outlined in dusty pink all resulting in seventeen perfect selfies that Issei is expected to choose the three best out of for Takahiro’s next black and white thirst trap with a hilarious Facebook caption.
And Issei truly doesn’t really get why she’s mocked for logging onto LiveJournal every now and then to post a blog entry when Takahiro is rarely logged out of Facebook, which is certainly lamer.
Niche, though. Niches are always trendy, and Takahiro is always trendy—
‘And people get excited about trendy,’ Takahiro remarks.
Issei hums. She gets excited about Takahiro and little else besides. It’s all circular.
She’s cross-legged, back arched towards Issei. She’s applying a soft pink powder to the apples of her cheeks, all dressed up in this frilly white cropped shirt, high waisted jeans. Her shoes are on the table, plain white running shoes. Issei wishes she would wear heels, but knows she can’t say that out loud because then she’d waste another hour.
There’s a Rihanna album playing from Takahiro’s iPod, on loop after she’d spent ten minutes deliberating over “getting ready music”. Issei’s been lying on the floor futon for so long in wait that her spine hurts and she’s kicked her tight pants off, legs splayed out in front of her and half asleep because it’s absurd how long Takahiro takes to get ready.
‘It’s absurd how long you take to get ready,’ Issei voices. Her left earring, long and glinting and probably one of Takahiro’s, is tangled in her curls and she shifts back against the mattress in a halfhearted attempt to dislodge it.
Takahiro tosses her a haughty look over one hitched up shoulder. ‘No, it’s absurd how much you bitch at me, actually. I’m a party girl and I’m going to take my goddamn time.’
‘We’re not going to a party, you realize.’
She makes a grumbly noise, peering at herself in the mirror and making a squinting face, blinking and poking around as if she looks anything less than stunning. Issei squints too, trying to make out the to-do list scrawled on the top left of the mirror in black marker. Retinol, hair oil, chili oil, rose serum— does that say mushrooms?
‘Now that doesn’t make sense,’ Takahiro remarks. A soft click of a blush palette shutting, the light tapping off of powder on a makeup brush. Issei can just barely make out her lips pouting at her reflection, and she agrees.
‘But it’s true.’
‘I’m a party girl, though. I should be at a party right now.’
Issei sits up slightly, resting her weight on her elbows, crossing her legs at the knee, and tenderly reminds, as if Takahiro has actually forgotten, ‘Right now we’re going out with a bunch of people who you regularly pretend not to know the names of. Also it’s midday, so that’s definite proof of no party… and we’re not even going to a house, we’re going to—’
‘The greatest place ever built in this city,’ she says dreamily, face in her hands as she sighs at the mirror.
‘—the mall,’ Issei finishes, lip tugging upward despite herself. ‘Again. Like last Saturday.’
‘And it’ll be just as great today as it was then,’ Takahiro says cheerfully, then spins around on the desk chair, which she got Issei to drag out of her mother’s office and in front of the long mirror propped against the wall beside her simple vanity table. She poses. ‘Hey, what did I forget? I feel like I forgot something.’
Issei doesn’t even shift, responding, ‘If you were actually doing your make up instead of trying to get me to snap, maybe you’d be done by now.’
‘That’s kind of your bad for never snapping,’ Takahiro tells her sincerely.
‘Agreed,’ Issei responds. ‘I’m the evil one, not you.’
Takahiro shuffles the desk chair to the futon, coming up noisily just behind Issei’s head, the wheels making squeaking noises as she whines, rather fakely, ‘But Isseiiii, come on! It’s only been an hour!’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ she says peacefully.
Takahiro goes silent. Confused. Issei smiles to herself.
‘Why.’
‘Why what.’
‘Why don’t worry about it. We’re like, twenty minutes late. Making you worry was the goal, remember?’
‘Mm. Not worrying.’
‘S’cuse me?’
‘We’re not late.’
Takahiro abandons the desk chair and sits on Issei’s belly.
Issei wheezes out half laugh, half gasp. ‘A little warning would be nice—’
‘You sneaker,’ Takahiro accuses. Her cheeks are pale, healthy pink, so subtly rouged, but Issei can tell she’s actually flustered from the flush creeping up her exposed neck. ‘You—fucking, um, sneaky little sneakathon, you Vans Warped Tour ass freak—’
‘I’m sneaky,’ Issei agrees. She gets a pinch in the underboob for her troubles, and almost grins openly when Takahiro’s palm stays there.
‘Are we even meeting up with those stupid Okinawa people today?’ Takahiro demands, looking utterly delighted at the prospect of skipping a hangout.
‘Yes, unfortunately we are, actually, meeting up with Oikawa and Iwaizumi and Yuda and—’
‘Okay, yes, I get it, you know their names, wow, smarty pants, what did you do,’ she says, impatient.
Issei adjusts her form, so she’s held up on one elbow and the other hand is free to card through Takahiro’s hair. It’s unstyled, loose, the ends just grazing her shoulders and Issei lets dyed strands sift through her fingers till she’s cupping the back of Takahiro’s pretty head and petting her gently, appreciatively. It’s so silky.
‘Issei.’
‘Hm.’
‘Is sei.’
‘Hmm,’ she says again. Less to be annoying, more to drag it out. Takahiro’s hips are against Issei’s hips and she never wants to get up.
Takahiro’s hands fist in the thin material of Issei’s half sheer black shirt, and Issei says, ‘Don’t rip this,’ and Takahiro says something like, ‘It’s okay, ripped is in these days,’ but Issei barely hears, because suddenly the sun takes it’s chance to slip out from behind the clouds and lights up her face.
And it’s glowing. She’s glowing, eyes glinting and strands of dyed hair stuck to her pink cheek. There’s that sheen of sunscreen white cast over her skin, and it makes her seem otherworldly, untouchable and unbelievably real all at once. She’s perfect, like a doll. Issei wants to lean in.
Those soft lips move to shape, ‘What’re you thinking about?’
The sun goes back behind the clouds.
‘You’re like a doll,’ Issei tells her.
‘What kind? Bratz or Monster High?’ she inquires.
An obvious tactic to take the attention off the way she shifted, shivering in Issei’s hold.
Issei pauses anyways, and her lips suck in thoughtfully. ‘Well.. Hm. That’s a good question actually. I don’t think I can decide between those two.’
‘What about Barbie? Or American Girl?’ she says, and the look on her face, it’s like she’s warming up to list a hundred more doll brands and Issei tucks her face into her neck with the hand cupped around her nape firmly. Put a pause on it early.
She makes indignant, muffled noises of protest, hands smacking at Issei’s head and Issei rubs her half-exposed back soothingly. ‘There, there.’
‘MMFFFGGWW!’
‘Issei’s here, I’ll take care of you.’
She snickers when Takahiro tries biting, petting her hair and telling her, ‘That’ll just make me horny, doll.’
Takahiro manages to struggle out, sucking in a breath and bemoaning, ‘Oh, the horror! The stankness! The smudged makeup! Holy shit, I think I was about to suffocate.’
‘That’s not funny,’ Issei says, reproachfully.
She drops the act and glares, mad as hell and disheveled in Issei’s lap, denim on her bare legs. ‘No, bitch, what’s not funny is the fact that your freaking neck smells like coffee. I hate that shit, what the fuck?’
‘Oh, I washed my hair with that shampoo Oikawa got me. Should I have not washed my hair?’
‘Throw the shampoo out.’
‘Your jealousy is almost sentient. I can hear it hissing at me.’
‘If my jealousy was sentient and made noises it wouldn’t be hissing, that’s for snakes?’ she says, looking almost insulted. ‘I’m not a snake, I would never be a snake.’
Issei makes a noncommittal noise.
Takahiro clasps her hands over her mouth delicately, eyes wide and soulful, fake-dismay. ‘So you smudge my make-up, you try to kill me, and then you call me a snake… Issei. Just slap me in the face.’
‘Only if you say please,’ Issei responds, beaming and leaning in to nuzzle her nose against Takahiro’s.
‘Ughhh, ugh, again with the make-up smudging!’ She shoves Issei off and pats at her flaring cheeks irritatedly. ‘All I asked was if I missed anything, Christ. You’re unbearable.’
She relents, because they really are wasting time, now. ‘Alright, fine, c’mere.’
Issei tilts her face to the side with her thumb, pushing gently at her cheek. Her chest feels warm when Takahiro goes easily.
Takahiro sits still and obedient while Issei pokes and tips her chin this way and that, her fingers feeling oddly rough against Takahiro’s soft skin, sitting upright now so her other hand can fit itself into the curve of her bare waist.
The stillness cracks after thirty seconds of Issei playing around, at utter bliss to have an excuse for staring at Takahiro’s pretty mouth up close. ‘Are you fucking done yet?’
‘Hmm,’ she hums, teasing, but then says, ‘No, I don’t think you forgot anything.’
‘Are you sure, I don’t think you checked for long enough,’ Takahiro says sarcastically.
Issei kisses her cheek, bracing a hand to her hip, thumb looping in her jeans and helping her up. ‘Come on, I’ll put on my jeans. If we leave now we can get some shopping in before meeting the others.’
Takahiro blinks, once, twice. ‘Who others?’
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
‘I told you this morning,’ Issei says, shaking her head. ‘I told you.’
The sky is dark, barely seven P.M. You couldn't hear it inside the building but here it's loud, rain absolutely pouring. They stare out at the road, soaked shoppers hurrying past with umbrellas blooming every three seconds.
‘I didn’t believe you,’ Takahiro admits, sounding lost. Her hand clutches at the back of Issei’s belt, holding on as she looks out in disbelief.
‘It’s been drizzling on and off all week. The forecast actually exists for this reason.’
‘I never look at the forecast.’
‘And now your hair is going to get wet.’
‘It’s actually so sweet that the first thing you’re worrying about is my hair, and not yours,’ she says, poking a hesitant leg out from under the mall entrance, retracting it quickly as her jeans dampen.
‘That’s me,’ Issei responds, dry. ‘Sweet. What now? Taxi?’
There’s a pause, then Takahiro turns full body to look at her, slapping at her arm. Issei glances to see her face, turned up and shining with excitement.
‘Let’s just go!’ she says, grabbing Issei’s hand and intwining their fingers.
Issei huffs out an incredulous laugh, ‘But—Hiro,’ and she’s laughing too hard to finish as Takahiro yanks her out into the downpour and she’s immediately drenched.
Her bangs go flat against her head and she’s laughing too, fingers sliding against Issei’s and head tipped back against the sky.
‘Oh my god!’
‘Oh my god is right, think about your phone.’
She raises her arms up, beaming and flailing them in the air with abject delight. ‘I don’t give a shit about my phone, it’s raining!’
'That is such a lie.'
'Okay, maybe I care, but holy shit, Issei!'
‘You’re wearing white, you idiot,’ Issei tells her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and tucking her into her side as they start walking down the sidewalk.
‘Mm, then don’t look at me,’ she says, face still tilted upwards, nose getting pink, and that’s—
‘Me? We’re in public, you’re obnoxious.’ But Issei’d just been about to glance at her chest so she flushes anyways.
‘I know, I’m kidding.’ She pauses, then says, offhanded, ‘You can look if you want.’
Issei laughs quietly, turning her head to press a kiss to her temple. Her hair is already soaked through, overhead street-lamps lighting her up like a neon halo. ‘Thank you, baby.’
‘No problem. I know you really want to look, so.’
‘I don't. I’m respectful.’
‘Hah. You're never respectful. You're always objectifying me.'
'A blatant lie. I never even peek.'
'We’re half naked around each other practically every day, I know you have my tits memorized.’
A passerby does a doubletake and Issei stifles another laugh even as she turns Takahiro’s body inwards to her own, so she’s practically buried under her arm. ‘That sounds more fun than the locker room actually is.’
‘I was actually talking about when we have those special sleepovers of ours,’ Takahiro says solemnly, a bit too loud right into Issei’s throat.
Issei hums understandingly. ‘Oh, the ones where we, you know, do that thing.’
‘Right. Our thing.'
'Mm. The special one. And the other one, too.'
'Exactly, those things we do... Out of curiosity, though, what—’
‘Hair braiding, nail polishing—’
‘Fuck off, nail polishing—’
Issei pinches her rounded, flushed cheek and smiles. ‘You laughed.’
‘You’re the worst.’ Takahiro looks up at her, her smile wide and pink and it’s like every one of Issei’s nerves lights up.
They don't get a taxi, though the walk is long and Takahiro starts complaining about her feet hurting and Issei admits she's glad she didn't end up advocating for high heels, and Takahiro once again asks her if she has a foot fetish. Once again, the walk is long. It's never boring with Takahiro, though. Every small pause is littered with shoulder jostling and skin-to-skin contact. Issei's whole left side is aflame.
They’re almost at Takahiro’s street when she tugs Issei to a stop. Her fingers slide down to Issei’s biceps and she pulls so they’re face to face, and Issei’s completely still as Takahiro arches her neck, pale skin looking almost green-tinted and pearly.
'Hi.'
'Hey,' Issei says simply, and combs stray hairs behind Takahiro's ear; like her heart isn't in her throat. Like she isn't shivering and rooted in place.
Around them, the street is empty, the gravel of the road soaked and the world seems to fall away.
She smiles at Issei, beautiful and glowing, absolutely radiant and there are streaks of glitter all the way down to her throat, make up leaking—and Issei gets without any words that she just wants to enjoy the moment, soak in the rain for a bit before they go back home.
She looks like she’s a star, like there is light gathering in pools under her skin. There’s nothing she wants that Issei wouldn’t give her.
So Issei entwines their fingers, laughs with her, spins her around and tugs her back in close. Takahiro presses her cheek to Issei's chest, swaying in place, and Issei holds her, hands spanning across the dip of her back.
It’s one of those everlasting, film-scene moments.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
Issei’s Doc Martens are by the window, surrounded by a little puddle. She’s on the desk chair, wearing a pair of her own sweats from some long ago sleepover, legs up and elbows on her knees, chin pillowed on her crossed hands. Takahiro is behind her, her skin coming into view in the full length mirror as she undoes her bra strap.
Issei watches her.
Takahiro knows she’s watching; Issei can tell because her shoulders hitch up, her fingers keep stuttering over the clasps of her clothes. It makes something pound in Issei’s head, the beating of a drum.
She looks over at the vanity, still littered with various make-up and skincare products, a few of which Issei remembers buying herself—a kajal pencil she's been looking for, the eyeshadow set she’d gotten for Takahiro’s birthday first year. Takahiro’s discarded, still-wet shirt is slung over the open drawer.
There’s a little tag peeking out of the hem of her top—PUCCI, in curved, capslock letters. Issei lifts it up, fingers at the still wet, frilly neckline, thinking wistfully about how good she looked in the clingy fabric today, and says, ‘Do you want me to cut this off for you?’
‘Hm?’ Takahiro glances over a bare, moled shoulder, hair tossing with the movement—looking first at Issei, then the white cloth in her hand. The tag, poking out. ‘Oh, no, I need the tags. Gotta know what to say when someone asks where I got that.’
‘What, you don’t have that information memorized?’ Issei says, tossing the shirt into the laundry basket, across the room.
‘I only remember the name of one brand item I have,’ she says loftily.
Issei hums. ‘And what’s that?’
She turns around, holding a faded t-shirt to her bare chest and snaps the band of her underwear, says it in English, ‘Calvin Klein.’
Issei ayys. Takahiro makes two rock-on signs with her hands.
They change in and out of clothes in front of each other most days, but sometimes Takahiro gets into a coy mood and insists on turning her back. Issei doesn’t mind. The view of her mole dotted shoulder blades, the dip of her back is just as enticing as the soft curves of her chest. And like just now, the moods only last ten minutes until she has a joke to make and spins around on the balls of her feet.
'You should get the sports bras from that brand.'
'Nah, I think you have enough Calvin sports bras for the both of us. Together with my undies we're one sexy supermodel.'
'Are you sleeping in those?'
'Unless you'd rather I go nakey,' she blinks, utterly blankfaced.
‘Stupid question. But no sexy tights today?’ Issei asks, only slightly disappointed.
‘I mean, I can’t go spoiling you,’ Takahiro reasons, turning back around to toss the shirt on, yanking down the fabric. It’s tight, too, and Issei has never been able to decide if she prefers Takahiro in wide collared, square shaped or tight, figure-hugging shirts. Because she looks so good in both. 'You'd get obnoxious, start calling yourself a sigma male.'
Issei pauses. 'What is a sigma male?'
'I don't know,' she admits. 'I think I meant alpha male.'
‘OK. I still win, you realize,’ Issei tells her, unfolding her legs and getting up to stretch, turning off the room lights and making her way to the futon where Takahiro is already sitting cross-legged. 'Considering I'm in a bed with you in panties. Doesn't get more alpha than that.'
Takahiro frowns up at her as she comes closer. ‘You need to stop being crazy.’
‘Not possible when you look that good, sweetheart.’
Issei sits across from her, elbows on her knees as she matches her position, head ducking low to watch when Takahiro turns to click the lamp off, the folds of her shirt hitching up on her waist and arms.
She has goosebumps on her own arms, and the skin under her singlet as Takahiro meets her gaze.
'Hey.'
'Hey,' Issei echoes.
‘I had fun today,’ she says softly.
‘What, with Okinawa people?’ Issei says, teasing but just as quiet.
‘No, actually, that part sucked,’ Takahiro responds, and then she’s biting back a smile. ‘The first part. And the last part. When it was just you and me.’
The room is quiet, the fan spinning slowly overhead. The windowpane is shut, because they can't have Takahiro catching a cold. The door is shut, too, so Takahiro must hear when Issei's heart stutters.
She's just a bit flushed. Her face is scrubbed clean, bathed in the barest of moonlight.
Issei cups her cheek, looking at her. Takahiro looks back, gaze steady. Her eyes are so bright right now, in their greyed-green, and she must have missed the mascara when she was taking her make-up off because her lashes are still dark and low, fanning out as she blinks.
Issei was going to say I liked that part too.
What comes out of her mouth instead is, ‘I love you.’
Takahiro first blinks. Once, twice; then she goes a delightful shade of pink, shuts her eyes as if unable to handle it. Issei swallows, and feels it thrumming in her chest, feels on fire with it. Says it again, ‘I love you.’
Even her ears are pink. ‘Issei.’
‘Mm?’ Issei leans in closer, nose to pink cheek. She likes pressing in right here, because this way it’s all heightened, shared breaths, Takahiro’s skin warm under hers. She's already in her bed, but she needs to be in Takahiro's space, wants to be all over her. Till their limbs are tangled. Her breath is so hot, tasting of mint. Coming out shaky.
Issei kisses the corner of her mouth, doting, and murmurs, ‘I love you.’
Takahiro’s lips part, and she makes this little noise, a breathless inhale, and then turns her head to kiss Issei full-on, arms coming up to wrap around Issei’s shoulders.
Issei sinks into her, kissing back slow and easy and they’re moving back on the bed till Takahiro is splayed under her, Issei’s right thigh between hers and Issei doesn’t even know when that got there, because the only thing in the world is Takahiro’s mouth, her tongue, the sounds she makes. The heat of it, her soft skin.
They split apart and Issei is about to go in for another kiss but Takahiro says, on an exhale, ‘I love you.’
Issei’s elbows go weak and she drops down full body against Takahiro, feeling again like she is alight. Like this is all she's ever wanted. What she lives for. Takahiro sighs, sweet and content and her arm slides down to wrap around Issei’s waist, a cool hand slipping up her shirt to hold her securely.
‘You’re—’ Issei starts, face hot against the skin from Takahiro’s shoulder to her ear. She wants to never move. ‘You’re so perfect.’ And because saying that isn’t enough, and she can’t come up with words to explain, Issei kisses her, right there under her ear, at her jugular.
Takahiro shivers and says, ‘I never want to move.’
Issei kisses her again. ‘I was just thinking that.’
She whispers into the dim room, confessional, ‘Because you just get me. No one's ever gotten me like you do. It makes me feel like we're—just, meant to be or something. Like, it’s us, you and me. Issei. I love you. You've gotta come back up here.’
Issei trails kisses all the way back to her mouth, reverent, which somehow takes ages longer than it should because she’s wonderful, in dips and valleys that Issei wants to know down to the moles, down to every pore.
She kisses Takahiro’s bottom lip, says, ‘I’m here, baby. Now what.’
Takahiro’s hair fans out against the pillow, pink and silken and Issei’s forearms frame her head. She tips her face up and says, eyes half shut, ‘Kiss me?’
Issei kisses her nose. ‘Mm. Whatever you say.’
‘Properly.’
Issei kisses her forehead, and her cheeks, and her chin, the corner of her mouth before Takahiro laughs and cups her face with those long fingers, kisses her hard and sweet.
Their legs tangle. Issei's just settled in and gotten comfortable when Takahiro whispers, ‘Hey. Do you want to eat me out?’
Issei goes slightly breathless. Yes. ‘Yes.’
She arches up and says, ‘Too bad. I’m sleepy,’ right against Issei’s mouth. Then dissolves into a fit of giggles.
Issei kisses her nose again and says, ‘No, really, are you,’ which just makes her laugh harder.
She’s beautiful. Issei buries her face in her hair, sweet-smelling like peaches, shining like the rest of her and thinks she’d wait for eons as long as Takahiro would be there at the end of it all.
i.m (👤cheezewitty) wrote,
2012-23-09 11:24 PM
pearl
if she’s light I’m a moth. Forever following her around.
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