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Before we start, we need to make sure there isn’t any kind of miscommunication happening. Make no mistake- Takahiro isn’t a sap. He’s isn’t one of those bleeding heart romantics with more feelings than thoughts. He doesn’t yearn. He’s a responsible young man who may occasionally struggle with maturity (who doesn’t, really, at seventeen?) but other than that he’s got a good head on his shoulders.
So. Do not even joke about him being into Matsukawa Issei. You’re wrong. He isn’t. He likes him a normal friend amount and wishes for nothing more than his company in a friend way. Not a common law marriage way.
Issei is a bit more droopy today than usual. There are degrees to his droopiness, after all, cataloged carefully by Takahiro in an effort to get to know him better. It’s a totally normal thing he does with everyone. It’s easier to navigate social interactions with some kind of idea of what people are thinking. His sisters don’t think it’s as normal as he does, but Mami still chews on her hair, and Sadashi is a fucking thirteen year old. So they have no ground to stand on in Takahiro’s opinion.
“Today sucks, huh?” Takahiro says in lieu of greeting. Issei lifts his gaze to meet Takahiro’s, a small smile - it is a smile, he swears. That slight upward tilt of Issei’s thin lips is a smile - appearing. “Just had horrible energy from the start. Sadashi reckons it’s because we’re in Taurus season.”
“She’s still into astrology?” Issei asks, his head cocking to the side. “This is the longest she’s held onto a hobby since she was ten.”
“Yeah, I know. I reckon this one is going to stick. But she keeps calling me a ‘stinky aquarius’, so there is a part of me that hopes she drops it.”
Issei gives him a quiet laugh. “Remember when Iwaizumi told her he was a gemini?”
“How could I forget? Her disgust was palpable.”
“New word?”
“Yeah. It’s my word of the week.”
“Nice.” Issei blinks, his eyes remaining closed a second longer than most. “Have we got the room today?”
“Yep.” Takahiro produces the studio key from his pocket with a flourish, posing like a saleswoman in Shibuya pushing make-up. “All ours. Sensei cracked way easier than she normally does. All I had to do was sell my soul to the band club for a practice session this week. Tomie-chan is out sick apparently.”
Ito-sensei had been trying to poach Takahiro to the band club since his first year. It was funny, almost- she’s the only teacher who seems able to stand prolonged exposure to him. Definitely the only teacher who asks after him. But Takahiro isn’t a half-a-job. He gives himself fully to volleyball, much to her distaste. Ito-sensei is one of those band kids who never stopped being a band kid, and carries her hatred of organized sports steadfastly into her forties. It’s an admirable dedication.
“How are you gonna fit it in with training?” Issei asks, a note of concern coloring his voice. “Oikawa’s head will probably explode if you miss any this close to Inter-Highs.”
“I’m not gonna miss training!” Takahiro reassures, his hands returning to his pockets. “Apparently the band club are lending their talents-” Issei snorts and Takahiro grins, easy as that- “to the Aoba Castle Exhibition Hall for a commemorative performance or some shit at the end of the month, so they’re getting out of class half an hour early on Thursday to get in some extra practise. I’m theirs until three o clock, and then back under Oikawa-sama’s iron fist at three oh-five.”
“Careful. This could be an elaborate scheme to poach you.”
Takahiro scoffs, lifting an arm to flex it. “Please, Matsu, have some faith. I can take the band kids.”
Issei rolls his eyes, a vaguely long-suffering and Iwaizumi-like motion. Takahiro makes fun of him for it al the way to the music studio, unlocking the door to their safe haven and kicking Issei’s ankles to make him shuffle in faster. He drags his feet just to be a little bitch.
Issei takes his usual post against the wall, a cushion stuffed under his ass as he sets about unpacking his lunch box. Takahiro returns to his throne behind the drum kit in the corner, habitualty adjusting the seat and dancing his fingers over the skins to make sure the tension is right. It’s rare anyone else other than Tomie-chan uses the kit, but sometimes kids fuck around on it during music class and throw it out of whack. Takahiro knows his way around a drum kit; how to treat a kit like his baby. His woman, even.
Once he’s satisfied he makes grabby hands towards Issei, who overhand throws his sticks at him from across the room. Takahiro grins at him crookedly, twirling his drumsticks through deft fingers.
“Any requests from the crowd?” he asks, gesturing broadly to his audience of one. Matsukawa grins at him, resting his head on his knee and faking contemplation.
“Surprise me,” he decides, shrugging one shoulder. He leans back against the wall. “Something fast.”
“Fast,” Takahiro echoes, “I can do that.”
In Takahiro’s mind, a flourish of guitar signals the intro to Re: Re:, one of his favourite Asian Kung-Fu Generation tracks. When he thinks fast he thinks of the rapid sixteenth patterns on the edge of the hi-hat, foot jumping on the pedal to keep time, the fill that flies over the toms- the crash that feels almost euphoric after a fast pace lead in. The guitar makes the song feel deceptively slow to those who don’t listen to the drum line beneath, and Takahiro loves songs like that. Songs with a heart that beats in time with his kick drum.
Issei taps along with him, just a single finger atop his thigh, and Takahiro watches it intently like a metronome, his soul in sync.
Things might be getting a bit out of hand, but he can keep up.
It’s an unassuming Friday practise session, and over the repetitive squeaking sounds of Oikawa spiking the fuck out of some volleyballs into Kyoutani’s face Issei throws Takahiro’s entire life into disarray.
“So,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I have a favour to ask of you.”
“I’ve got a shovel and I know a place they’ll never find the sorry bastard,” Takahiro replies solemnly. Issei huffs a laugh, rolling his eyes.
“Not this time,” he says, and Takahiro’s heart skips a beat. Too easy to mistake exasperation for fondness, these days. Or maybe he’s getting weaker, taking critical damage with every lingering touch and sustained gaze. The metronome is getting faster. “Thanks, though. I actually was hoping you’d be able to help me with a song I wrote. I have something in mind for a beat but none of the rhythm to execute it.”
“Wha?” Takahiro says, squinting. “A song? You wrote?”
“Yeah.” Issei’s head dips as he picks his bottle up again. He doesn’t drink from it- he simply hides behind it, holding the bottle to his lips to obscure his face. His eyes disappear behind his messy hair as his head lowers further. “A song. I wrote.”
“Cool,” Takahiro says, a little dumbstruck. “Uh- when?” It’s all he can ask, even though his mind has decided to start sprinting a hundred kilometers an hour. Issei writes music? Issei writes music and he didn’t tell him? How is this the first time Takahiro is hearing about this?
Issei exhales what is clearly a sigh of relief, lifting his head to display a shy smile, more lip than teeth. A droplet of water slides from the nozzle of his bottle and traces from his fingertip to his second knuckle before dropping to his thighs. His shorts have rucked up a little bit, exposing more skin than normal. Takahiro remembers to breathe and look up.
“Can you do Monday night? It’s normally when I record, cause the house is pretty empty,” Issei asks, and Takahiro nods mechanically. Record. Jesus H. Issei records music.
“Sure, man.” The tiny, unhinged Takahiro (Horny-Hiro, who hasn’t respected the boundaries of friendship since Iwaizumi bulked up) in his brain whoops and jumps all over the place, fist-pumping straight into his frontal lobe. Alone time with Issei! Alone time with Issei! We get to sit in his bedroom and be close to him! Horny-Hiro screams, dropping to his knees. The smarter little Takahiro (who may not actually be smarter but wears glasses, so he has to be, right? Hiro-san) appears and kicks Horny-Hiro in the face. Idiot, he says smartly, he might have a band. No alone time if he has a band. Then you’ll just be sitting there like a loser.
Real-life, normal (debatable) Takahiro just smiles, praying all eighteen of the emotions he’s currently experiencing aren’t showing on his face. It’s not like he’d actually have a band. Issei is chronically shy, and surely that’s something he would’ve mentioned in their three years of knowing each other. The whole reason they were able to become friends was because of music, after all. Music was one of those things that bought out one of Takahiro’s favourite Issei’s- the quietly happy Issei, who smiled his eyes into crescents and talked with his hands, whose shoulders would shake a little bit when Takahiro gave him the go-ahead to talk his ear off. Takahiro loved to listen to him talk about music. Well, he loved to listen to him talk full-stop, but hearing Issei happy and excited made his heart flutter pathetically, and that’s stupid and not allowed.
“I’ll bring my sticks,” Takahiro says suddenly, when he realises he hasn’t said anything three minutes. Issei laughs, and it makes the water on his thigh quiver.
“That might help you play,” he replies, low, teasing, even as pink spreads over the tops of his cheeks. Takahiro makes a giddy sound that he tries to play off a cough, and Issei stands up on his knees to push a damp hand through his hair. Takahiro’s heart is pounding in triplets, and he might be having a heart attack. “You’re totally Aquarius-ing right now.”
“Choke,” Takahiro responds, easy, like clockwork, and this time Issei’s laugh is delighted.
“Come on. Let’s get back to practise.”
Takahiro wakes on Monday morning like it’s Christmas day, excited for all of five minutes before all encompassing dread drowns out any other thought and leaves off-key buzzing in its wake.
Music is deeply personal to Takahiro. Different to him than it is to Issei. The thought of it maybe meaning the same thing; having the same significance? It’s terrifying. For Hanamaki it’s the words that he struggles to find. It’s all of the loud, overbearing love he feels for the people closest to him, syncopations when he wants to shout it from the rooftops. Steady four on the floor to get him through the day. Issei sometimes makes him a feel kind of…. bossa nova. And just when Takahiro thinks he’s got the rhythm back, some kind of control over his feelings, Issei changes the tempo. Takahiro will never tire of it, which is kind of overwhelming to think.
He double checks his sticks and practice snare are in his school bag before he leaves, slinging it over his shoulder.
“I’m going to Matsu’s house this afternoon, after school,” he reminds his mother as he pops open the rice cooker, wrenching his hand away with a hiss when the steam hits his skin. “So I’ll be home a little late.”
“Taka-chan has a date?” Mami coos. It’s supposed to be mocking, he thinks, but her mouth is full of scrambled eggs, so it only does half the damage it normally would. There is furikake on her chin.
“Shouldn’t you be at uni being an adult?” Takahiro snarks, and Mami raises a middle finger in his direction the moment their mother’s back is turned. “Ma, Mami-”
“Mami, don’t antagonize your brother. Takahiro, don’t antagonize your sister. Eat your breakfast and get a move on,” their mother sighs, directing her gaze heavensward. “Did anyone wake up Sadashi?”
“I tried,” Takahiro grumbles, kneeling at the table and piling rice and eggs into his bowl. “She’s a demon child.”
“She’s not a demon. She’s going through puberty.”
“Same thing in this family,” Mami mutters, and Takahiro shoots her a dirty look. “I didn’t even say anything to you.”
“Yeah, but you were thinking it.”
“God I hope Sadashi grows out of being a brat. Unlike you.”
“Can you all please focus on eating and then getting out of my kitchen?” Their mother says, turning around and snapping the dish towel in her hands towards the table. “You’re killing me here.”
Because Takahiro is a good son who listens to his mother, he demolishes his food to the point of a mild stomach ache and then alternates jogging and dragging his feet all the way to school.
The day stretches on obnoxiously long, and Takahiro cannot contain his tapping. Issei doesn’t mention it at all, besides an offhanded we still on for tonight? mid conversation with Iwaizumi to which Takahiro had very uncool-ly spluttered and choked on his onigiri before managing to nod. Throughout History he jots down prospective beats, trying not to wonder too hard what kind of music Issei writes. It just leads him down a dangerous path; like imagining how he’d score the rest of their life together. Which is a reach and ridiculous and he needs to calm the fuck down. He fares no better in Biology, and he’s grateful it’s not a practise day, because there is no way his half-functioning brain could make it through a whole session without crumbling to bits.
The walk to Issei’s apartment is familiar and it comes both too soon and not soon enough. Takahiro knows he’s talking too much, but Issei never complains about it. He just listens and nods like always. He isn’t droopy, but he’s definitely droopy-adjacent. Anxious. Takahiro has been playing against his own thigh the entire walk- it might be Phil Collins. He talks about everything except their afternoon plans, because Issei still hasn’t. He feels a bit like he’s running on a hamster wheel to nowhere.
The wheel leads them up the familiar steps, but everything feels just slightly off as Issei fits the key into the lock, pushing open the door to their apartment without saying anything else. Takahiro frowns, following him wordlessly. Shoes off, slippers on, straight to Issei’s room, like any other day. Takahiro takes his usual seat at the desk and watches Issei drags a spare chair in from the dining table. He continues to watch as Issei then pulls a dusty, sticker-covered guitar case out from under his bed. It’s a pretty guitar; deep black wood and well loved frets. He doesn’t have a pick, but he does have sheets and sheets of lyrics he procures from the top drawer of his desk. There’s a notebook as well which he hastily shoves back into the drawer. Takahiro can’t speak around the lump in his throat.
“Just warning you now that I’m very, very self-taught,” he says, huffing a breath to try and shake his bangs away. They resettle in the same place.
“So am I,” Takahiro shrugs. This bit he can do. Talking to Issei? Easy. He’s not having an internal meltdown at all. “It’s all good man. Music is music. Nothing is bad objectively, unless you’re- like- Nickelback.”
“No dissing Nickelback in my safe space,” Issei retorts, and he’s smiling a bit even as he fumbles for his phone, propping it up on top of his closed laptop. “Okay, so.” Issei wipes his sweaty hands on his thighs, and Takahiro’s eyebrow arches of its own volition. “Is it okay with you if- I record?” he laughs nervously, and Takahiro entertains for the first time that maybe Issei is absolute dogshit at playing guitar, and that’s why he’s so nervous.
“I don’t mind.”
“It’s mainly just so I can monitor myself,” Issei explains, and Takahiro eyes himself in the recording and hopes his face doesn’t do anything overtly gay where it can be caught in 4K. “I’m planning to put these on Youtube at some point. Just so you know. Like- probably not soon, though. Eventually.”
“It’s really fine. You just haven’t told me what I’m playing yet,” Takahiro grins, and Issei makes a peculiar expression. Unreadable.
“It’s, uh- okay, don’t laugh, I’m not a percussionist,” Issei says seriously. Takahiro nods, just as grave. “Kind of something like- this?” He taps his fingers in a steady, unique beat against the edge of his desk. It’s definitely not… refined, but the potential in it is clear. Maybe just a little bit muddled.
“Alright,” he mumbles, repeating the pattern on his own. Taming it into sixteenth notes, but going no further than that. Issei brightens. “That it?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool, yeah, I can do that,” Takahiro says, winking. “How many bars? Is that the tempo or do you play with a metronome?”
It takes a good twenty minutes, Issei slowly growing more comfortable with articulating exactly what he wanted. He’s not lying about being majorly self-taught, missing a lot of the terminology, but Takahiro is able to fill in those gaps easily, giving shape to the concept that has clearly been sitting in Issei’s head for weeks. They work out chord progressions, the pauses, where Takahiro was free to improvise his own fill- or, the best he could improvise given he was playing with his sticks, his snare pad, and the edge of Issei’s very beat up desk. He wasn’t really able to improvise his own kick for the sanity of the apartment beneath Issei’s, so they decided Issei would hit the body of his guitar instead to fill in.
It’s a relief to see him relax, most but not quite all of the tension leaving his body as he molds to the dark wood. His hands are still noticeably sweaty, and his gaze keeps snapping from Takahiro to his beaten up old notebook, and he keeps clearing his throat like Oikawa’s fangirls do right before they bow forward and offer him yet another confession and-
Oh, fuck. Bad brain route, don’t go down there, no don’t little Takahiro in his brain-!
Too late. Takahiro’s blood runs cold, his fingers suddenly frozen from the implication. His heart stutters out of time, frenzied, and he doesn’t- he can’t- fuck. He wouldn’t mind it, if this was some elaborate confession from a closet hopeless romantic, and that is absolutely horrifying to articulate. He’d been doing so good at not straying that far. At not letting his mind wander. Writing off his sometimes stronger than perhaps normal feelings as him being messy and hormonal, or just really attached to his stupid best friend and the way he’s shy around everyone but a different kind of shy when it’s just the two of him. He’s not into him, he just really loves his wild eyebrows and perpetually messy hair that always smells like that nice oil stuff his mother makes him use for his curls, and it’s normal for bros to notice all of that stuff. And normally Takahiro would be able to explain away the way he catalogs the amount of thigh Issei shows on a daily basis at practise, or the fact that he can tell when Issei is uncomfortable just by looking at the shape of his shoulders, or that he knows exactly how the muscles in his calves tense before he jumps to block, but he can’t because he is totally, totally into Issei is a not-bro way, but in a I-want-to-kiss-you way.
It’s a disconcerting feeling. Like having the rug pulled out from under him, or the song changed halfway through a performance without warning. Suddenly Takahiro doesn’t fit in this desk chair he’s occupied almost every night for close to three years and he feels panicked and scared and he doesn’t know what to do with himself, because he wants Issei to like him back. He wants him to like him back so fucking bad it is all-consuming and terrifying.
“Uh- don’t laugh, yeah?” Issei asks softly, finally maintaining eye contact for longer than ten seconds. His eyes are earnest, and even half-lidded Takahiro is in danger of melting. They’re deep brown, so dark they’re almost black, familiar and mellow, and Takahiro’s heart feels like it’s doing a fucking solo, centre stage and out of control. He doesn’t know if he can do this right now. But he has to- has to give Issei his one hundred percent, because Issei is letting him in on something private and close to his chest. Issei deserves his all and more. Takahiro is gonna give him that if it kills him.
“It’s just me, man.” Takahiro is shocked by how even his voice sounds when he’s having a full blown meltdown in his head. Horny-Hiro and Hiro-san have pulled guns on each other and are using his grey matter as a shield. “I’m not gonna laugh at you.”
Issei’s smile warms the room and Takahiro is suddenly awash with the distinct feeling that he’s doomed no matter what.
“I’ll count you in,” Takahiro says encouragingly, his mouth as dry as a desert. Issei doesn’t reply, he just smiles, and Takahiro doesn’t have time to wonder why he just offered to count down his own demise as he holds his sticks up.
“One, two, three, four-” Issei begins to pluck at the strings of his guitar. It’s well-tuned, the sound soft and melodious. Takahiro keeps time in his head, his foot bouncing under the desktop to track his quarter notes. Issei inhales.
“Everyone I love is gonna die,” he sings, “And I, will die as well.”
Takahiro can’t say he was expecting that. Any of that. First, his lungs constrict, because Issei’s voice. His voice. It’s perfect. It fits him, low and steady and gravelly but overwhelmingly pleasant, and if Takahiro didn’t know he had a raging crush on Issei before he certainly knows it now. Secondly he thinks, what the absolute fuck is this song about. It’s not a cheesy love song or a rap or a rick roll, and if it’s a confession it’s emo as shit.
“I think about this before I sleep, I have since I was a child-”
Issei sounds… weary. Melancholy. He sounds the way he looks on his droopy days.
“In my life, will I make a difference? In my death, will I be missed?” Issei’s voice dips, and Takahiro curses himself for getting his hopes up. He sinks with Issei, that low feeling heavy over his head. This is different, and he hadn’t anticipated it in the slightest. He hadn’t entertained the possibility of this being a different kind of personal.
Issei sings about his fear of the end, of what comes after. The anger he felt for daring to have that fear, like it’s some kind of privilege.
“Maybe I’m still, a stupid little boy.” Issei’s voice cracks, not from misuse but emotion unlike Takahiro had ever heard. He cracks with him on instinct. “Too weak to understand, what will come. I want to find peace of mind.” Issei looks up for the first time since he pressed record and Takahiro is instantly ensnared by the light burning in his dark eyes, by the way his fingers pause on the strings but vibrate with energy. “Maybe your mind is the answer to that conundrum.”
It’s only by muscle memory that Takahiro tracks the brief pause, keeping time automatically with the bounce of his knee. His throat is tight and his eyes are burning like he hasn’t taken a breath since Issei had opened his mouth and taken all the oxygen in the room with him.
“Oh, I want to be a baby, again,” Issei whispers, “oh, I want pure thoughts in my head.”
Takahiro plays harder, as much as he can with just his shaky hands and the desk, matching Issei’s quiet intensity the only way he knows how. Loud love, he realises. God. He’s been so transparent this whole time. So see through he hadn’t seen what was right in front of him.
Takahiro is hardly breathing by the time they finish, Issei’s eyes glued to the carpet beneath his sock clad feet. Takahiro’s hands ache that good ache. Issei’s fingers are quivering where they rest over the hollow body of his guitar. It feels lame to call it just a guitar when now Takahiro can recognise it as Issei’s voice. An extension of it.
“Thanks for not laughing,” Issei says to the floor. “I know it’s kind of cringey-“
“What the fuck,” Takahiro blurts. His voice is hoarse and Issei’s head snaps up. “Dude. No. That was- dude. Issei.”
“Takahiro,” Issei replies, amused, but his hands are shaking now as well. Takahiro wonders how he’ll be able to go on, knowing what Issei sounds like when he sings. When he says his name like that. Knowing just how desperately he wants Issei to confess, his own words trapped somewhere in his larynx, beating out of time with the rest of his body.
“Your voice,” Takahiro says, when he feels he can speak without making an embarrassing noise. “I like it. Your lyrics are-“
“Weird.”
“Personal,” Takahiro amends. “Thank you for- for sharing. With me. Like that.”
“It’s the only way I can sometimes,” Issei says, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, his curls shifting through his fingers. Takahiro is transfixed. He tries not to be. “Thank you for listening.”
“Always.”
Issei’s lips quirk. “I still appreciate it.”
They lapse into a small silence, but it isn’t awkward. Yet. Takahiro drums his fingers on the edge of the desk, considering his options.
Issei was honest with him. He’ll be honest back. Even if it makes him want to shove his sticks in his eyes, he has to say something, or he’s going to explode with it.
“So,” Takahiro says, voice tremoring, “can I ask something really, really embarrassing?”
“Yes i’ll autograph your face,” Issei replies, tone just as severe, and Takahiro is overcome with the urge to tackle him to the floor. To grab the front of his hoodie and scream I’m totally in love with bro and I think I only just accepted it internally and now I want to maybe propose to you! in his face. He can’t do that, realistically.
“Yes, please, Matsu-sama,” he croaks, voice hoarse, and Issei squints at him. “Uh. Not what I was going to ask.”
“Shoot.”
“What’s the song about?”
“Oh. Y’know.” Issei shrinks into his shoulders a bit, rotating his hand through the air vaguely. “Uh. Feelings.”
One of the Hiros in his brain unplugs something important in that moment.
“Uh- parts of the song- uh- it sounds like you’re confessing.” Takahiro spits it all out in a rush and then laughs automatically, too pitchy to be normal. “Weird, right?” Issei stares at him, silent. Takahiro watches him think and every second that passes by he wants to shrink. “Right…?”
Issei’s face is doing something Takahiro hasn’t ever catalogued before.
“Were you recording it… to be… a confession? Or, like, with a confession in mind?” Takahiro chances, and Issei shakes his head minutely. Takahiro’s heart leaps into his throat and free falls to his stomach and then takes a left turn near his kidneys. “Don’t tell me you’ve been a romantic this whole time.” He can hear the slight edge of desperation to his voice, trying to claw back the atmosphere from before- before he spoke up like an idiot and made the walls press in on them like this. “Sorry. I’ve just- I’ve never- ah.”
“Don’t apologise,” he says quietly.
“No, I’ve made you uncomfortable,” Takahiro says, his voice rising a little as he winces. “I’m sorry. You literally just told me this is your- like- special way of communicating stuff you find difficult to say, and here I am reading into things and trying to make you articulate it.”
“Reading into things?” Issei repeats, his eyes widening. Fuck! Oh god. Abort mission.
“I don’t know what I’m talking about! Please ignore me!” Takahiro squeaks, rolling his sticks between his palms. He clears his throat awkwardly and imagines falling through the floor and never being seen again. “It’s a good song, ‘sei. Seriously. Thank you for letting me be a part of it. You’ll have to send me the video.” He stands up, the chair rolling away, and Issei stares at him in confusion.
“What are you doing?”
“Lea…ving?” Takahiro suggests, and Issei glares at him for a moment. It’s not an actual angry glare- it’s his I’m thinking glare. he grabs the desk chair and pulls it back, and Takahiro slowly sinks back down. “Okay. No I’m not.”
“Give me a minute.”
“I’ll give you two!”
“Hiro- I-“ Issei stops, and he chews on his bottom lip anxiously. “I didn’t-“ he huffs, passing a hand through his hair in frustration. “Ah. Fuck.” He half turns, back to the drawer, and Takahiro considers making an undignified break for it until Issei pulls his notebook out again. He stares at it, and then at Takahiro - at his cheek, to be precise, because eye contact is hard - before he drops it in Takahiro’s lap, open on a page filled with Issei’s familiar chicken scratch, likes and lines crossed out, the few phrases at the bottom the only ones not struck through. Takahiro blinks, and Issei cringes.
“Just. Read it.”
“Yessir.”
Takahiro reads it. He reads it again. He pinches his own thigh through his pants. He reads it a third time.
I've got words on my mind that I'm too scared to speak / And a burden that's grown these last couple of weeks /
But I'm too scared to tell you what's been on my mind / Cause it's you that's been crossing it all the time
Takahiro reads it over and over, just to make sure.
“I don’t know how to do it,” Issei says quietly. Takahiro reads it again, and again. “I’ve been writing to try and figure it out. I’m sorry I made you wait so long, I just- I didn’t want to mess it up.”
“Who says I’ve been waiting?” Takahiro cracks. His face feels hot.
“T-Takahiro.” His voice is a breath as he stutters out his name, squeezing his eyes shut. “I really like you. In- in a cringey way. Like, a lot. You make me wanna write stupid love songs about your smile that I’d never sing to you because I can’t do it justice. I feel like you listen to me, and you actually hear me, and I-” he jerks to a stop, his eyes flying open. His chest is heaving like he’s out of breath and he might be, actually. Takahiro certainly is.
“Don’t laugh,” Issei begs, and Takahiro realises he hasn’t spoken in a while. He doesn't know what to say. Not when Issei has already written it so perfectly.
Takahiro has always been the kind of person who speaks in actions, rather than words. It’s easier for him to act than it is to speak if he can’t get his point across.
“Can I kiss you?” he blurts, and Issei’s eyes almost bulge out of his head. They’re wider than Takahiro has ever seen them.
“Do you mean it?”
“Yes, idiot. Can I kiss you?”
“Please,” Issei exhales, and Takahiro doesn’t wait a second longer. He leans forward and captures his mouth in a kiss and Issei tilts to meet him like he had somehow anticipated the exact angle Takahiro would approach, because he knows him the same way Takahiro knows Issei. They’re on the same track. It’s chaste, more shy than anything, and maybe it’s a bit embarrassing but he can feel Issei smiling against his lips. Takahiro’s heart sings, pounding against his breastbone.
When they move apart they make five seconds of weird eye contact before Issei laughs breathlessly, leaning forward to press his face into the juncture of Takahiro’s neck and shoulder. Takahiro lays his palm flat over the back of Issei’s head and grins up at the roof giddily like an idiot. He still feels like exploding, but in a good way.
“I didn’t know you could sing,” he says eventually, and he feels Issei’s hand idly snag in his hoodie sleeve, travelling down his wrist until he can intertwine their fingers. Takahiro squeezes, because he can.
“I was saving it for a grand gesture.”
“Good thing you don’t suck, then. Would’ve been super awkward if you were pitchy.”
“Shut up,” Issei laughs again, and he looks up at him, eyes bright like crescent moons. Takahiro never wants him to stop. Takahiro wants to write a million songs about it.
“Issei,” he says instead, “Sing for me again?”