Work Text:
It's not the world of our fantasies
but it looks like we'll be fine
Spitz, "You're the Sun"
After the movie, Akihiko proposed stopping at a nearby cafe, a suggestion that Haruki readily agreed to. It was a chain outlet, but the décor was unexpectedly tasteful, and there were only a handful of customers inside. He made Haruki choose their seats, waving away the folded bill proffered to him, and went to order at the counter. When he came back with their iced coffees, equipped with straws he'd opened, Haruki didn't notice immediately. He was gazing pensively out the window beside their booth, tapping his left fingertips on the tabletop in an absent rhythm.
He set the glasses down, and Haruki blinked, turning to him with soft eyes and a small, shy smile. His heart clenched, blissfully heedless of the multiple instances he'd already been gifted with the same face today.
"Thanks for getting this, too."
"Yep," he said, carefully maintaining an air of nonchalance as he sat down. "Sure you don't want cake or anything else?"
Haruki shook his head, his smile widening. "I'm saving space for dinner."
"All right, then."
In the cinema, when the trailers had ended, the largely-vacant expanse of surrounding seats that came courtesy of a weekday afternoon screening had encouraged him to lay his right hand over Haruki's left as it rested on the seat arm between them. Haruki had stiffened for a second, but soon their hands were nestled together, and they'd remained that way for the film's entirety, letting go only when the lights came back on after the credits. During this time he'd focused heroically on the screen and the unfamiliar lilting roll of French dialogue, since he wanted to be able to hold a conversation later, but part of him had remained acutely conscious of the hand in his grasp, warm and wiry and distractingly smooth apart from its smattering of calluses.
Now he studied how the long, supple fingers of that same hand closed around the glass, and how Haruki's lashes fluttered down for an instant as his lips closed over the tip of the straw, like he was concentrating on the first rush of coffee into his mouth. The light outside was deepening towards night; the honeyed rays filtering through the window glowed off his skin and hair.
Pretty, he thought, mentally filing the tableau for playback the way he'd done on seeing Haruki at their meeting place earlier that day. He'd showed up ten minutes earlier than their agreed time, but Haruki had still beat him to it, however long he'd already been waiting at the leaning rail outside the station exit. As he'd walked up the street he'd spotted the back of the familiar bob, its sleek waves perched above the collar of an olive-green shirt whose rolled-up sleeves showed off its wearer's shapely forearms. The shirt looked new, or at least it wasn't one he'd seen before; for a panicked moment he'd wondered if he should have done better than his own navy denim button-down, comfortably faded from years of use and one of his few tops that wasn't a T-shirt. It was too late for sartorial regrets, however, so he'd pressed on until he was about an arm's length away. And then he'd simply halted, letting himself bask in the fact that this was happening.
They'd met up before, of course, too often to count over the course of a two-year acquaintance, but this felt incredible: he'd really managed to ask Haruki for a date, and Haruki really had said yes. There he was, reading something on his phone as he absently pushed his hair behind the shell of his left ear with his free hand, his fingertips lingering lightly on the curve of his nape.
(He'd last seen that nape on his bed a few nights ago, when he'd refrained from marking it only at Haruki's ragged entreaty, shifting his target to the skin between his shoulder blades with results no less successful. After they'd spent themselves on and in each other, he'd gone to the kitchen sink for water, returning to find Haruki turned towards the open window with his head pillowed on his arm and his lean frame stretched across the rumpled sheet, still naked except for Akihiko's T-shirt, which lay draped over his hip. The moon in the cloudless sky outside painted shadow and light over the angles of his shoulders and spine as the hand under his head held up his tousled hair, exposing his sweat-slicked nape to the breeze; he'd drunk the sight in, arrested, his breath stalling under a fresh wave of desire.)
And, standing on the street, he'd swallowed, once again at sea, until a salaryman rushing up from behind smacked into him and issued a loud, panicked apology while fleeing into the station. At this, Haruki had swung around, causing his stomach to bottom out as their gazes locked. Interminable seconds had passed; he'd finally persuaded his voice to say hi, amid Haruki's echoing of his flustered silence.
(He'd been hit by déjà vu about how they'd both handled his initial invitation, which he'd made over dinner at Haruki's place while being assaulted by nerves that persisted against all reason. When Haruki hadn't immediately responded, he'd briefly been plunged back into a spiral of doubt: they were officially together, weren't they? Why Haruki would say no? He liked these kinds of movies, didn't he? Or had he remembered wrongly? At this point, did it even matter that he'd given him a key to his place sooner than he'd found an occasion to ask him out? Nothing about their relationship had developed according to conventional wisdom: they'd slept together, even lived together, before he'd confessed his feelings, and none of those things had gone as planned, or had had any plan at all. But still he was anxious about doing things right, in the way that Haruki deserved to be treated, and he'd felt himself go internally limp with relief when Haruki had finally said, sounding about a semitone higher than normal and with a casualness no less forced than his own, that sounds amazing.)
Each time they met reminded him that this man's attractiveness grew in tandem with observation. On this particular occasion his attention was noticed, and Haruki glanced up at him, pink budding in his cheeks.
"Aren't you going to have your drink?"
Akihiko pulled his glass towards him, taking a long sip, and at the same time he stretched his legs under the table, closing his mules onto either side of Haruki's loafers. Haruki started, his flush deepening.
"Um, so..."
"Mm?"
"It does make me happy that you're doing all these things today, but...you really don't have to spend money on me, all right?"
"It's a date, isn't it? Besides, it was my idea."
"That doesn't mean we can't both chip in," Haruki countered. But Akihiko saw, with satisfaction, that he'd earned himself another smile.
"At least let me get this first one, OK? It's only a movie and dinner at an izakaya, anyway. You'll have to wait for me to win a violin competition, whenever that happens, before I take you somewhere fancier."
Haruki dropped his gaze as he took in a strawful of coffee.
"Don't worry about that—the thought's enough, and today…I've been meaning to ask, how do you know what kind of films I like? Have I told you?"
"You did when we first hung out after that class we both took, didn't you? We talked about our majors, the kinds of art we're into. I remember what you said, because I'd never heard about the Nouvelle Vague, and I had to look it up afterwards. I didn't admit that, obviously. Even then I already wanted to act cool in front of you."
Haruki kicked his foot gently, and he shrugged, pulling an innocent face.
"The thing is, most of the other grad students in my seminar are obsessed with the founders of that school—just now we saw those preshow trailers for the François Truffaut and Jean-Luc Godard retrospectives that theater's doing later this year, right? But I've always liked Agnès Varda more, out of the French directors. So I—I'm really happy we got to see a film of hers together."
"Me too," he said, reaching out to touch Haruki's hand. "I hadn't seen any of her work before today, and I don't know if I understood it properly, but I think I get why you like her. She's telling you something deep, but her characters are so…warm? Not always nice, but they have this humanity. At least that's what I felt."
"Right? Her works can feel almost like documentaries, but she's so intentional about her aesthetic and how she portrays people with authenticity. And her musical choices, too! Her third feature film uses these two Mozart pieces in a way you might enjoy—"
Haruki broke off with a cough. "I mean, uh, maybe we could watch that too, if you're interested? I have the DVD. Don't feel you need to say yes, though."
"Of course I'm interested," he said, raising a brow, and contemplating how to restore the brightness to Haruki's expression in place of the self-consciousness that had elbowed it aside. "I also liked the soundtrack for the film we just saw, actually. I'm going to check out more of the composer's work later."
"That's great. I don't know much about classical music, contemporary or otherwise, but Joanna Bruzdowicz—the composer, that is—also scored a bunch of Varda's other films, and I did think she might be up your alley."
"Since you understand so much about my tastes, you should ask me out next time," Akihiko said, quirking his mouth. "Whatever I think isn't even the point, honestly? I just want to see what you're into. I mean, I wouldn't say no to anything."
"Uh, what about that time you turned down my invitation to the mini film festival Take-chan helped organize?"
"That doesn't count," he protested. "I'd just started that new moving gig! So I could keep chipping in for our studio sessions, remember?"
Haruki paused, fiddling with his straw.
"The thing is, when we first met, I—you know, I never, ever expected you to like me back."
"You always underestimate yourself," Akihiko said, his voice low. "I keep on telling you that, and you never listen. Believe it or not, I already noticed you in class before you first approached me about the band. If I hadn't been so hung up over my previous relationship, I'd probably have hit on you for real."
"So you admit you were messing with me, you—"
"I know, I know, I was an ass. Sorry. You were too cute for me to behave."
He pretended to wince at Haruki's light kick to his shin, adding, "I'd also figured you were too good for me."
"W-what?"
"Well, your being in grad school, for starters. The media department at our university's pretty competitive, isn't it? I knew you were something, even without Take-san telling me that your undergraduate supervisor specifically recommended you apply to the masters' program."
"I, I wasn't the only one who got recommended—"
"Doesn't matter," Akihiko interjected, squeezing his hand. "You're the only one I'm interested in."
Haruki focused on the table, his cheeks in full blossom as he sucked in the remainder of his drink.
"How do you say things like that with a straight face?"
"The truth doesn't embarrass me, that's all."
He was met by an extended sigh. Haruki shook his head, looking up at him wryly.
"By the way...we've still got some time, and there's a record shop around here I've been meaning to check out. Wanna go?"
"Yeah," he said, smiling. "Sounds good."
He was still holding Haruki's hand, and he continued doing so as a gaggle of uniformed schoolgirls filed in, chattering while bent over their phones. The last one in their group, trailing the others with her hands in her skirt pockets and a bored look on her freckled face, momentarily gaped as she caught sight of them. He met her wide eyes with his sweetest grin and a finger on his lips, preventing Haruki's instinctive attempt to pull away; she nodded vigorously, flashing them an OK sign and a thumbs-up in sequence before hurrying after her friends.
"See, the kids are on our side."
Haruki covered his eyes with his free hand. "Akihiko—"
"Let's go, Haru," he said, tender and insistent.
He drained his coffee and stood up, tugging at Haruki to follow, and released his hand so he could take their glasses to the return counter. Dropping a few steps behind him on the way out, he shot the girl a wink as they passed her table. This time he received a double thumbs-up in response, and the automatic doors shut on the belated agitation of her companions—no way, what? Who's that guy? Isn't he like, super hot?!
"Maybe she recognized us from our band socials, right?" he said cheerfully, nudging Haruki's arm. "You never know. Eventually we might need to start thinking about how to interact with fans in person."
"You damn flirt," Haruki muttered, staring straight ahead.
"I'm going home with you, though."
After a quick check confirmed the lack of passersby, he leaned over and swept aside Haruki's hair so he could plant a kiss on his cheek, enjoying the stifled yelp this produced. Haruki issued no further protest, however; the backs of their hands brushed as they set off down the street, and the next glance Akihiko stole confirmed that he was smiling again.
The evening sun smiles and because you smile too I see tomorrow
Let's keep walking in step to the rhythm that you've set
Spitz, "The Evening Sun Smiles, You Smile Too"