Chapter Text
Zaizen's eyes lower to the strange—almost impossible—sight in front of him; Aoyama, drenched. That in itself is an oxymoron. He can't help the laugh that escapes, loud and stunned.
"No way you freaking forgot your umbrella," he says, astonished, his steps faltering as he draws closer.
Aoyama glances at him, calm as ever. Almost like the rain itself: gentle, steady, unbothered. "Someone took my umbrella," he explains, deadpan.
Zaizen quirks an eyebrow, baffled that anyone even got their hands on it— let alone near it. Zaizen’s grip on his umbrella tightens, pulse quickening.
Why does he care? The reluctance and absurdity of it hitting him square in the chest.
Ignoring the thought, he makes his way over anyways. Long strides until the umbrella shields them both.
Flustered by the idea of sharing, he tips it toward Aoyama averting his gaze— so Aoyama can’t see the sheen of pink on his cheeks, rain dotting his back gently. In retrospect, it’s peculiar to consider how this even happened. They’re somewhat far from school now, with only suburban streets and old barely maintained streetlamps surrounding them; no wonder Aoyama hadn’t made a beeline for shade.
If he did, he’d be trespassing. Even so, he bets if Aoyama knocked on any door, an umbrella would be in his hand instantaneously. As if it was second nature—like it was an umbrella’s birthright to belong there. He almost laughs at the thought. It’s ridiculous. But that’s exactly the kind of energy Aoyama cultivated without realising.
Pure idiotic eccentricities. Stacked upon each other; layer by layer— from male delinquent fanboys to hordes of people chasing him over his transparent blue scent.
“Here,” he mutters, scratching the back of his head, suddenly sheepish. “So, you can get home. I’ll call my driver.” His ears burn pink at his own bluntness, embarrassed at his own admission.
Aoyama eyes him calmly. Not stunned, not moved, not shocked. Just… steady. Always steady. He accepts it with gloved hands, and Zaizen lets go with a huff. “Thank you.” Aoyama replies simply, yet Zaizen’s heart lurches. He cusses at himself internally, almost shameful. “It’s nothing.” He mutters, heart way too loud.
The soft thump, thump, thump reverberates through his bones. Almost louder than the rain. This is nothing. God, what am I thinking? I’m pathetic. He thinks; yet the moment the umbrella slips from his grasp; and the slight contact of vinyl touches his bare skin— his breath hitches, and his body goes taut. Seized.
His jaw locks, gaze downcast, he prays Aoyama didn’t notice.
Yet Aoyama, as graceful and efficient as ever, simply lifts the umbrella to cover both him and Zaizen. Zaizen blinks in disbelief. The simplicity yet implication of it. His ears go red and he reaches for his phone to call Jeeves; an excuse to hide his ears and to get out of this coma-inducing situation.
And as if God’s fucking with him, the call goes straight to voicemail. You’re fucking kidding me. He wants to throw the phone into upcoming traffic. He restrains himself. Barely.
His nerves prickle under his skin, and his jaw clenches tight— somehow even tighter than earlier. “Shit…” he murmurs, the grasp on the phone growing a portion tighter.
Aoyama eyes him indifferently. “Your expression changed.” he states, matter-of-factly; his voice is level, almost diagnostic and Zaizen bristles, ready to defend himself but decides against it. “Yeah driver’s probably busy with errands for pa- I mean my old man.”
Aoyama hums, composedly. A soft hn. He glances at Zaizen, as if weighing options before deciding, “Then we’ll walk.” Aoyama then pauses for a second; as if processing further, “Together.”
Huh? What?
Zaizen coughs; then does a double take. “Walk… together? You, and me? Like home? Like walk home together?” God, he hates how stupid he sounds, but he can’t help but speak like falling dominoes toppling on one another. He only turns redder in embarrassment.
Aoyama briefly pauses, eyeing Zaizen’s distinct redness before cataloguing it absent-mindedly in his mind. His face shows a tentative pause at the idea before clarifying. “No… I’ll walk you home. Then I’ll walk home.”
That snaps Zaizen out of his flustered haze, earning a rowdy laugh. Raw and unfiltered. Aoyama is so Aoyama. Even now, always so strict. Unbending and unchanging and frankly, always true to himself, something Zaizen has come to admire to a degree. “Tch, really not gonna let anyone see where you live?” Zaizen retorts; almost coy. A haphazard smirk on his face.
Aoyama glances at him unfazed. “Of course not.” He replies, monotone. Always so sure; never leaving room to pry. Zaizen lips almost quirk up into a smile, but he suppresses himself.
“Alright well, I’m not far, but it’s not exactly close either.” Zaizen warns, voice somewhat sturdy. and Aoyama nods, unbothered by the notion. “And… it’s uphill. You’re sure? Like. Certain?”
Aoyama glances at him again, raising his eyebrows the slightest fraction. His equivalent of a, “Seriously?” and Zaizen actually laughs, short and small.
To anyone else, they might’ve not noticed at all, but Zaizen’s gotten embarrassingly good at reading Aoyama’s subtle demeanour changes, the minimalism in his mannerisms. Always tightknit, subtle and never wasteful. Zaizen’s come to like that too, but he’d never admit so out loud.
“Alright, alright.” He says, raising his hands in defeat. “I warned you though. So don’t be upset okay clean-freak?”
Aoyama simply let’s out a small sigh, as if to tell Zaizen make up your mind. Before Zaizen knows it—Aoyama is moving. Quickly expelling Zaizen’s aversion and forcing him to move before the offer disappears altogether.
“Oi- Wait! I’m coming!” Zaizen quickly says. Rushing to Aoyama’s side. Ao merely glances at him.
“Cheeky bastard.” Zaizen retorts, a hint of bashfulness underneath the undignified grumble.
Aoyama let’s out a small hum as if to acknowledge his own ridiculousness before falling a step behind Zaizen so he can guide. Their steps fall in sync quickly. Umbrella barely big enough to fit the both of them; Zaizen slightly angled out; too broad to fit. Shoulder stippled with rain.
Zaizen is careful not to overcrowd, pacing his steps deliberately to match Aoyama’s, yet one step ahead. They’re closer than they’ve ever been, and Zaizen lets out a shaky exhale now that is bravado has slipped away; his nerves as taut as a harp string tied too tight. Off key and mistuned, he tries to not let it simmer.
As they walk, a part of him wonders if Aoyama would faint at the brushing of their shoulders. A part of him wants it, not for Aoyama to faint but instead for the brief impossible touch. His heart quickens at the thought. Thump, thump, stupid, thump, thump, thump, selfish.
Zaizen bites his tongue as if to bite back the words in his head. He doesn’t want to be like those stupid groupies which stare and drool over Aoyama over practice. He refuses to be; yet his thoughts—as if separate from his conscious betray him with a conviction firmly rooted. As if it were inscribed long ago.
It must be hell— or maybe just tedious. To constantly enforce firm rejections to a million confessions a day, and apart of him deep— down, pities Aoyama for that. The way they chase, yearn...and borderline harass.
It’s not like Zaizen’s never been confessed to or never liked anyone; he has — and so he understands…but Aoyama is so unyielding, so different and so difficult; half of these girls are adamant over claiming a man they’d barely know how to tolerate. It’s palpable, their idiocy. They don’t see him as a person, just an angel to be worshipped, and Zaizen hates it. He can’t help but feel protective to a degree over the younger male.
He grips his bag a bit tighter. The thought braced against his spine, folding itself against his ribs, right behind his heart.
He also hates that he cares; he hates that he feels like it concerns him when it doesn’t. Aoyama isn’t his to protect or to shield. But he does anyways. Always angling himself to take the brunt before Aoyama can. Always taking the hit. Always defending. Always loud; as if noise will mask his affection. He knows there’s something more in the way he looks at Aoyama. An acknowledgement buried beneath bruised skin. The kind you hide.
He's not even sure between flesh or bones if any of his words mask anything. Aoyama’s gaze is the kind that melts all that away.
It's like he’s taken a bite of an apple he shouldn’t have. A taste that cast him out of grace.
It eats at him, like punishment. His jaw ticks. He clenches his bag a little tighter.
He wonders if Aoyama would ever hate him for it.
The sound of their breath fills the space between them; soft, steady, as in sync as their steps. A stark dichotomy to Zaizen’s heart, an utter derailing from his mind.
Outwardly, they walk in silence for a while, an expected kind of silence; not necessarily comfortable but well-acquainted. One where no one is really pushing. Just accepting, it slides in naturally. The kind of quiet that sometimes accompanies them when Zaizen walks Aoyama to soccer practice. Familiar, grounding. The rain patters harder against the umbrella, the steady downpour growing greedier. Pavement slick beneath their shoes. The walk more straining as gravity shifts against them.
Zaizen’s too caught up in his head to notice. Still juggling the weight of his own emotions. Entranced— he nearly slips. “Shit!” — Aoyama’s gloved hand reaches out to steady him, grabbing his arm intently. Steadying him. The umbrella standing tall. Aoyama balancing both Zaizen, himself and the plastic dome.
Zaizen mutters a low curse, and a quick thank you. Face flushed pink, embarrassed at his clumsiness and mortified at the fact Aoyama reached out; half fulfilling the incipient through from earlier. He stares at him, star-struck, “S-Sorry… It’s really wet.”
It's a weak excuse, that barely covers up the hammering of his heart.
Aoyama blinks slowly at the absurdity of Zaizen’s statement. “Yes… it’s raining”, Aoyama replies, clinically. He tilts his head ever so slightly. “You seem distracted.” He states, as dry as ever.
Zaizen stiffens at his words. Caught like a hare in a wolf’s grip. “…Yeah, didn’t mean to slip”, he confesses, “It’s nothing.” He lies easily, yet Aoyama eyes him with a grace that does not bend, a tenacity that bites. The firm kind: the type that roots you steady, strips you soft; cradles you raw and bare. Frayed.
Zaizen can’t help but regret the lie— he always does around Aoyama. His eyes are so blue, a specific blue. Ocean-blue; the kind you see in holiday pamphlets. The kind that washes over you gently, his gaze feels so silk soft that Zaizen might drown. The air escapes him, and all oxygen denies him. He feels somehow outcast. It’s like Aoyama is hellbent on undoing him. Unravelling him, or maybe it’s Zaizen pulling himself apart, he can’t tell.
Aoyama’s grip remains firm. “Zaizen-san,” Aoyama comments, clipped yet the slightest hint of worry carries through, and of course Zaizen senses it.
His voice is so deep. Smooth. Cold yet warm. So damn contradictory.
Zaizen blinks, forcing himself back into reality.
“I’m fine.” Zaizen clarifies, startled and slightly ashamed of his thought just then. Jutting his shoulder away; loosening Aoyama’s grip. The loss of warmth hums under his skin; the memory coils tightly in his chest.
“You’re overthinking.” Aoyama proses. Not even a question—a statement solidified in cement.
“I’m not.” Zaizen retorts, yet it’s weak. His usual bravado slipping away like the rain into soiled gutters. “You're worrying over nothing clean-freak I'm not.” He echoes, a lie again.
Aoyama doesn’t falter for a second. He’s not dumb; and he reads people far too easily. Aoyama isn’t the kind to pry, instead he cuts methodically. Irrefutable. So he waits. They continue step after step, until they’re at the gates of Zaizen’s estate.
The entire time Zaizen has refused to meet his gaze, the awkwardness brimming under his skin, both at the mediocrity of it all, and jarringly the cacophony of it. A plethora of cusses spiral inside Zaizen’s mind. The shame, guilt, embarrassment all sown into one messy core; poisoning his throat and bravado all at once.
Before they part, Aoyama asks Zaizen again. “Are you still overthinking?” His voice is stern. Monotone, laced with absolute definite precision.
Zaizen finally meets his gaze. The temptation to lie taunts him. Eyes dazed. Weary. He decides not to lie this time.
“Yeah.”
The sincerity feels like a sin.