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It starts with a magazine.
Takahiro’s on cleaning duty with the rest of his junior class when he finds it innocuously tucked into a bookcase - the bright colour and thinner spine catches his eye - and upon opening it he’s almost certain it’s been stashed by one of the girls in his class. He’s on the verge of stuffing it back - it’s not his and if he’s caught, the teasing could be endless - but the contents make him pause.
Each section details this and that - gossip, idol groups, personality breakdowns, fashion - but it’s the tutorials that catch his attention; pages and pages worth devoted to nail art, colours, techniques - then onto more, girls and models with artfully applied eyeliner, pastel shades gracing eyes and lips and nails alike. Takahiro can hardly look away.
Eventually someone calls him and he startles; rolling the glossy pages up and stuffing them hastily into the band of his pants, tucked safely away under his uniform. It’s a split second decision and he can’t say why he’s done it, only that he wants a closer look.
Later at home, in the safety of his room, Takahiro pours over each section; particularly taken in by the neatness and the flairs of colour and how much softer or sharper the models look with what looks like so little effort. His hands shake as an idea forms, but he keeps reading, studying each picture and every set of instructions. Eventually, with pen in hand, he leaves cross marks beside the ones that really catch his eye - the ones that, maybe, he’d like to see on himself.
The thought alone sends his pulse hammering, but he’s smiling.
He safely stows the magazine away after that, but the idea never leaves him. In fact it grows until he can no longer ignore it and that’s probably the reason why, weeks later, he’s rooting around his Mother’s vanity (she’ll be home late, he’s got time), picking out a handful of colours and a bottle of acetone and scampering back to his room.
Hours and innumerable failed attempts later, Takahiro is grinning down at ten carefully painted toes - pale blue - and bites his lip as he applies the finishing touches to his pinky finger. His hands and feet match - even down to the clumsily applied dots of white in the shape of flowers on the larger nail beds of his thumbs and big toes - and he just can’t stop smiling.
Going to bed that night, Takahiro admires his fingers under the light of his lamp and curls up, happy and hopeful under the covers.
It doesn’t last.
Kids are cruel and although he’s never been a stranger to fights, to scathing words and put downs, Takahiro’s never been in a position where he can’t misdirect or defend himself before. There’s no running from this. Insults cut deep, blows land and make his eyes burn and his heart heavy, but he doesn’t give them the satisfaction of his tears, not like this.
Not till later, when he’s home nursing a black eye and busted knuckles, where he can blame his burning eyes and heaving breaths on the acetone fumes as he soaks away all of his hard work.
It smells bitter, like defeat.
After that, Takahiro throws himself into volleyball. The incident blows over and the world around him returns to normal.
Except it doesn’t.
He can only play at being a coward for so long before it chafes at him, twists his guts, and so the weekends become his. After school work, after practice, Takahiro leafs through a stack of worn magazines - purchased here and there with groceries and his mother's own picks to avoid any judgemental cashiers - and clumsy hands work through colours and designs, new techniques and old ones, and slowly he starts to smile again.
He hates the smell of acetone that heralds Monday morning, though.
Years pass, exams happen and Aoba Johsai is a breath of fresh air that Takahiro didn’t realise he needed. It is also accompanied by a revelation in the form of another student; Matsukawa Issei.
Matsukawa is a first year, but he’s the first person Takahiro has had to look up to since his last growth spurt. Instead of being intimidated, however, he’s completely stunned and more than a little in love. His fellow first year loves volleyball, has a chill factor verging on glacial, partakes in the type of verbal repartee Takahiro has only ever dreamt of finding in another person, and just so happens to exhibit an eyebrow and eyeliner game that is on another fucking level.
Their friendship is easy and instantaneous.
They quickly become permanent fixtures in each others lives and Takahiro sometimes takes time to marvel over it. Innumerable lunch times and sleep overs tick past, the volleyball tryouts come and go and soon they are part of a team.
His smile comes easier again.
They talk about everything and nothing, yet there’s still one subject that Takahiro can’t seem to breech. After practice, he watches Matsukawa define his eyebrows and brush on eyeliner like it’s second nature and he struggles to puzzle out the awe and envy he feels every time. No one dares to challenge his best friend, not that Takahiro has seen anyway and honestly, who’s going to take on both of them? He tries hard to ignore the hope that gives him.
Months later on a Sunday night before school he’s sitting, cotton pads and acetone poised, ready to erase his efforts of the previous day... but that hope burns hot in his chest, and he stops.
For the first time in four years, Takahiro packs everything away and goes to bed admiring his fingernails in the lamp light until he falls into an easy sleep.
The next day should be harrowing, but it’s not. There’s a handful of curious looks, but no one speaks up. No one except Matsukawa.
“Hey, cool. You’re good at this, huh?”
Takahiro shrugs like it’s not big deal, like it isn’t the biggest deal in the world, and Matsukawa flashes that smile that makes his stomach drop into his school shoes.
“Do mine?”
Mercifully, neither of them acknowledge how Takahiro’s voice breaks on a shaky sounding “Sure.” Or how much his hands sweat when he’s bent over his best friends nails.
Black is a good look on Matsukawa’s hands, so is silver and sometimes gold, but always block colours and strong geometric patterns; simple looking but difficult to achieve, or so Takahiro tells him, even with how easily he applies coats and layers and pokes holes in the claim.
Later, he finds Oikawa scrutinising his handiwork with an unreadable expression and cool dread fills his stomach. The worry of possible judgement snatches the breath out of him, but Takahiro oozes cool indifference when his now Captain approaches; his time around Matsukawa has taught him that much when dealing with opposition at least, but it never comes. Their Setter coos over what he’s done, warm and excited and demands similar treatment.
The next day, Oikawa’s sporting nails that look like the starry sky at night and beams like a new sun when he boasts about Makki’s talent, and if Takahiro’s face is the same colour as his hair most of the day no one is cruel enough to mention it.
More weeks pass and slowly Takahiro experiments, tries things and drops them along the way. Some days his eyebrows look particularly neat, others his eyes are more defined or his bone structure more apparent, but never all at once and never quite right. It frustrates him more than he cares to admit and that feeling comes to a head, one evening after practice.
By this point he’s watched Matsukawa complete his ritual for what feels like a million times, and though he practices Takahiro is no closer to those flawless, sleek lines and he hates it.
Frustrated for the last time, he snatches wipes from his locker and scrubs the mess he’s made off his face; swearing as he throws everything back into his bag and slams his locker in disgust.
The fuss he’s making catches Matsukawa’s attention immediately and he grabs Takahiro’s arm as his furious friend tries to barge past.
“Whoa--hey, what’s got into you?”
The look he levels at him makes Takahiro glad that they’re alone in the club room, because it’s tender and worried and makes him want to curl up and die for putting it on Matsukawa’s face. He doesn’t though, instead he scowls and looks away.
“Nothing. Let me go, Issei.”
He couldn’t sound less convincing if he tried and they both know it. Matsukawa tries again.
“No, look-- c’mere and sit down, yeah?”
It’s low and concerned and Takahiro is weak. He doesn’t fight him.
They sink down onto the bench by the lockers, facing each other and when Takahiro still can’t meet Matsukawa’s searching look, when he’s still huffing dismissively (“It’s nothing, it doesn’t matter.”) his friend does what he does best and comes to several conclusions without Takahiro having to say more.
“What were you trying to do?”
Sometimes he hates how perceptive Matsukawa is, but something in Takahiro is still envious and frustrated enough to dismiss it all over again.
“Doesn’t matter, I suck at it.”
He can see Matsukawa’s gaze go skyward, as if praying for patience, but then he’s reaching into his own bag and setting a smaller one between them.
“That’s not what I asked now is it?”
No, it’s not, and Takahiro has the good sense to look rueful as his shoulders slump.
“--like yours…” It’s 90% embarrassed mumbling, but Matsukawa gets the picture.
“..Okay. Close your eyes and hold still for me.”
It’s not a request and Takahiro complies; huffing and vulnerable, but trusting as he lifts his face and it’s all the okay Matsukawa needs.
He’s careful in his work; swiping Takahiro’s face with powder, hiding shadows here, highlighting there. He fills in the shape of light eyebrows and sweeps neat, dark lines across his closed eyelids; not as bold as his own, but sleek and sharp, just like the rest of Takahiro.
Once complete, Matsukawa admires his handy work, before tilting Takahiro’s chin up and sealing his efforts with a kiss. Takahiro’s eyes pop open, flushed to the roots of his hair and Matsukawa clears his throat, looking away to retrieve a mirror.
“There..”
He’s smiling sheepishly, fighting off his own flush and holding the mirror up for Takahiro’s inspection.
“..Now you don’t need blusher from the pallette..”
The best thing is, he’s right. It’s everything Takahiro’s ever wanted, blush and all.
His expression crumples and he’s pushing the mirror aside, in favour of grabbing Matsukawa in a tight hug; furtive thank you’s lost in the fabric of his blazer and the crook of his neck and he feels Matsukawa’s chest rumble with quiet laughter.
“Hey… Don’t cry, you’ll ruin my hard work..”
‘Shit- fuck you, I’m not..’
More nervous laughter bubbles between them and Takahiro tries to disguise his sniffling but it’s difficult when his chest feels this tight and Matsukawa is hugging him back just as hard.
They get lost in the quiet, neither wanting to pull away, that is until Takahiro’s mouth runs away from him and he’s blurting out exactly what he’s thinking.
“Wanna date?”
The quiet almost fills with tension, but Matsukawa is faster than that, his tone contemplative.
“..that depends..”
Takahiro holds his breath, that’s not a no..
“On what?”
A grin cuts into Issei’s words.
“On if you can keep up. I cant be the only stunning specimen in this relationship, you know.”
Takahiro snorts with laughter, burying closer into the hug to hide his delight.
“Wow, okay, definitely fuck you!”
“Only if you ask nicely and if you take me to dinner first.”
It’s so deadpan that all Takahiro can do is choke.
“Issei!”
“What? I’m serious, take me out, ‘Hiro.”
“Okay..” Takahiro pauses, tentative and hopeful all at once. “...teach me?”
“To do that? You go it, but I want payment first..”
Matsukawa pulls back the smallest amount to catch Takahiro’s eye and his expression is soft around the teasing quirk of his mouth.
“Kiss me?”
Takahiro shivers, happy and set alight at the request.
“Now that I can do.”
He does.