Work Text:
“Hyacinths.”
Keito frowns, looking up from the pile of worksheets that he had been sorting through on his desk. “What?” he asks.
“Hyacinths,” Eichi repeats, running an index finger along the edge of one of the curled, purple petals of the flowers in the vase. “These are Hyacinths – did you know?” The blonde shifts his gaze from the plant, blue eyes curious as he looks at Keito. The late afternoon sun is filtering in through the half drawn blinds of the school council office, and the green haired boy only takes note of this because of the way the tips of Eichi’s hair are suddenly now a molten gold, bright and burning.
Taking a moment to swallow past the tickle in his throat, Keito replies, “I didn’t.”
At this Eichi smiles – though it’s more an absent upturn of the lips. “Apparently Hyacinths represent sorrow in the language of the flowers.” Plucking a small, half-bloomed bud from the bottom of a stem, the blonde holds it in the air above him and twirls it between his fingers. “For such a beautiful thing to be burdened with something so heavy,” he murmurs, “Doesn’t it seem tragic?”
Keito’s chest thumps an answering beat to Eichi’s question, and the tickle has turned into a scratch. “They’re flowers,” is what the green haired boy mutters instead, “Nothing more, nothing less.”
Capping the lid of his pen, Keito makes to stand up when a clasp on his wrist renders him motionless. The heat of Eichi’s palm seems to seep through the layers of cotton and wool that make up their uniform, and Keito, irrationally, is certain that if he were to look now, there would be a handprint branded onto his skin; a bracelet or a shackle, though, he cannot decide.
“Keito,” Eichi starts, letting his arm fall away as he scrutinises his childhood friend, “you should know better than I do that there is always more than what meets the eye.”
A sharp twinge of anxiety tugs at Keito’s gut, a whispering of what if he knows echoing in his head. He ignores both in favour of offering a raised eyebrow, asking, “We are talking about the flowers, aren’t we?”
Eichi looks at Keito for a moment longer before huffing out a laugh, eyes half-moon crescents as he smiles and says, “Yes, yes, the flowers.”
Keito nods, averting his gaze. “Good. Well,” a gesture to the sheets of paper on the table, “I have to bring these to the teacher, so you can go home ahead of me.”
So focused is he on counting the grains embedded in the wood of the table top that Keito doesn’t realise how close Eichi is until there’s another scorching touch on his shoulder and a pair of concerned blue eyes boring into his own.
Keito thinks that Eichi might be saying something, but he can’t hear it over the buzzing in his ears.
He’s illuminated by the sunlight now; Eichi, with a blinding white halo circled above his head, is ethereal. The green haired boy almost wants to look away – needs to… But he can’t. He’d always considered himself beneath Eichi: officially, the right hand man of the school president, personally, a friend of the son of the great Tenshouin clan. Now, however: Now, he thinks, it’s like looking at a god.
“…eito. Keito.”
The green haired boy blinks dazedly. Eichi’s brow is furrowed, and his lips are drawn down, and Keito thinks, ah, I’ve troubled him, haven’t I?
“Sorry, I’m fine,” Keito says, removing the blonde’s hand from his shoulder in a calculated move; he definitely isn’t fine, but that isn’t helping.
Eichi, naturally, is unconvinced. “Are you sure?” he frowns, “For a moment I was certain you were about to pass out – Did you not get much sleep? Or is it that you haven’t eaten today?”
The uncharacteristic barrage of questions sets off a flutter in the pit of Keito’s stomach, and he can’t help the way a smile tugs at his lips.
“I’m fine, really,” the green haired boy assures, “Worry about yourself, would you?”
Eichi chuckles, eyes glittering with mischief. “Ah, but if I did that, what would you do with your days?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Keito mutters, looking away as he adjusts his glasses – hoping with every fibre of his being that the blush on his cheeks isn’t visible to the other boy.
Eichi laughs again but mercifully changes the subject, nodding towards the pile of sheets on the desk as he says, “Don’t push yourself too hard, alright?”
Keito scoffs indignantly and makes a point to ignore the fond smile that he catches a glimpse of on Eichi’s face as the blonde leaves the office.
And then Keito is alone.
Making sure the door is locked, the green haired boy falls heavily onto his chair as he rubs his temples. When the tickle in his throat returns, Keito doesn’t fight it – doesn’t have the energy to; simply loosens his tie as he coughs and coughs and coughs, red rose petals falling from his mouth like bloody confetti: the proof of his love.
Of his demise.
When it’s over Keito’s throat burns and his head pounds, but nothing can compare to the pain in his chest – ever present, of course, but worse now that he has allowed himself to think back to the radiance of Eichi painted yellow in the light of the sun’s low rays.
Getting to his feet, Keito eyes the mess of scattered petals with a grimace of disdain. What a bother, he thinks, as he begins gathering them in his handkerchief. Though it’s more of an arduous task, the green haired boy is always careful to dispose of the evidence of his… condition, at home, away from prying eyes. Or at the very least, not in the bin in the corner of the school council office. Anywhere but there.
Gritting his teeth, Keito ties up the cloth and tucks it into his blazer pocket. The vase of Hyacinths sit unassumingly on the edge of the student council table; next to the porcelain lies the small bud Eichi had pulled off the plant. The green haired boy collects his things, shucking his bag up his shoulder. After a split second of deliberation he takes the bud and holds it in his hand as he leaves the room.
Swallowing past the itch in his throat, Keito rubs a curled petal with his thumb, thinks, It’s a flower, nothing more, nothing less.
He sighs.
Outside, the sun has set.