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It’s probably a testament to something that Kuramochi knows where to find him. Something embarrassing and pathetic clenching and unclenching in his stomach like a demented jellyfish, like trying to convince himself that it’s not like he’s got his senpai’s routine memorized or anything, he’s just observant, that’s all, and Ryousuke is surprisingly consistent for someone who could make a career out of dissolving into smoke and slipping through the crevices. He eats dinner, does his practice swings, and then he reads on his bed, sprawled out in that shockingly refined way of his; and if he gets thirsty, he goes to the vending machine.
Simple enough.
Look casual, Kuramochi berates himself, tugging on the hem of his T-shirt, covered with a thin sheen of sweat. Going to the vending machine on a hot summer night is a completely normal thing to do, so there is no reason for his heart to be attempting a violent boxing match with the walls of his ribcage. No reason whatsoever. He images Sawamura cackling, jamming his finger in his face and yelling something about karma.
Shut up, he grits back, clenching his teeth, and strangely enough, the image gives him courage.
It’s fucking cliché, that’s what it is, with the moonlight shining down on the vending machines in the space behind the building, making them glow silver and all. For fuck’s sake. It’s not like Kuramochi spends his time weeping over shoujo manga like the likes of Jun and Sawamura, but sometimes he can’t help it when it comes to the figure standing there in the shadows, hair almost violet in the moon, silhouette lithe and recognizable anywhere in light or darkness, hell or high water, as Kuramochi takes one step forward after another and—
“Oh, Ryou-san. Hey.”
Shit, his voice is already several pitches higher than he had intended. Shit, shit, shit. Kuramochi contemplates the pros and cons of actually buying a fucking drink and high-tailing it out of there like he’s supposedly doing, and then that asshole’s face looms, grinning, in his mind’s eye.
“I feel sorry for you,” Miyuki had drawled, smirking and shaking his head like his words were genuine. “But I guess it won’t be too hard for you to confess, since he probably already knows anyway.”
“You—!”
“Hahaha, it’s practically common knowledge, the way that you carry on—”
“I swear to god, I will pulverize you—”
“Calm down, calm down, will you? It’s not like I’m gonna tell anyone. Wouldn’t make a difference anyway, am I right? And besides—” And Miyuki had leaned forward, stretching his hand out toward the front of his desk, lowering his voice and making Kuramochi lean in like the sucker he is.
“I’ll bet you two thousand yen you can’t do it.”
So. Then.
Here he is.
“Oh. Kuramochi,” Ryousuke says in that gently disinterested tone of his, and fuck fuck fuck Kuramochi fucked up, he fucked up and he’s not going to survive this.
“You thirsty too?” he asks with a nervous chuckle that isn’t at all like his normal laugh, and wants to deck himself for the choice of words. Ryousuke is too perceptive for this shit, and Kuramochi is frankly not going to make it through the next few minutes of his life. His eye traces the shell of Ryousuke’s ear, delicate in a way that his senpai certainly is not, that could land someone in danger of being torn limb from limb and eviscerated if they ever mistook him for being so. Kuramochi never had that luxury.
Lucky for him, Ryousuke doesn’t choose to dignify that with a reply, only the most infinitesimal lift of his eyebrows that makes some corner of Kuramochi’s soul want to break down and cry.
“I just mean,” he starts, and then he shakes his head, fuck that. “Look, never mind. I wanted to ask you something.”
Does Ryousuke always start sipping his drink right here right now, after he buys it? Or is it part of his undoubtedly doorstopping manual of intimidation techniques that Kuramochi really needs to take a leaf out of someday if he wants to maintain his youthful brand?
“Is that so? Ask away,” Ryousuke says, settling back on his heels, patient, excruciatingly patient, and no one should ever have the right to look that simultaneously terrifying and beautiful while sipping a juicebox.
“Uh. Okay. So.” Why don’t they have a class for things like this? Or maybe they did, and Kuramochi just chose the wrong day to play hooky. He’s never felt sorrier for skipping school. “Well, the thing is. You see. I just wanted to—I was thinking and I thought you might—it’s a question about—”
“Honestly, Kuramochi, I don’t have all night,” Ryousuke interrupts, honey sweet.
Batting techniques!!! one corner of his brain screams. Going over plays!!! But Kuramochi pictures the gloat on Miyuki’s face, the waggle of his fingers as he watches him fork over a crisp two thousand yen bill, seething, and he stomps out that part of himself by force. Like hell.
“Ryou-san,” he starts again, and okay, now his voice is at the right register, low and steady and maybe a little bit gravelly, and Ryousuke is watching him with undivided attention, and now they’re talking, now they’re in business, “I wanna ask you what you would do if somebody liked you.”
Shit, you’re smooth, one part of his brain whispers in awe, and the other tells him, You’re going to die.
But even though he stops sipping his juice, Ryousuke’s smile is all too placid for this conversation, and Kuramochi’s too high on the aftermath of making a bad decision to even feel panic. Then he hears Ryousuke’s laugh, soft and velvety, and he can feel his stomach react to that even through the haze. “Are you asking for someone in particular?”
“Are you gonna make me say it? Because dammit, Ryou-san—”
“You said you had a question to ask,” Ryousuke says, calm and ruthless as ever, “so ask it.”
And Kuramochi could curse himself for ever meeting someone like Kominato Ryousuke, for liking him, for coming to this school to play baseball, for taking up baseball in the first place because goddamn if that doesn’t make him want to open his mouth and step up to the challenge Ryousuke’s thrown at him since day one. He takes a breath and steels himself, plumbs the depths and figures out what he’s made of.
“If I told you I liked you—what would you say?”
“Ah, I’m glad we finally got there,” Ryousuke says with a tranquil sigh. He brings the juicebox back up to his lips, and it’s all Kuramochi can do not to snatch it out of his hand and fling it on the ground.
“Well? What would you say?”
“I was thinking,” Ryousuke hums, as if he has all the time in the world, “I wouldn’t say anything.”
“Wha—oh.” Kuramochi swallows. His throat feels thick. “Okay.” At least he tried. He won’t go home empty-handed on a technicality, and Miyuki will probably smile at him apologetically and give him a consoling pat on the back but at least he won’t be able to give him shit. He tries to walk away, but his shoe’s stuck to the pavement. “If it’s like that—”
He hears Ryousuke laugh again, and he barely has an instant to wonder how sadistic he might actually be when there’s a cool hand on his neck and suddenly he’s off-balance, hooked downward and suddenly he tastes grape juice on his lips, soft and disarming.
Ryousuke lets him go, and Kuramochi blinks, feeling his face warm. A chuckle of disbelief rises in his throat. He can see the curl of Ryousuke’s lashes from here, the curve of his smile angled toward him, unthinkably close.
“R-Ryou-san—”
“Anything at all,” Ryousuke echoes, smile widening, and kisses him again.