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Kei watches Yamaguchi peel a clementine with soft, meticulous hands, with fingernails bit to the quick. An anxious habit that still persists no matter how many anti-bite polishes he’s tried, his hands still fly over to his mouth at first sign of distress, leaving Kei to carefully pry away his fingers as to not cause an infection with all that exposed epidermis. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t endlessly fascinated by it, though.
“Here,” Yamaguchi says, grinning as he offers him a half. ”So you don’t get scurvy,” he says, then peels off a slice for himself, juice dripping on his hands as he sinks his teeth into it, fingertips stained with it.
It’s one of the few sunny days in mid March, and the cement porch steps are dry to sit on, for once. His fingertips grace the hard cement as he reaches into his bag for a napkin. Yamaguchi has discarded his uniform jacket in favor of basking in the warmth of the afternoon with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his face turned towards the sun. It always feels a little bit like a miracle, the arrival of spring. In like a lion, as they say, out like a lamb.
And here they are, stuck right in the middle.
He opens his mouth and carefully places a slice of clementine on his tongue and savors the tangy sweetness of it.
”I think it’s going to rain later,” Yamaguchi says, eyeing a couple of dark clouds in the distance warily, like they’ll approach faster if he takes his eyes off of them. Somehow seemingly inane things never sound inane coming from his mouth, perhaps because they always sound more like gentle inquiries. Kei’s mouth twists.
”Do you still want to come over later?”
Yamaguchi blinks at him, slow and deerlike. His eyelashes are absurdly long, casting shadows on his cheeks. Kei has tried counting them in the past. ”’Course.”
“You can stay the night if you want.”
“Okay,” Yamaguchi says with a shrug as if the thought hadn’t even occurred to him, but Kei knows better than to believe it, knows him better. He carefully wipes his hands on the napkin, and watches as Yamaguchi simply licks his fingers clean. ”Yeah, okay,” he says, more to himself this time.
There’s not a whole lot of time left until midterms, and Kei wants to savor moments like these, cradle them close so they don’t fade and vanish with time. So he sort of detests it when Yamaguchi eventually starts packing his things, slipping his lunch box back into his shoulder bag, along with his marine biology textbook, shrugging the jacket back on his wiry shoulders. He sighs.
”Tsukki,” Yamaguchi says mournfully, as if reading his thoughts. ”Can’t we just skip last period.”
”You can skip last period,” Kei says, barely holding back a grin. ”I’d actually like to graduate one day.”
Yamaguchi pouts, dragging his nails across cement. It makes Kei wince a little bit, and whether it’s the sound or the mental image of split fingernails, he’s not entirely sure. ”You’re no fun,” he says.
Later that afternoon, Yamaguchi is sitting cross-legged on his bed, idly rifling through a some science magazine laid open in his lap, humming under his breath. The window is ajar, and every now and then a breeze ruffles his hair gently, the last rays of sunlight painting his hair in vibrant golds.
He blindly passes Yamaguchi the controller and presses the power button on the console and listens to it whir softly as it slowly wakes from its slumber, pushing warm air through the vents. He wonders what would happen if he were to completely take it apart one day, how many dust bunnies would he find gathered in the corners, how many rusted parts in need of replacing. If someone just put in the effort. He wonders if people look at him and think the same thing.
Yamaguchi nudges him with his foot from where he’s perched on the edge of the mattress.
”Gross,” Kei comments airily, eyes lingering pointedly on the dirty soles of his white tennis socks.
”You’re gross,” Yamaguchi shoots back immediately, retracting his foot.
”Nice one.”
It rains. The droplets hit the window panels in a strange cacophony of sound like the rain is coming sideways, and whenever it picks up Yamaguchi’s shoulders inch closer to his ears.
Game over text flashes on the screen. Kei closes the window.
There’s a fly stuck between the window panels, Kei watches its limbs twitch, stiff with the remnants of winter. He looks away, his gaze landing on Akiteru’s old film camera on the windowsill gathering dust, the books stacked in the corner by the bed in a crooked pile, a deck of cards sitting on top of it. Outside, a flash of lightning. He remembers Akiteru would count the seconds out loud, eating tayaki cake cross legged on Kei’s bed and getting crumbs all over his bedsheets. One, two, three—
“You lost, Yamaguchi,” Kei says over the distant rumble of thunder, and divides the numbers by three in his head.
“What? No? That didn’t count,” Yamaguchi says. “One more time.”
Kei shakes his head. “We have to turn the power off,” he says. “The storm is close.”
Yamaguchi glances out of the window nervously, his knuckles turning white where his hands are clutching the backs of his knees. ”Right,” he says.
“I have an idea,” Kei says, picking up the deck of cards from the windowsill and tossing them to Yamaguchi who scrambles to catch them.
“No way,” Yamaguchi says. “I’m not playing cards with you.”
Kei grins. “Sore loser.”
“Dirty cheater,” Yamaguchi retorts, but starts shuffling the deck nonetheless. ”I’ll pick the game.”
The game of his choosing is a mix of slap jack and go fish, something they came up with back in junior high when the rules of regular slap jack became too boring. Two sevens and Yamaguchi slams his hand down on the stack like his life depends on it. Kei is just a fraction faster, however, which is unfortunate because Yamaguchi doesn’t hold back when it comes to winning even at the risk of losing fingers, which means Kei will definitely end up with bruises in the morning.
The thing about Yamaguchi that most people still don’t seem to understand, is that Yamaguchi absolutely hates losing. Kei likes this the most about him.
Kei picks up the stack, hand stinging, watches as the skin slowly turns red.
It eventually evolves into a wrestling match when Kei uses a moment of distraction to swipe couple of the remaining cards on the table, and ends with Yamaguchi pinned to the floor on his back underneath Kei, utilizing the slight height advantage he has to the fullest.
”I knew it,” Yamaguchi accuses, flailing his limbs in an attempt to shake him off. ”Cheater.”
”I was just- ow- just fixing the deck.”
”Liar,” Yamaguchi says, managing to free his left foot and aiming a kick at his knees, managing to knock his glasses askew in the process, and Kei will definitely have bruises on his shins the next morning as well, from the way Yamaguchi keeps kicking at his legs. “Tsukki,” he complains.
A strong wind rattles the window panels, eyes widening as lightning strikes outside and Yamaguchi stills underneath him, a rigid set to his shoulders. He feels horribly vulnerable like this, his pulse racing under his skin where Kei’s hands are wrapped around his wrists.
What a dangerous thought to have.
And it’s a fatal one as well, as Yamaguchi chooses to use his momentary distraction to kick him off balance so that their positions are reversed.
”I win,” he says next to his ear where he’s leaning over him, straddling his hips with his legs tight around his waist, effectively immobilizing him.
”You win,” Kei agrees breathlessly, letting his head hit the floor with a soft thunk.
Yamaguchi stares at him for a while unblinkingly before dissolving into breathless laughter. His shirt has ridden up to reveal a sliver of bare skin and Kei’s eyes linger involuntarily on the soft swell of his stomach for a moment too long, stuck on the way the muscles jump under the skin as he laughs, gently fizzling out into quiet giggles, seafoam meeting shoreline. He wonders briefly how it would feel to touch, how the curve of his waist would fit into the cradle of his palm. His fingers twitch.
The next roll of thunder seems to shake the foundation of the entire building, picture frames rattling on the wall, the lights flickering.
Yamaguchi flinches.
His grip loosens around his wrists as he stares unseeingly out of the window, his face turning pale white as a bolt of lightning illuminates the sky. The curtains. Kei curses under his breath. He should’ve closed the curtains. Without thinking, Kei sits up and reaches for him, pressing his hands firmly on his ears and Yamaguchi’s gaze snaps to him instantly, his eyes wide, his chest heaving with too short breaths. When they were younger, Yamaguchi would always cry during thunderstorms. Now he just blinks rapidly once, twice, then two more times, but his eyes stay dry. ”Don’t look,” Kei says softly ”Don’t look, Yamaguchi.”
Yamaguchi nods slowly, and Kei watches as he inhales his lungs full and holds his breath and exhales slowly, carefully leaning forward until his forehead rests tentatively against the curve of his shoulder.
”It’ll pass,” Kei says quietly, for the lack of anything better to say. It doesn’t come out right. Kei has never been good at comfort. Yamaguchi gives him a sour look through his lashes, although it lacks its usual heat. Kei can feel the tremors through his skin, the way his heart pounds in his chest.
Yamaguchi sighs, defeated, hanging his head. ”Can you,” he starts, then stops himself.
”Hmm?”
”Can you hold me,” Yamaguchi mutters, embarrassed, his face warm where it’s pressed against against the side of his neck even through the extra layer of fabric, shoulders tense like he’s expecting Kei to make fun of him for needing this. There’s something discomforting about this realization. He bites his lip, something heavy settling under his ribcage.
A little hesitantly, Kei wraps his arms around his shoulders and he feels a warm puff of air against his neck as Yamaguchi exhales a shaky breath, eyes scrunched shut, warm and solid in his arms like he belongs there. The material of his hoodie is soft under Kei’s hands. They stay like that as the storm pushes through the floorboards and rattles the aluminum sheets that cover the expanse of the rooftop.
He runs a hand slowly down the length of his spine experimentally, tracing each individual vertebrae with the tip of his index finger, and Yamaguchi shivers, a soft strangled noise caught in the back of his throat, his fingers clenching where they’re holding on to the back of his shirt.
Yamaguchi clears his throat softly. ”Sorry,” he says quietly, turning his head so that his cheek rests on his shoulder, his face turned towards the wall, shoulders tense like he’s moments away from running away. ”I know you don’t really like touching people like this,” he says.
Kei shakes his head, his hand finding the nape of his neck, thumb rubbing small circles until Yamaguchi relaxes into him with a sigh, the tension bleeding from his body. ”I don’t mind if it’s you.”
Then soft, barely audible, “Oh.”
”Did you know that cephalopods have three hearts?” Yamaguchi asks, turning to look at him over his shoulder. He’s been reading a book on deep sea fishes for the better part of their break while Kei has been rummaging through a bag of sour candies for the strawberry flavored ones, separating them into a neat pile on a napkin apart from the rest on his desk.
”Imagine if people had three hearts, Tsukki,” Yamaguchi says with a smile and Kei’s eyes are inadvertently drawn to the freckles on his cheeks. Three hearts? Just one is already nuisance enough.
Kei hums noncommittally. “What else?” he asks despite himself. Or maybe not, because if there’s one person on this planet he’s always willing to indulge it’s Yamaguchi.
Yamaguchi hums, licking his finger to turn a page and logically Kei should find it disgusting and yet his eyes still linger on his mouth.
”Cuttlefish only live for two years,” he says, brow furrowing. ”That’s kind of sad,” he adds, mouth twisting, the smallest furrow appearing between his brows, and Kei desperately wants to smooth it out with the backs of his fingers.
”I don’t think it’s sad,” Kei finds himself saying, the strawberry candy clinks pleasantly against his back molars, a lingering sour-sweetness on his tongue. He twists his hands in his lap. ”It just is the way it is.”
”How profound,” Yamaguchi says in whisper, and it takes Kei looking at him to realise that he’s teasing him. He scowls.
Yamaguchi finally turns around, nudges him with a foot. ”If I was a fish would you be a fish with me, Tsukki?” he asks brightly.
”What kind of a hypothetical is that?” Kei asks with a sigh and Yamaguchi visibly deflates. It makes something uncomfortable settle in his stomach. ”What kind of fish would I be, then,” he asks, and Yamaguchi perks up again.
”A pretty one,” Yamaguchi says quietly, his cheeks turning a fitting salmon pink, his fingertips pressed to his mouth, gnawing on a loose piece of skin.
”Pretty,” Kei echoes rather stupidly.
”Yeah, Tsukki,” Yamaguchi says. His teeth close in on the tip of his index finger, a drop of blood bubbling up to the surface. He grimaces. Kei gently peels his hands away from his mouth.
”You think so?” he asks. Yamaguchi’s hands are warm cradled between his, his palms calloused from hours devoted to practice. His chest feels tight.
”Everybody thinks so,” Yamaguchi says informatively like he’s still reading his book, like this is just one of the fundamentals of how the world works. There’s something almost resigned about it, in the curve of his spine, in the slightest downturn of his mouth.
Kei stares at him. ”Yamaguchi,” he starts. The bell rings. Yamaguchi just smiles at him, and Kei watches him get swept away by the current.
Kei sits still at his desk with is headphones on, a strange ache in his wrist that radiates from the lunate bone to the tip of his index finger, and perhaps his veins protrude more than usual, today. He frowns, holding his hand up for closer inspection, his whole body feeling like an exposed nerve. He feels simultaneously too big and too small for his skin.
Yamaguchi holds out a hand and just sort of waggles his fingers in a polite request for Kei’s attention rather than outright demanding it. Kei feels smitten with him. He removes his headphones and loops them back around his neck.
”Is your hand okay?” Yamaguchi asks.
”Yeah,” he says, and his throat feels sore as well. He presses his fingertips to the base of his thumb. Did he sprain it during practice? ”It’s fine.”
”Are you sure?” Yamaguchi asks softly. ”Can I see?” he asks and Kei nods and squeezes his eyes shut, wincing as Yamaguchi carefully cradles his hand, bottom lip pulled between his teeth in concentration, examines the callouses in his fingers. ”Did you sprain it during practice?” he asks.
”Maybe. I don’t know,” Kei says, lets out a frustrated breath. “I might have.”
Yamaguchi nods, then presses his mouth to the soft underside of his wrist. He used to do that when they were kids, but it’s been years. Kei’s brain short circuits. There isn’t enough oxygen in the entire room to fill his lungs.
”Hm,” Yamaguchi says, and nothing else, oblivious to the internal turmoil he’s inadvertently caused, the ripples, the waves. ”You should get that looked at.”
Summer nights are colored teal and orange, the billowing waves crashing against the tall rocks reflecting the setting sun and houses built on top of the hill with the lights still. Kei’s cheeks are a little flushed as he raises the bottle of lukewarm beer to his lips, his bare feet dipped in the water. Their shoulders bump, Yamaguchi prying the bottle from his hands, a little clumsy, his hands a little cold. A wave crashes to the shore, the water rising up to his knees.
”What are you going to do?” Yamaguchi wonders out loud, turning to him.
Kei frowns. ”Now?”
Yamaguchi snorts. ”Not now. Like, in general. With your life. I don’t know,” he says laying his palm flat on the sand. The sun dips behind the horizon, the fading glow bathing him in muted oranges and golds, summer freckles kissing his skin. Kei feels a bit sunburned looking at him.
“Am I supposed to know that,” he asks. “Is anyone?”
“My dad wants me to go to school in Sendai,” Yamaguchi says in lieu of a response, with a handful of sand in his cupped palm. It slowly seeps through the spaces between his fingers like an hourglass.
“Oh,” Kei says.
“It’s not a bad idea, and I mean, it’s not that far,” Yamaguchi adds. Kei hums, passing him the bottle. Yamaguchi’s fingers trip on their way, brushing against his palm. “Say something,” he says.
“Something,” Kei says obediently.
Yamaguchi gently shoves at him, his shoulder warm pressed against Kei’s, adoration dancing in his eyes. He huffs. “Tsukki.”
“I don’t know, okay,” he says and lays his hand on top of Yamaguchi’s on the sand, playing with the backs of his fingers, not sure if his soft hitch of his breath is just his imagination. He swallows a lump in his throat. “It’s all so big.”
“Yeah,” Yamaguchi says quietly. If he’s disappointed, he’s good at hiding it. “I know.”
Kei hesitates. His fingertips walk across the back of his hand, tracing over every bump of a knuckle, the skin slightly rough to touch. “Your hands are cold,” he says.
“We can’t all be walking radiators, Tsukki.”
“Yamaguchi,” he says softly, his heartbeat in his fingertips. “I’m asking if I can hold your hand.”
“Oh.”
He turns his palm up, a silent invitation. Kei carefully slots his hand in the gaps between his fingers. He can feel his own pulse in his wrist, rabbit quick, Yamaguchi’s thumb gently sweeping across his knuckles. He feels dizzy.
”Your heart is beating so fast,” Yamaguchi says, in awe.
His cheeks heat, embarrassed. ”Yamaguchi.”
”Kei,” Yamaguchi counters with a smile and oh, he's lethal.
“It’s so hot, Tsukki,” Yamaguchi complains, fanning himself with his shirt, a drop of sweat in the dip between his collarbones. Kei’s fingers twitch where they’re curled in the sheets. “We should go to the aquarium,” he says, a little too quick to be casual, glancing up at Kei from beneath his lashes and Kei nearly chokes on his own spit. “I bet they’ve got good air conditioning there,” he adds.
“Okay,” Kei says.
Yamaguchi blinks, slowly. “Just like that?”
“Yeah, why not,” Kei says.
“I had a sales pitch and everything,” Yamaguchi says.
“Did it include a powerpoint presentation?”
“You know it,” Yamaguchi says brightly and hops off the bed and grabs his phone from the bedside table and tossing it into his bag. “I’ll buy you an ice cream, Tsukki.”
“Two,” Kei bargains. “We’re going now?”
He allows Yamaguchi to tug him on his feet with a boyish grin, warm hands wrapped around his wrists. Yamaguchi just beams at him, standing close enough for Kei to count the freckles on the tip of his nose. “No time like the present,” he chirps, seeming unaware that he’s still holding Kei’s hands, and Kei gently draws away from him before he does something stupid like kiss him.
The closest aquarium is forty-five minutes by bus since neither of them has their license yet, so they end up squeezed together on the too-warm bus seats with shared earbuds. There’s a shared playlist on his iPod, periodically updated every month for several years now and every now and then Yamaguchi taps him on the shoulder to feed him a piece of sour candy while Kei curates their soundtrack, ignoring Yamaguchi’s complaints as he happily skips past three songs in a row without a second glance, the candy clicking against his front teeth. He eventually settles for Maria Takeuchi as a compromise after Yamaguchi aims a sharp kick at his shins after his fourth skip. Yamaguchi seems reasonably appeased at this. He hums quietly under his breath, his breath tickling Kei’s neck.
“How do you have the same music taste as my middle aged aunt,” Kei wonders out loud.
“At least your aunt understands romance,” Yamaguchi says mournfully, and closes his eyes with a melodramatic sigh. His lashes kiss his cheeks and Kei loses focus.
They reach their destination by noon and Kei lets himself be pulled along to the till while Yamaguchi buys their tickets and afterwards, true to his word, he buys Kei ice cream. His wrist feels warm where Yamaguchi’s fingers touched his skin. It doesn’t take long for the ice cream to start melting on his hand.
“I want to see the cephalopods,” Yamaguchi announces, rummaging through his bag before emerging with a victorious grin. He’s holding a crinkled map with all the exhibits marked on it. He’s already circled several with a bright blue pen. “And sharks.”
Kei licks the bit of ice cream off his finger. “Did you know that the dwarf lantern shark is the smallest species of shark,” he says, and clears his throat, ignoring Yamaguchi’s stare burning a hole in the side of his head. “It’s barely the size of your hand. Their organs are bioluminescent.”
"Stop flirting with me Tsukki, oh my god."
There’s this: the colors of the ocean on his face. The distant sound of moving water. Salt on his skin. The summer freckles on his nose. The way Kei’s mouth shapes around his name. How it tastes in his mouth. Yamaguchi. Yamaguchi. Tadashi. Tadashi.
“Tadashi,” Kei says.
Yamaguchi stops, stares up at him, deerlike. “Yeah, Tsukki?”
Kei wants to drown in him. “Nothing.”
"I want to keep playing volleyball," Kei announces, exactly two weeks before graduation. “I want to go to school with you, and I want to keep playing volleyball. That’s what I want to do.”
Yamaguchi's fingers pause on the controller. A gentle breeze caresses his hair through an open window. The ends of his lashes turn golden in the sunlight. He’s so beautiful. Slowly, like he's not sure he's hearing him right, he lifts his gaze to meet his eye, clearly waiting for the eventual punchline to follow. "You're serious," he says softly, when it never comes. Kei watches him realise this, watches his throat work as he swallows. Kei watches him, and loves him.
"I'm serious," Kei confirms. He digs his nails into the meat of his palm. He’s already taken the first step, so what’s a couple more. “I’m in love with you.”
Yamaguchi blinks. Once, twice. “Oh,” he says quietly, and then his face just sort of crumbles, tears pooling in his eyes.
“Tadashi,” Kei says, alarmed, closes the distance to hold Yamaguchi’s face between his palms. There are storms in his eyes. Kei traces the soft swell of his cheek with the pad of his thumb. “Hey.”
“Sorry,” Yamaguchi says, hiccuping. He wipes furiously at his eyes, and Kei winces in sympathy at the raw skin around his fingernails. “I just, I just wasn’t expecting that, I mean, I didn’t- It’s just-” his breath hitches. “Sorry. I’m just happy.“
With a sigh, Kei reaches for Yamaguchi’s hands, pries them away from his face. “You need to stop biting your nails,” he tells him, fond. Yamaguchi laughs, watery but sincere, and the sound of it is wonderful.
Kei presses his mouth to the warm skin at his temple. He can taste the ocean on his skin.