Chapter Text
Sano Mikoto is fifteen; he's never been in love and doesn't think he ever will.
Sano Mikoto is sixteen; he's never been in love, but the others fell in love with him countless times.
Sano Mikoto is seventeen; he's in love and is certain he'll never turn eighteen.
It's bitter, it's intense, it's hopeless and very, very stupid - but it's inevitable.
It's hard to be Sano Mikoto, it's hard to be in love - and being Sano Mikoto in love is simply impossible.
First love is always the most tender, the sweetest, the most trembling - all you can do is wipe away the tears of tenderness and scribble in your diaries. Not that Mikoto understands any of this - but even Mikoto already feels like he's been screwed somewhere.
Otherwise, why is he standing there now, his death grip on the dirty sink? It doesn't look at all like a scene from the shoujo manga Hijita loves so much.
Just a week ago, Mikoto was sure that he just need to be patient - and the pain would be gone and he'll get better.
But the pain isn't gone and he doesn't feel any better.
The flowers still mockingly kiss his insides, clawing their way out, and Mikoto curses himself with thoughts that it would be better never to love at all.
He spits bitter-white petals mixed with bile into the sink and looks up. A complete stranger stares back at him from the mirror with a dead gaze; this "someone" really should visit a doctor. It's quite a sight, and not a pleasant one. The eyes are dark blue, bordering on black, haggard; the skin isn't even white - it's translucent. Mikoto coughs, and petals splatter all over the floor.
And tomorrow he has lessons, actually.
***
Mikoto has changed - he's been changed. Mikoto is cursed - he's been cursed?
"Good morning." Two words - two nails in the coffin.
For some reason, Haruaki loves everything around him bright and loud.
For some reason, Mikoto loves Haruaki.
"You may sit down," - as if Mikoto was standing, too much honor for someone like Haruaki.
"So, today..." - Mikoto wants today to become yesterday already.
Haruaki always responds to rudeness with tenderness, and Mikoto let himself become addicted to this sweetness. So, it seems, he's played himself out.
Yakubyogami is certain that the blood isn't coursing through his veins anymore. Instead, there's something cloying, uncontrollable, and sticky so much it can only be called "Seimei."
He wants to hold, he wants to be held.
"Your face is more beautiful than spring, and yet you're an idiot." - would that be appropriate for the next task, Seimei?
Everything he wants to say is absolutely unbearable, unutterable.
Mikoto doesn't just look, he strokes gently with his sight; everything - the silky strands of dark hair, the forbidden porcelain of collarbones, the tenderness of soft palms. Only a glance; touches are taboo, they're forbidden and are causing sobs at night.
He's come to this - he envies himself; he envies that Mikoto, who casually left bruises and marks on Haruaki just recently.
Haruaki's smile is filled with the hot sun, and Mikoto never tires of burning against it.
Just until the last lesson, until 17:35, until "see you tomorrow, Seimei" - but Mikoto is beginning to believe in hope. The flowers inside him are silent, as if enchanted by Haruaki's soft words, and Mikoto feels no pain - he feels, but not pain. Yakubyogami closes his eyes, forgetting himself, dissolving in Haruaki's voice like honey in warm tea. He wishes he could sit like this for eternity - or at least for five more minutes.
The gleam of red eyes is like a gunshot, settling somewhere in Yakubyogami's mind, while Mikoto absently thinks that Haruaki's thoughts, like his voice, are probably just as beautiful.
Mikoto also thinks that he's alive now only in these dreams, and nothing remains afterwards.
A butterfly dries back into a chrysalis.
Throw it away and don't forget to wash your hands.
But now "the lesson is over," and the dream turns into reality, and flowers turn into pain.
"Sano-kun, please, stay." - please, no.
But Haruaki is a painkiller, morphine, and therefore he is the law, which means Mikoto obediently remains motionless until the classroom empties. The last student closes the door, cutting off any retreat.
Haruaki takes two cautious steps toward Mikoto. He looks at him timidly, sympathetically, naively.
"Well. And?"
"Tough day, huh...?" - Too far away, the shot misses the target, try again. Maybe tomorrow.
Mikoto snorts with his last breath. Yeah, sure, it's been a tough day. Sitting here, trying to keep from accidentally scattering petals all over the classroom - yes, Seimei, that's kinda tough.
Mikoto is definitely not thinking about what Seimei's face will be like if he - well, theoretically -cuts him off with a kiss. What if there will be more than one kiss? Two? Maybe even three?
What will those eyes be like, Seimei, if you find out about everything through kisses?
Mikoto is definitely not thinking about any of that bullshit - damn flowers are probably already blooming in his brain.
Yakubyogami nods listlessly with the pointless questions. Yes, I didn't get enough sleep, no, I'm just tired. Can I go now?
Without waiting for an answer, Mikoto stands up. And suddenly he jerks back – as if Seimei had struck him with an axe, not just put a hand on his shoulder.
"S-Sano..."
Yakubyogami is actually no less stunned. But the introspection and analysis are scheduled a little later, so we'll stick to our course, and now it's time.
Yakubyogami deftly wriggles out - and shamefully capitulates with a casual "Well, see you, Seimei."
Turning away, he winces. The flowers somewhere under his ribs bristle with displeasure – stop, go back.
Three labored steps away from the classroom - and now a run toward the restroom. Where is it, on the fifth floor? One-two, one-two.
As he runs, Mikoto thinks with resentment that for Seimei love is surely easy.
Mikoto wishes he could smear what he coughed up a couple of hours ago all over Haruaki's snow-white shirt.
And what's to come?