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Listen. The thing about Hirose? Is that he’s not that great.
(Like, fine, Matsumura’s obsessed with him, but that’s a personal problem.
Yeah, he’s cute. And he has a pretty smile. And his eyes are so big and round and everything. Plus, he smells really good. But he’s a chronic plan canceler, and he’s forgetful and oblivious, and he’s wish washy and honestly? In general, he just kind of sucks.
(Don’t get Matsumura wrong. He’d absolutely still jump if Hirose asked him how high. But he’d complain about it the whole time.)
But it’s fine. It’s fine.
Or it would be. If his other little pet stalker wasn’t so insufferable.
Nakamura.
Nakamura Nakamura Nakamura.
God. Even his name pisses Matsumura off. It’s impressive how annoying one person can be.
The last bell of the day echoes out through the courtyard, wrapping its irritating tune around the bright rays of the afternoon sun and soaking into the gate pressed against Matsumura’s back. This school is so weird. They’re just now getting out? The teachers must hate themselves. Or at least their students.
It doesn’t take very long for the doors to open, and some teenagers, finally free of their daily torment, to spill into the front of the school in a trickle, then a stream. All mindlessly chattering about whatever nonsense Matsumura couldn’t be paid to give two craps about.
A few girls give him a double-take as they pass him. A couple of guys, too, though the male set mostly leaves out the giggling and whispers behind their hands as they pass him.
Nothing Matsumura hasn’t gotten before. Good to know most of the people here have working eyes. He keeps the practiced smile fixed on his face, high, wide, and charming. Exactly how it’s supposed to be. Might as well give some of these poor, beauty-deprived souls some eye candy while he’s here. It’s his civic duty.
The stream of students is slowing back to a trickle before that familiar mop of chestnut waves finally pops through the doors.
There he is. Always flitting about from place to place, from person to person, like some kind of butterfly. It has to be exhausting. Oh well.
“Hirose!” Matsumura calls, raising his arm to be seen above the few loitering heads separating him from his friend. His friend who is late. Again.
Hirose turns toward the sound of his name, and his eyes do that whole dangerous, wide, sparkly thing.
Luckily, Matsumura has built up a tolerance, or he might have fainted. (It only happened once, but still.)
“Matsumura?” Hirose asks, half jogging, half bouncing over to the gates like some kind of personified teddy bear. (People would never believe he cusses like a sailor when he loses a match in his precious video game, but Matsumura has proof. It’s pretty creative stuff.)
Matsumura makes sure to look properly disheveled as he pushes away from the gate. It’s an art. No, no, he hasn’t been waiting too long. Only a few minutes. It sure is hot today. How was class-
“Dude, what are you doing here?” Hirose asks, head tilted like a puppy; the picture-perfect image of innocent confusion.
And Matsumura knows.
Hirose’s head tilts to the other side when Matsumura sighs. Very, very loudly.
“You forgot.”
“Forgot what?”
Matsumura didn’t waste his good hair gel today, for this. Dammitall. “I hate you.”
Hirose’s eyes go huge and wide. He can save it. That stopped working three years ago.
“What-? No, no! Oh, man, shit, I’m so sorry. I could have sworn that was next week!”
Matsumura shifts his bag to his other shoulder. It’s his own fault. Fool him once. He should have known. “Go die.”
“Isn’t that kind of harsh?”
If anything, it’s not harsh enough.
“Hey, wait, Matsumura, I’m really sorry! I promised to walk home with someone else, but I can-”
“Oh!”
Matsumura’s head snaps towards the soft gasp of a new voice, but not an unfamiliar one.
Finally. Took Hirose’s shadow long enough to show up. Perhaps the trip over here wasn’t a total waste of time after all.
Hirose’s pulling himself away from a slightly taller, slightly scrawnier chest. His tiny bunny nose is a little red. Eventually, he’s going to have to learn to watch where he’s going. He, of course, doesn’t bother apologizing for bumping into the guy. Because clearly he was raised in a barn during fundamental years of his development.
Matsumura has bigger priorities than his friend’s horrendous lack of manners. He catches Nakamura’s elbow before the poor guy can go careening into the concrete. He has a decent face, if you look past the too-long bangs and stark paleness. Getting all scratched up wouldn’t do it any favors.
The change in motion only sends Nakamura stumbling the other way, though. Because graceful, he is not. Matsumura, through the feathery amusement tickling his insides at the sheer shock on Nakamura’s face, simply has no choice but to slide his hand down to Nakamura’s wrist to keep him upright. He’s basically a saint. But really, with legs so long, you’d think Nakamura would know how to use them. Klutz.
Naturally, Nakamura doesn’t thank him. That would be the polite thing to do. Instead, he straightens up and fixes his bag. A bit of his hair stays sticking up in a stray curl behind his ear.
Matsumura’s fingers itch to fix it. He does not do that. He’s gay, but he’s not that gay. (He still wants to do it.) Slipping his dangerously traitorous hand in his pocket to keep it still, he waits for the incoherent, flustered, babbling apologies for daring to touch his darling Hirose (even though it was completely not his fault). He gets so nervous. It’s almost cute. The kid is always good for a laugh, if nothing else.
Still, he’s certainly not expecting Nakamura to address him first. And yet. Life is full of surprises that way.
“Oh, great, it’s the creep,” Nakamura says, which is rude, and also incorrect. Plus, something about it is… off. There’s not a lot of heat behind it today. He’s practically docile.
Matsumura could get used to it. “I’m not a creep,” he replies smoothly, throwing his arm around Nakamura’s shoulder (to keep him from falling again, of course) and using him as a crutch. Because… Well. Because he wants to. Nakamura’s the perfect height for it. Everyone else is too short. “I’m merely a former collector of my close childhood friend’s premium memorabilia. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
Matsumura waits for the hissing, sputtering, hellfire fury while he valiantly defends his precious ‘friend.’ Could he be any more obvious?
It never comes.
Nakamura rolls his eyes, always dark and iridescent. All of the colors and none of them. But the shadows bruised underneath them in matching purple crescent moons are somehow darker.
Something itches underneath Matsumura’s ribs. It’s not concern.
But. It’s not. Not concern.
And it only gets worse when Nakamura doesn’t throw him off or anything.
Yeah, no. This calls for drastic measures.
A normal person might simply ask if their acquaintance slash friendly “rival” is feeling alright.
“Trouble sleeping, sweetheart?” Matsumura asks, because he never claimed to be normal in any way, and it’s not his fault if anyone assumed otherwise. He whistles, and pokes Nakamura’s cheeks. The skin is. Very soft. He’s normal about that. “Those bags could last me a week in Italy.”
He braces himself for a hit, a punch, a screech. Something. Nakamura doesn’t let him get away with his bullshit. That’s one of the things Matsumura likes about him.
And still, it doesn’t happen.
“Shut up,” Nakamura mutters, finally shrugging himself from under Matsumura’s arm. It’s the liveliest he's been this whole time, but his shoulders just seem to hunch more, and it just feels wrong.
Maybe he’s sick. If that’s the case, Matsumura will let him off the hook. Only this once. “Don’t tell me this is who you’re ditching me for?” He asks jovially. He doesn’t really care. He’ll invite himself along. The only thing more fun than being alone with Hirose is being alone with Hirose and the puppy guard dog who thinks Matsumura couldn’t play him like a fiddle if he damn well pleased. Actually, he might like that more.
That’s when Nakamura flinches. It’s tiny. Microscopic. Barely a movement at all.
It shoots down Matsumura’s spine like a shard of ice.
Nakamura’s eyes flicker over to Hirose, and there it is. Matsumura almost fools himself. Now’s the part where he’ll start his whole mooning routine, and things will start feeling normal again.
Hirose glances at Nakamura. For like half a second. Then he just. Looks away. Like Nakamura’s not even there.
It’s such a contrast to the Hirose that was clinging to the poor guy like a leech last week it’s laughable.
Unfortunately, no one here is laughing.
Well. Hirose is. But it’s so forced it’s like grating gravel. Thankfully, it doesn’t last long. Matsumura’s eardrums don’t deserve such horrid mistreatment.
“Oh, no no no. I’m- walking home with my- girlfriend. Today.”
The echoes from the school bell earlier ring through the back of Matsumura’s ears. He pauses. Rewinds. Replays. It doesn’t make any more sense than it did the first time.
Nakamura doesn’t flinch again. No. He remains perfectly still. It’s almost worse than if he did.
Understanding clicks into the shrill ringing bouncing around Matsumura’s head, dulling it into a quieter, incessant drone.
The bags make sense now.
Hirose still won’t look at Nakamura. Nakamura is doing everything he can not to look at Hirose.
It’s.
Wrong.
“I see,” Matsumura says slowly, even though he doesn’t.
When did this happen? How? Why? Hirose’s got a boy who believes he’s the reason the sun shines every morning wrapped around his little finger, and he acts like he doesn’t exist because of a girl? It’s… wasteful.
Matsumura despises wasting.
Nakamura’s drawn, pinched face looks two seconds away from crumpling.
They can’t have that.
Matsumura makes. An elective decision. “Well, then pipsqueak,” he says, tossing his arm around Nakamura’s shoulders again. Maybe a little bit tighter this time. Only because Nakamura’s hunched shoulders feel an inch away from falling apart. “Well then, pipsqueak. I guess that means you’re free!”
“What?”
“What?”
Nakamura jolts imperceptibly at Hirose’s apparently renewed acknowledgement of his existence. Matsumura probably wouldn’t have felt it if he weren’t so close. He’s good.
Hirose glances between Nakamura and Matsumura in confusion so thick it’s essentially palpable. Looks like now he cares enough to give them a second thought. What awful timing. For him.
“What could you possibly want with me?” Nakamura asks, and he still sounds heart-wrenchingly exhausted. Yet it’s the the first time he’s spoken louder than a whisper since he popped around the corner. His shoulders aren’t quite so slumped anymore, and there’s that trace of defiance sharpening the edges of his tone.
Matsumura ignores the way his throat goes dry. Just a bit. What could he want indeed?
He can think of a few things.
Hirose looks like he wants to ask the same thing. He doesn’t. So, really, it’s his own fault. He’s made it so exceedingly difficult to tell what he’s really thinking unless he deigns to tell you. He either has no idea what he’s doing, or he knows it exactly. Both options are cruel. And truthfully, Matsumura can’t be bothered with either.
He might not know Nakamura all that well, but what Matsumura does know is that he’s kind, thoughtful, and he deserves better than this. Than being treated like less than an afterthought.
Hirose never has appreciated what he has. Maybe that’s why Matsumura started taking the precious things he threw away like garbage.
Hm.
Now. Isn’t that a thought?
“Look, if this is another one of your games, leave me out of it,” Nakamura insists, and there’s finally some life back in him. It’s a start. “I’m really not in the mood.”
Matsumura can’t help the smile that curls at his lips. Might be a little too much life, now. He’s always preferred sweet boys who don’t have an attitude. However, he could be willing to make an exception.
“Ew. Why are you looking at me like that? Are you even listening to me?” Nakamura snaps, a healthy fire flickering back into the onyx of his eyes. Much better.
Matsumura laughs. “Not really,” he admits. Then, before he can think twice (or once, really), he curls his fingers into the front fabric of Nakamura’s pristine school blazer, pulls him forward (because the boy is not helping anything since he’s gone as stiff as a board), and kisses him.
It’s not slow. It’s not sweet. There aren’t fireworks.
Matsumura’s nose wrinkles. Nakamura’s lips are cold. A bit chapped. He tastes like black coffee and omelette with way too much garlic. His face is too level, and it kind of hurts Matsumura’s neck. He pulls Nakamura’s shirt up because, sure, this was his idea, but he’s not getting arthritis over it. Someone gasps. He isn’t sure who. He isn’t… sure of much of anything. Not when he’s too busy discovering that the inside of Nakamura’s mouth is hot, the give of his lips is pure cotton, the tiny hitch in his breath is like sugar, and Matsumura-
Fuck. Matsumura likes it. A lot.
The bell rings again. The real one, not the one in Matsumura’s head. Probably. Either way, he ignores it. Much more pressing concerns at the moment.
Nakamura’s stiff spine goes even more rigid. To the point where any more and he’s in real danger of breaking. That would be even more of a waste. But in a snap, it’s like he melts, almost doubling it over were it not for his long, pale fingers digging into Matsumura’s arm like a python to keep standing.
Something deep in Matsumura’s chest shudders.
He has a friend who smokes. Swears up and down it’s not the cigarettes that keep him coming back, but the nicotine. Matsumura never quite understood it before, but if it’s anything like this? If addiction is what you call the molten honey he can feel slowly crawling through his veins and turning everything it leaves behind into ash? Then. Yeah. He gets it now. How something so seemingly innocuous could cloud someone’s every waking thought until all that’s left is more more more.
Nakamura makes some kind of cut-off, strangled choking noise before his bag slips off his shoulder and lands with a dull thud against the concrete.
Such a small sound. Yet enough to tear a pit into Matsumura’s stomach; ravenous to hear it again. And again. And again.
Damn. Hirose really has no idea what he’s missing out on. Oh well. His loss.
Matsumura has just enough self-control to hold himself still when Nakamura pulls away. To not chase after his lips and satiate a craving he’s barely learned he had. (It’s a very close thing, though.)
Nakamura’s chest heaves as he takes in ragged gulps of the air Matsumura had unwittingly denied him. Oops. He’d say he’s sorry, but. He’d rather just do it again.
“What… the fuck… was that?”
Irritation spikes between Matsumura’s shoulder blades because who the hell is interrupting him right now-?
Hirose’s face is twisted so beyond his usual sweetness that it looks sort of painful. His Bambi eyes are huge. Not the way they normally are, but like he’s seen a ghost.
No, this is more than that. Matsumura’s made him watch horror movies for his own amusement. Such a wimp. But even those never had him as horrified as he is right now. What gives?
Matsumura doesn’t get it.
Until Hirose’s eyes dart from him to Nakamura with a speed oddly reminiscent of panic. Until his slack hand moves absently to the strap of his backpack and he grips it so tightly his knuckles turn white. Until the surprise on his face twists into something like despair. Only for a split second. Something someone else could have easily missed.
Then Matsumura gets it a bit more.
Oh.
Oh.
Isn’t that interesting? Nakamura probably doesn’t know he had a better shot than he realized. That’s a shame. Especially since now, things don’t look too good for whatever girlfriend Hirose somehow acquired.
But that’s too damn bad. He had his chance. If he can’t make up his mind, then that’s his own fault. You snooze, you lose, right?
Matsumura happens to wake up pretty early. “I don’t think that’s any of your business,” he says, and it isn’t. Not anymore.
Hirose’s jaw clenches. His knuckles, though, go an even more unhealthy, starkly white.
Man. He’s so tiny. Matsumura thought he was into that. Now it just seems embarrassing.
Nakamura sputters back to life. That’s good. He’s still got brain cells. Makes him more fun.
“I- what? Huh?”
Matsumura covers his ears at the shriek and sighs. Eloquent. He sure knows how to pick ‘em.
Nakamura’s cheeks are glowing pink. It’s probably not because of the afternoon sun. That’s all being taken up by the glint of it off of his silky, inky hair. It’s a wonder there’s any left for the rest of the sky.
Matsumura wonders what it would feel like. If he buried his fingers in it and took the liberty of having Nakamura make those cute, addicting little sounds for him again. That hungry, cavernous pit in his stomach growls hungrily. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.
Yeah. He sure knows how to pick ‘em.
“Keep up. It means I’m borrowing you for today,” Matsumura informs Nakamura. He seems like the kind of guy who needs things spelled out for him. Matsumura doesn’t mind.
Hirose minds. This isn’t about him, though. His face pulls stricken when Matsumura slings his arm around Nakamura’s shoulders again. Yet it’s not until Nakamura’s turned around that he lets it sharpen into his own bunny version of outraged fury and downright glares at him.
Mm. Feisty. A while ago, Matsumura might have found that extremely hot. Too bad his tastes have changed as of late. Maybe if Hirose had tried that sooner, Nakamura wouldn’t be so willing to leave him while tucked under Matsumura’s arm.
Guess they’ll never know.
Matsumura waves at his old friend behind his back. “Have fun with your girlfriend!” He sings. There might be a little too much smugness behind it. He doesn’t care. He can’t help himself.
Nakamura doesn’t flinch this time.
Matsumura’s arm tightens around him a bit anyway.
Nakamura has done more than enough to make his crush obvious. He’s simply too earnest. Too nice of a guy. It’s time for someone to chase after him, for a change.
Maybe somebody different.
Marsumura looks down at the confused flush, finally giving Nakamura’s pale cheeks some color. The dazed haziness still lingering around the edges of his shiny, expressive eyes.
If he ever manages to get his shit together, Hirsoe can have Nakamura back later. Maybe.
Then again.
Maybe not.