Work Text:
When Togami returns from class, it’s to a subdued roommate, and wildly vacillating air conditioning. This particular hour, the air rushes coolly over his skin, like invisible hands, raising goosebumps where they go. Perhaps that’s why Naegi sits fully-clothed on top of his blankets.
Instead of jacking off underneath them.
Naegi is typing away at a computer, a headphone stuck in each ear. “You’re back!” he says, his voice a little loud, his smile undeniably brittle. For days now, he’s seemed in anticipation of … something; but whether it’s a reprimand or reciprocation, Togami can’t quite tell. Even in the face of uncertainty and awkwardness, Naegi remains intractably pleasant.
Which makes him that much harder to ignore or dismiss.
“Yes, I am.” It’s all Togami can say, after a week spent wondering (hoping?) if he’d return to find Naegi writhing under the sheets again. And it’s definitely all he can say now that he knows how Naegi appears just before orgasm. (Flushed, needy, unbearably content.)
Togami returns his things to their proper place in the room. His breaths are shallow, unsatisfying, and on the other side of the room Naegi lets out a long, unwitting sigh. Faint snatches of music escape from his headphones.
Something about that minor detail inspires Togami to take out his violin. As he unzips the case, and undoes the latches, he reflects that Naegi’s never made a tedious joke about him hiding guns in this case. Which is a point in favor of his roommate, it must be said.
Togami strums his thumb along the strings like a guitar, and winces as ungodly dissonance answers back. Thanks to unpredictable temperatures, G and D are flat, A is sharp, and E… who the hell knows?
He takes the rosin out of its compartment; it’s cracked and deep red, and something about it has always made Togami think of magma. Naegi watches with interest as Togami spreads it over the bow.
“What is that?”
At first this moment seems like safer ground. Naegi is prone to asking questions, and Togami is skilled at providing answers. “It’s for friction,” Togami replies, and then neither can quite meet the other’s eyes for several minutes.
All the same, Naegi ditches his headphones to listen, and Togami feels like art on display in a museum. He brushes the bow across the A string, quickly ascertaining the problem runs too deep for the fine tuner. When he twists its associated peg, the shifting wood is as loud as gunshots. But the endeavor is successful. He plays the string, returns to the fine tuner, and this pivotal component is as it should be once more. When he closes his eyes he can imagine an orchestra tuning together before a concert; a lone first violinist playing this exact note in a quiet auditorium. And then the answering swell of every other musician, notes singing together in perfect fifths.
Once A is in order, it’s easy enough to compare it against the other strings. Togami busies himself with this task until everything sounds as it should, and until he has no excuse to avoid looking at his roommate.
“You didn’t move them that much,” Naegi observes. He sits on the edge bed, his legs over the edge, toes resting on the floor. His socks didn’t match. “The… dials?”
“Being too overzealous makes the strings break.” Togami stands there at loose ends. It’s important to keep a violin in tune, and he's gone and done that, but he has no song to play. “And shifting just a millimeter can make a great deal of difference in how they sound.”
“Oh, Okay.” Naegi gets to his feet, and walks a step or two closer. His eyes are so green, even when he squints with curiosity. “Yeah, it looks complicated.”
Complicated is probably an oversimplification, but in some ways it’s miraculous that violins can even function. Four strings threaded through, tight enough to snap at any provocation. All of this attached to mostly hollow wood, so thin it could shatter like glass.
For some reason, Togami hands the violin over to Naegi, and his roommate accepts it with a bewildered look. And then a slight smile. “Wow, it’s pretty light.” He holds on reverently. His fingers twitch, as though he wants to strum one of the strings. “Do you have calluses like a guitar player?”
It’s like Togami’s hand moves of its own accord. He grabs onto Naegi’s chin with his left hand. “I don’t know, do I?”
“Kind of.” Togami can hear the threat of a hysterical giggle in Naegi’s voice. But his stare is much the same as last week; nervous, caught out, and not the slightest bit ashamed. Slowly, with the patience of a man disarming a bomb, Naegi places the violin on a nearby desk.
And Togami leans forward and kisses Naegi.