(no subject)
i.
Some days when Gakuto is feeling particularly mellow he pulls up a chair beside the kitchen door and waits for Oshitari to begin his nightly violin practice. The strains of the melody wail faintly through the gap between the floor and the door; Gakuto always makes sure to close it because he doesn’t want Yuushi to see him caring enough to listen and Atobe calls him a philistine regularly enough that he doesn’t want to debunk that myth. It takes more effort to be underestimated than it should.
Sure, Yuushi isn’t top-notch soloist standard (yet), but there is something about the way he pushes his fringe back from his forehead earnestly, distractedly and the flick of his wrists as he draws the bow back and forth that Gakuto is sure would earn him a thousand fans in a heartbeat.
The last note of whatever symphony he’s playing lingers in the air: tremulous, yearning. Gakuto brushes the heel of his palm abruptly over his cheekbone; his hand comes away with a line glistening across it, a shaky graph of an irrational function.
ii.
Some nights Oshitari abandons his violin practice in favour of sprawling loosely over the couch with a tub of ice-cream and a movie. The former is a half-and-half of rum and raisin and belgian chocholate; the latter a soppy tearjerker with a happy ending, replete with confetti and sunsets on park benches and weddings. The tub leaves a wet ring of condensation wherever he leaves it when he’s fiddling with the remote, which was and continues to be finicky and won’t let him rewind to the important bits, like kissing scenes.
It has always puzzled him, whether people instinctively know where to put their noses when they kiss, if this is an inborn trait because it seems to be essential enough to reproduction and the continuation of the human species in general. He spends his time in the next math class calculating a general formula for ascertaining the optimum angle of inclination of one’s head (taking into account variance in height and positioning of mouth in relation to the rest of the face, with an optional coefficient to account for eyes being open or closed. He hasn’t yet figured out how to work in the degree of experience and the unit of measurement he should be using for it - days? Weeks? Number of times previously attempted, and whether they were successful or not?) because the teacher is only on advanced calculus and he was done with that in first year.
He taps his pen idly on the edge of the desk and wonders if the gender of the parties involved is significant.
*
Gakuto flings his bag down beside the door with an angry huh of expelled breath, mumbling incomprehensibly about Atobe and Kantoku.
Oshitari looks up and raises a questioning eyebrow. I think you need more calcium, Gakuto. That might help with your moodswings.
Shut up. Gakuto’s retort is half-hearted and lacking its usual bite. Shove over.
Oshitari shifts obligingly. Would you like to help me in an experiment, Gakuto? It will be entirely to your benefit, of course.
Hmm? Gakuto is half draped over the arm of the sofa, limp and quiescent, cheek pressed up against the ridiculously embroidered cushions that Atobe gave them as a room-warming present. When he sits up he will have shallow pink sleep-lines in the approximation of a floral pattern spread across his cheek like a three-dimensional blush, but Oshitari sees no need to remind him of this.
Oshitari scoops ice-cream out of the tub, making sure there is a precisely equal amount of chocolate and rum and raisin on the spoon. Puts it in his mouth and holds it there, a diminishing hemisphere of cold, heady sweetness on the tongue; mentally he calculates the angle of inclination - and when he’s sure he’s got the figure right, leans over to kiss Gakuto.
Gakuto sits up with a yelp, eyes snapping open; his forehead bumps Oshitari’s hard enough to bruise. What the hell was that, Yuushi!
Oshitari just looks at him and smiles, slow and smooth with his eyes dark like wine, and says, A scientific experiment. And making sure you get your daily calcium intake.
Gakuto picks up the cushion he'd been lying on and flings it at Oshitari.
iii.
When Oshitari cuts class he is languishing on the stairs leading up to the roof, a lollipop stick poking out from between his lips. He props himself up on his elbows, leaning his head back to watch the strip of sky visible between the top step and the door frame; sometimes it is clear blue sponged with white, cotton-candy twirls of cloud, sometimes grey and hazy. On rainy days the water sometimes seeps in and trickles down the steps, pooling at the foot in a dusty puddle. Those are the days he sits on the banister.
Gakuto knows that this is where Oshitari goes, he knows that Oshitari doesn’t like people coming into his personal space. But he is not people, he is Gakuto, and that makes all the difference in the world.
The stairwell is dark and shadowy and Gakuto stumbles over the lanky stretch of Oshitari’s limbs the first time he finds him there. He looks with distaste at the step next to Oshitari, who catches him staring and draws a crooked smiley face in the dust with a long, delicate finger.
Gakuto opts to perch gingerly on the banister instead.
He watches Yuushi unwrap his lollipop (today it is heart-shaped, swirling pink-and-white around a red centre) the clear plastic crinkling loudly in the quiet. It is probably the love offering of one of the many girls so enamoured of Yuushi’s voice; Yuushi’s steady supply of confectionary can be partly credited to the allure of the velveteen drawl that is his voice.
He waits until Yuushi has been lolling it around in his mouth for a good three minutes before he pushes off the banister with both hands and bounds over to snatch it out his mouth, sticking it in his own. He could have asked for it from the very begnning, but sometimes he just likes being contrary. It doesn’t take much to gross Yuushi out because Yuushi’s father is a doctor and he has a phobia of sharing saliva: sure enough a corner of his mouth twitches in undisguised horror at Gakuto’s audacity and daring.
If you fall sick tomorrow that’s your own fault. He starts, and is cut off by Gakuto flashing him a victory sign, lips already slickly red from the artificial, cherry-flavoured colouring.
*
Gakuto sucks on the lollipop and tries to hum a song at the same time; Oshitari can taste the sound at the back of his throat, the vague memory of the third layer of sweetness dissolved off.
*
Gakuto realises that this is the closest they get to kissing without actually doing it.
iv.
They jaywalk across the road in front of the ramen stand near Hyotei; Gakuto doesn’t care about rules and Oshitari cares only when they suit him, and neither want to muster up the energy to walk a hundred metres to the traffic light.
A spring breeze ruffles the leaves of the trees above their heads, their branches interspersed with buds. There are stray petals (curling, browning at the edges) caught in the cracks on the pavement, casualties of the flowers that prematurely bloomed.
Oshitari steps over the metal road divider in one fluidly efficient movement. (This is the secret to being called a tensai; knowing the value of economy, never giving more than is necessary for the semblance of effortlessness.)
He turns back and holds out a hand to Gakuto. Is it too high for you? The inflection in his voice is solicitous and faintly mocking; the underlying affection is not apparent to an outsider.
Bastard. Gakuto somersaults over, landing neatly and lightly on both feet.
But he takes Oshitari’s hand anyway, and they run with gleeful abandon across the road, ignoring the frantic horning of the cars coming at them and the fact that they are late for tennis practice.
You are only young once.
a/n 1: comments are v appreciated, as disjointed as this is! \(^_^)/
a/n 2: I wonder if anyone would want to give me prompts for writing Oshitari/ Gakuto drabbles/ fics, because these days I find myself at quite an impasse; if anyone would just drop a comment and I'd be glad to try!