Chapter Text
There's a clear view of the grounds from up here, and as Miyuki makes his request it occurs to Ryousuke that the winter of his third year might be a little late to be discovering such elementary things about his own school. But he isn't accustomed to being summoned to the roof, be it for duels (well, once), confessions (well, once), or life advice.
"But if you don't want to talk about it, it's perfectly understandable," Miyuki finishes with a shrug too easy not to be a deliberate taunt, leaning back casually against the chain link fence that's supposed to discourage potential jumpers during exam periods. The school board has obviously failed to consider the possibility of a dedicated student with access to bolt cutters.
Ryousuke does want to talk about it. It just so happens that what he wants to say is you do not get to ask me how to make good choices when you're going to Koshien with my brother and my boyfriend while I'm stuck with my failures.
Of course, that would be childish and uncalled for, not to mention factually inaccurate. Even so, it's tempting.
"That's not it," he says, coming closer to the fence to look at the grounds he gave two and a half years of his life to. It all seems smaller from here, in a way that has nothing to do with the distance. "I'm only wondering why you'd ask me, of all people."
Miyuki laughs like if he's been taken off guard. He hasn't. Nobody who's known Ryousuke for more than five minutes would come to him for advice without due consideration, and Miyuki is a strategist first and foremost.
"Well, you do have a unique experience—"
"That's incorrect," Ryousuke cuts in sharply. Afternoon classes will be starting soon. He doesn't have all day, and it's cold up here.
"A unique perspective of the experience," Miyuki rephrases without missing a beat, "and no stakes in the result."
If only. "You're the captain," Ryousuke says, although that has nothing to do with anything. "More people than you think are affected by what you do. Or don't do, as it stands." According to Seidou's well-oiled rumor mill, it's been almost a month since Sawamura's accidental but heartfelt confession was left hanging, and while his performance at practice seems more or less stable, his trademark good mood has dulled enough to affect those closest to him.
By some awful twist of fate, that group happens to overlap with the small set of people whose well-being Ryousuke cares about beyond a sharp comment and a slap on the back: it's become impossible to have a conversation with Haruichi that doesn't end in either protracted musings on the importance of closure or hand-wringing about Sawamura's allegedly fragile emotional health. Unnecessary fuss, as far as Ryousuke is concerned, but Haruichi is more attuned to these things than he's ever cared to be. For proof: Kuramochi may not be talking about it (not to him), but he, too, has been growing agitated.
Truth be told, Ryousuke expected to see a black eye on Miyuki a week ago. He must be losing his touch.
"All the more reason to think about my actions carefully," Miyuki says with a smile bright enough to light up a stadium.
"At this point one could say it's not so much thinking as stalling," Ryousuke retorts, returning the smile tenfold. "From what I understand."
"Which is why I'm humbly asking for my senpai's guidance." A master of aggravating pseudo-deference himself, Ryousuke has to admire the execution, although it doesn't earn Miyuki any points.
"In other words, you expect me to tell you what to do." Only to turn around and do the exact opposite, presumably. It's an unfair assumption, one more likely to come from having internalized Kuramochi's opinion of Miyuki than from Ryousuke himself, but so what? Ultimately, Ryousuke doesn't care what Miyuki does to or with Sawamura, as long as he brings this particular episode of Seidou Behind the Scenes to a conclusion and Haruichi becomes capable of intelligent conversation again.
"Nothing like that!" Miyuki protests, his laughter rattling the fence. "But if you happened to have some sort of risk-reward analysis handy..."
"Analysis of what, exactly?" It's a little inelegant to ask so openly, but Miyuki's smile is grating, and Ryousuke's image of him is not that of a man willing to make himself vulnerable in any way, such as admitting that he's considering becoming intimate with another human being.
If he expected the direct approach to make Miyuki shut up or scramble to keep dancing around the topic, it's a failure. "Of starting a relationship with a teammate I have power over and play with closely on the field," he says with a hint of smugness.
Well. Ryousuke did ask.
"So you're considering it."
"I'm considering everything," Miyuki says. "Including the risks and rewards of not doing that."
That surprises a genuine laugh out of Ryousuke, that Miyuki could be so naive as to think this is a decision that can be made on strategy alone. As if it has nothing to do with Miyuki’s own feelings, with the way his eyes sometimes follow after Sawamura when he leaves a room.
As if it was as easy as saying no, and the part of Ryousuke that is petty and jealous wants to see him crash and burn. It's a good thing he has a lot of experience keeping those specific impulses at bay. "I doubt it's anything you don't already know," he says. "The main risk to the team is that you become incapable of playing together." It’s unlikely. They're all baseball players at their core: nobody survives at Seidou who isn't, and Sawamura's alleged broken heart isn't stopping him from showing up to practice and performing satisfactorily enough. "As for the personal risk…" he shrugs, eyes drifting back to the field. "It takes effort. It won’t last forever, and it will be devastating when it ends."
Miyuki laughs, short and hollow. "Is that your advice, Ryou-san? It doesn’t sound very encouraging."
It’s not. But in that way they’re all the same, who wear the Seidou uniform on the field: the fear of a bad ending isn’t what holds them back, it's what pushes them forward. Miyuki, just like the rest of them, has spent his childhood watching team after team get their hopes crushed live on national television every summer, and here he is playing high school baseball anyway.
Isashiki would probably find something inspirational to say here, about journeys and destinations and making every moment count.
Ryousuke shrugs. "It’s worth it," he says, not quite under his breath, low enough for them both to pretend that Miyuki hasn’t heard it, and then, louder: "you won't be able to keep it completely separated from your interactions on the field, but try anyway. And I wouldn't recommend asking him to cover for you if you get injured again." The last sentence comes out bitter and unbidden, making him want to bite his own tongue off. He hasn't talked about this since it happened; here and now and in this company are the worst possible occasion to start, so of course Miyuki latches on to it.
"Hah! That Bakamura? No worries there, he was literally the last one to get it. Unlike his roommate."
He's baiting. It's crude and phoned in and they both know it, and Miyuki isn't even trying to cover it up under the flimsiest layer of pretense. The best traps, Ryousuke discovered long ago, are the ones with bait too tempting to ignore despite the obvious danger. It seems Miyuki, too, has learned that lesson.
Ryousuke pauses long enough to establish that he's noticed the implications, then bites. "Oh?"
Miyuki laughs. "Yeah, I thought I was keeping it under wraps, but Kuramochi cornered me before the game. Told me if I wasn't going to step down, I'd better stick it out through the end. Kind of growly, very intimidating. You know."
There's a smirk to go with that, but he does know. He only caught one speech during Kuramochi's short stint as acting captain, but what he saw there was a young man filled with intensity and barely contained fury at strangers for slights yet to be committed, fluff layers of raucous laughter and wrestling moves peeled away to reveal barbed wire underneath. The players were electrified, and for a brief moment Ryousuke was almost overwhelmed by the urge to back Kuramochi against a wall and drop to his knees, public optional.
The moment passed, but judging by Miyuki's expression, it didn't pass unobserved.
"It appears to have worked out for the best," he says coldly, but something else is pushing at the edge of his consciousness, something about the baits Miyuki's deftly placed in the flow of this conversation, all to tell him… what?
"We did win," Miyuki says brightly, pushing away from the fence. "Thank you, Ryousuke-san. I'll think about what you said."
Ryousuke shrugs. "Think," he says sharply. "Not talk."
Miyuki grins, arms extended, palms up in a display of harmlessness that Ryousuke doesn't trust for a second. "Who'd believe me?" he asks, and that much is trustworthy. He's had three years to build his image here. Giving his underclassmen romantic advice on the school roof does not fit that image. Kominato Ryousuke, show a softer side? Laughable. Even more so in the mouth of Miyuki Kazuya.
"Still, don't," he says, and the bell rings to punctuate. Good timing, even if it's completely accidental. "You should go back to class now."
And so should he, if only for something to do while his subconscious dissects Miyuki's words for a hidden meaning.
It's early February, a week to Valentine's Day: Isashiki's already started making noise about how he's going to get more chocolates than Tetsu this year for sure (he's not), and the thermometer is still hovering somewhere under five degrees. Too cold, really, for anyone wearing only a t-shirt and thin sweatpants to take this much time at the vending machines. Or any time.
"Aren't you underdressed?" Ryousuke asks, and watches Kuramochi's body do its customary three steps dance: who dares/oh it's Ryou-san/hi Ryou-san. It's not entirely dedicated to Ryousuke: in similar circumstances, Kuramochi will react the same to Masuko, to Isashiki, to Tetsu. Still, Ryousuke has learned not to take for granted the nigh imperceptible way Kuramochi's shoulders loosen, when it's just the two of them. "This isn't the time for you to fall ill, vice-captain."
Kuramochi grabs his can of coffee from the machine and gives Ryousuke a sheepish smile. "Well, you know what they say. Idiots don't get sick."
Young and pretty, his t-shirt advertises. Ryousuke chases away the phantom memory of it resting too wide on his own shoulders and too long down his thighs, asks: "Idiot?"
Kuramochi rolls the closed can between his hands. He's shivering, and Ryousuke knows exactly where and how to touch him to make his skin flare with heat. He shoves his hands in his own pockets instead. "I knew opening the door was a bad idea but I did it anyway, and now Miyuki's in my room being gross and I'm stuck out here." He rolls his eyes. "Like an idiot."
"That was fast." Albeit not especially surprising. Miyuki didn't seem to be seeking advice so much as… confirmation, maybe, and even that was secondary to the agenda Ryousuke thinks he's figured out now, but it would have been polite to wait a day.
Kuramochi grimaces, popping open the can. "Really? It feels like it's been—" He pauses mid-sentence and Ryousuke watches his eyes widen.
Once, in the rare quiet of an empty dorm room where he'd ostensibly brought his textbooks, Kuramochi boasted high proficiency in standardized tests, told Ryousuke about the time his third grade teacher had summoned his mother to talk about his cheating — too many answers he got right without being able to explain them.
Are you trying to tell me you don't need to study for this test? Ryousuke asked then, unsurprised by the revelation. Information comes as pieces of a puzzle that most people put together one by one, some — Chris, Miyuki, Ryousuke himself — faster and better at it than others. But Kuramochi shoves three corner and a few edge pieces into the box, shakes it, and the picture comes out fully formed to the sound of his laughter. It remains, after all this time, fascinating to watch.
"Wait, is that where he was at lunch? Talking with you?"
There's no laughter now, none of Kuramochi's usual satisfaction at having figured something out. His eyebrows are furrowed, and his shoulders are up again, making Ryousuke want to smoothe them back into something approaching relaxation -- a kiss in the crook of his neck, once upon a time, would have done the trick.
It'd be unlikely to help, now.
"Talking at me, mostly," he corrects, and because he's watching he sees a shadow flash across Kuramochi's eyes.
"Ah," he says, mouth twisting slightly, eyes darting to the side and back. In the moment of silence that follows, loud noises of praise erupt from the other side of the door. Someone must have just achieved something impressive in the indoor grounds, but that's not Ryousuke's business anymore and even Kuramochi barely seems to notice. "He didn't say anything weird, did he?"
If he hadn't had time to come to his own conclusions, he'd suspect Miyuki of knowing things Kuramochi doesn't want him to tell. Having had time to come to his own conclusions, he's entirely sure that's the case. The only unknown is whether his guess as to what that secret is is correct. "Aside from asking my opinion of his love life?" he asks, eyebrows raising, and Kuramochi snorts, grins briefly before biting his lower lip. "Nothing weird, exactly. Enlightening, rather."
Kuramochi, who wears his heart on his sleeve like it doesn't matter who can read his emotions, swallows audibly. "Yeah?"
Ryousuke ignores the question, and tilts his head toward the stairs. "I'm going back to my room. Since you've been sexiled, you're welcome to take shelter before you catch your death out here." He could head to the indoor grounds instead, as was probably his plan until Ryousuke showed up. There's no such thing as too much training, after all, and he wouldn't lack for company. But the bait is out in the open now, and Kuramochi has never been good at letting things go.
He groans, throws the empty can into the trash before following after Ryousuke. "At least I'd deserve that," he grumbles, then makes a small noise of frustration followed by dead tense silence, like he's worried he may have pushed too far by mentioning it. That reminding him of it is dangerous, might upset the careful balance they've managed to establish between them.
As well it should. Ryousuke has no use for the current status quo, and at any rate Sawamura's high-pitched squeals are as fond a memory as the boy's clumsy attempts, later, to grill Ryousuke on his intentions.
Take him home once the summer tournaments are over, he didn't say then, because Sawamura wasn't the one who should hear it. Introduce him to my parents, properly, and let the pieces fall where they will. But intention alone has never been enough, and when Ryousuke went home it was on his own, smile set and eyes dry right up to the point when his mother had asked Ryou-chan, didn't you say you might be bringing a guest?
"From Sawamura you do," he says pleasantly, wondering if Kuramochi, behind him on the stairs, in the dark, can still tell exactly how genuine his smile is. Or isn't, as the case may be. "But what have you ever done to Miyuki?"
"I did threaten to punch him in the face if he didn't do something to sort their shit out," Kuramochi says without the slightest hint of remorse. "Not that it worked. But that's not even what they're doing, anyway. When I ran out they were talking about their feelings."
He sounds so offended by the notion that Ryousuke has to laugh. "In other words, exactly what you told him to do? Under threat of violence, which as your senpai I'm required to remind you is a bad idea."
"That's why I didn't actually do it!" Kuramochi protests, stepping on the landing a little too heavily. The undertone is familiar. Ryou-san, that's not fair. "I don't want to have to deal with Miyuki having human emotions," he complains like this is all a terrible prank the universe has pulled on him. "Literally anywhere else would have been better than in my room."
He's fallen into his usual position, to Ryousuke's right and half a step behind, as if nothing's ever happened to change that. "I've known you to be more imaginative than that," Ryousuke says lightly. "He could have done it in the cafeteria, in the bath, on the mound…"
Kuramochi makes a noise like a cat being strangled. "Oh god. The mound. They're going to be insufferable now, I need to switch to the outfield."
"Or support Furuya over Sawamura, I suppose," Ryousuke says in an attempt to shrug off the unpleasant jolt caused by what should have been a harmless comment. Kuramochi wouldn't give away his position for all the gold in the world, and for all of Coach Kataoka's blind trust in his players' judgment he would never let it happen, either; the new Iron Wall is too strong, too good to jeopardize on a whim. It's just a joke, but the thought of him so easily giving up on everything they've worked for is fire on an exposed nerve. "But I doubt it'll come to that. Miyuki is practically a professional. If he can stand on the field with what should be an incapacitating injury, he can play without spewing his feelings all over the diamond."
"Right," Kuramochi says, reverting to a discomfort that has nothing to do with Miyuki Kazuya's status as a human being capable of feelings.
Ryousuke, too, wants little more than to gently circle around the topic and pretend it doesn't concern him. It shouldn't be difficult, even if they spend the evening alone in his bedroom: they have, after all, been doing it for six months. But little isn't nothing, and he steels himself as he opens the door to a bedroom Kuramochi has never set foot in.
It's as empty as he left it, Isashiki probably downstairs hounding Maezono or any other suitably cowed underclassman into helping him practice his swing. Ryousuke takes off his Seidou windbreaker, tosses it on his desk as Kuramochi closes the door behind himself, shoes left in the entrance.
It only takes him a second to spot the knitted afghan Ryousuke brought back with him after his first visit home. Seidou is generous to its baseball team in many aspects, but proper heating in the dorms is not one of them: last winter it seemed Kuramochi got as much use out of it as Ryousuke himself did, double-wrapping himself in it every chance he got. But it's the first time that sticks out in Ryousuke's memory, a late evening during winter camp when the question 'why, why oh why did we do this to ourselves' was on everyone's lips.
Kuramochi, fingers tracing the seams, quietly expanded his short 'I was scouted' for Ryousuke's ears only, talked about old friends and betrayal. Ryousuke learned, that day, that there were things his carefree, loyal partner did not forgive.
He almost reaches for the afghan now, a movement aborted when he belatedly remembers that he no longer has carte blanche to use Ryousuke's possessions.
"Warm yourself up," Ryousuke says, order easier to give than permission. He pulls the nearest chair closer, sits on it backwards as Kuramochi gingerly unfolds the afghan and wraps it around himself, sitting down. It will smell like him again now, or so Ryousuke's mind will insist when he pulls it over himself before falling asleep. But there's something about having him on his bed again, a primal sense of satisfaction that gives Ryousuke the incentive to get back to the topic at hand.
"Speaking of Miyuki standing on the field… I hear you told him that bowing out wasn't an option, if he was going to play at all. Do you really think that’s good advice?"
Kuramochi winces, slumps in apparent defeat. "That wasn’t really… advice."
It wasn't, not if it was delivered with the kind of passion Miyuki hinted at. "No? What, then?" Innocence is, now as ever, too easy to fake. "An order, to your own captain?" Kuramochi closes his eyes, and Ryousuke knows he's right. "Or could it have been a plea?"
"Ryou-san…" There's a request for mercy in his words, but that's not the kind of thing Ryousuke ever listens to. Kuramochi should know better than to ask.
He goes on, merciless. "He’s the pillar of your team, after all. Indispensable. It would be devastating, if he were to give the team… to give you hope that he could be relied on before giving up halfway through."
Kuramochi shakes his head, fingers clenching nervously around worn wool. "We don’t have to—"
"Like I did," Ryousuke finishes, each words a tombstone.
Kuramochi's mouth opens on a token protest, but it dies in his throat as Ryousuke stares him down. He blinks, leans against the wall as if the weight of Ryousuke's gaze was heavy enough to push him back, licks his lips. Looks down. "Yeah," he exhales, the most reluctant of admissions.
As if he was the one at fault, and here, now, it's not difficult to see why. "That seems like an unfair thing to be angry about," Ryousuke says, too casually for his own comfort. 'Angry' is nowhere near accurate. Kuramochi was furious when they met up the night before Ryousuke went home, the shock of their defeat to Inajitsu a flimsy veneer over the rage that boiled underneath. Furious and refusing to acknowledge it, as if sweeping it under the rug would make it go away.
"I know that!" It starts fiery, and then he quiets down, resignation coloring his words. "I didn't want to talk about it 'cause I knew it wasn't fair. You'd never leave the field if you could help it, and it's not like you were playing for my sake in the first place." The words are tumbling out, and they might, just now, be unstoppable. Ryousuke doesn't try. They've been a long time coming. "It wasn't about me, I knew that, but even so I was mad, and you wouldn't even…" He trails off. Kuramochi simply doesn't speak ill of Ryousuke.
It would be fully justified, if he did. Ryousuke made no effort that night, too drained to even try and placate his uncharacteristically terse boyfriend. I'll go home after breakfast tomorrow, he said, and didn't add come with me. Kuramochi said okay without when will you be back, and the understanding of what that meant for them was an additional knot in Ryousuke's throat that he didn't even try to untie.
Kuramochi sighs, heavy and resentful, and seems to hesitate before pushing out the next sentence. "I was gonna apologize, once you came back. Had it all planned out, everything I was gonna say. But you didn’t…" A pause, and then, bit off, the closest he's ever come to an accusation: "You were fine."
That's where the smile Ryousuke has taught himself to keep on his face at all times comes to bite him in the ass, because fine is not how he felt, watching his— his ex move on, caught up in his new team, his new responsibilities.
Thanks to Haruichi's documented ability to look at reality and say I'll have none of that, they were eventually forced to exchange a few words, that somehow transitioned into complete sentences and, much later, full unsupervised conversations about mundane topics. Ryousuke would go so far as to call them friends now, but fine is still far off. On a good day, in a controlled environment, he can look at Kuramochi and reach oh, it doesn't hurt.
That's not good enough.
"I didn’t what?" Ryousuke asks, careful to keep his voice low, so the bitterness is too quiet to hear. "Care?" Kuramochi winces but says nothing, which is damning in itself.
Ryousuke gets up, walks the long way around the chair to come to stand in front of the nest Kuramochi’s already made for himself on his bed, like he still belongs there. "Is that what it looked like?" he asks, quiet, with no blade hidden in the words, but Kuramochi's head snaps up, eyes widening, like he’s just received the last piece of the puzzle, and shaken the box again, and found a completely different picture than the one he expected.
The picture, as Ryousuke sees it, is that they’re both idiots who thought they could read each other's mind.
He swallows. Bites his lower lip, eyes searching for some kind of confirmation. When he speaks it's hesitant, a man testing the ice before stepping fully onto the frozen lake. "Yeah. It looked like that, from afar." Every word heavy, and cautious, and meaningful. That last part, at least, is nobody’s fault. It happens every year: after the third years resign they keep away for a while, keeping the cut clean on both sides. It’s easier for everyone that way, except maybe for those who are aching for someone on the other side of the divide.
"Do you want to know what it was like up close?" Ryousuke asks. It’s stalling. A part of him resists the very idea of telling, another doesn’t want to risk getting into it if, in the end, Kuramochi decides it’s too late to change anything.
But Kuramochi moves closer, deliberate this time, until he’s sitting in at the edge of the bed, feet flat on the ground, leaning forward as he stares up at Ryousuke. "Yes," he says, as deliberate as a three letter word can be. "I want to know, Ryou-san." He always wanted to know. What Ryousuke thought, how he felt, what he was planning. Always, and if he didn’t ask outright every time, it was only because he’d learned to carve a silence where Ryousuke’s words could fit, if he chose to speak them.
Most times, he didn't. Here, now, the temptation to do the same is shockingly strong, and manifests in Ryousuke turning away, walking up to the desk so he can start talking without the direct weight of that gaze on him.
"I used you," he says at last. An outside observer might think he’s talking to his desk, or to himself.
There’s no feedback to that, no sound he can hear, and he pushes forward. "I wanted something that might not have been in the best interest of the team, and I took advantage of your loyalty to get it." Loyalty may not be the appropriate word here, but it will do. Ryousuke turns around, and Kuramochi is still staring at him, expression undecipherable. "And then I didn’t even have a victory to show for it. You had every right to be angry about that. To stay angry. If I'd been in your place…" He bites off the rest of the sentence. That 'if' is meaningless, and there's no sense in chasing after it. When it comes down to it, Kuramochi is braver than he is: he would have been honest, would have come to him and said I don't trust myself to make the right decision and I need your help rather than leverage Ryousuke's feelings to suit himself. They'd have weathered the storm together: there's no scenario in which Ryousuke could conceivably have been put in the same situation.
But he's the kind of person who can look at his boyfriend (his ex) and think things would have been all right if you'd been injured instead of me without cringing. Who can admit, at least to himself, that he’d make the same choice over and over again if it could get him what he wanted. Another thing Kuramochi is entitled to resent.
"That’s not what happened."
So much certainty in his voice. "I was there, remember? I know what happened."
Only Kuramochi is shaking his head, frowning like he can’t believe he has to explain this. "No. It was a tough call, and you trusted me with it." He scratches his cheek. "Don’t get me wrong, the situation sucked, but… it made me kinda happy."
"You're the one who confronted me," Ryousuke reminds him, too sharp, feeling like a good child trying to rebel by not numbering the pages of a perfect essay. I'm bad to the core, just look what I did. No, not here, there. I'm pointing right at it! "If you hadn’t—"
"If I hadn’t," Kuramochi actually interrupts him, "you’d have had to limp a little more obviously the next time I was the only one watching you." Ryousuke glares, but Kuramochi is on a roll. "You were trying to hide an injury, and you chose to hobble out of a room full of people instead of waiting for them to leave first?" He shakes his head. "Ryou-san’s a dishonest person."
There it is, the one thing Kuramochi has never done before: an open accusation, and he’s standing firm behind every syllable, words clear and eyes intense, unwavering. Ryousuke’s seen that expression a hundred times. It’s been, so far, reserved for particularly difficult fielding exercises and rival pitchers at the bottom of the ninth.
"Dishonest, huh," Ryousuke says thoughtfully as he goes back to the bed. It’s a challenge, and a well-constructed one at that because it leaves him with very few options.
Avoid it entirely and lose a battle of wills — unacceptable.
Admit to it, and lose an intangible sense of superiority — unthinkable.
Or give Kuramochi exactly what he wants to prove him wrong.
Ryousuke stops two steps away from the bed, and opens his eyes. Not wide, not by a long shot: some things can’t be improved even with effort. But if there was even a shred of Kuramochi's attention diverted to homework or his roommate or even baseball, there certainly isn’t now. "Let’s try this, then." If Kuramochi thinks Ryousuke can’t weaponize emotional honesty, there’s a lesson here that he needs to learn.
(There's something he needs to know.)
Ryousuke’s heart is beating up a storm, but he won't look down. Not ever, and certainly not now.
"I’m still in love with you."
In the next heartbeat Kuramochi’s jaw drops in slow motion, his eyes widen at tectonic speed.
Then time accelerates as Kuramochi buries his face in his hands, and all of it against his knees. He’s neglected to cover the tip of his ears, and Ryousuke watches them turn pink with unadulterated glee. "Wha— whu— that's the first t— how can you just say that?" Kuramochi stammers indignantly.
"It was terrifying," Ryousuke admits, and smiles on as Kuramochi looks up, blushing and visibly bewildered. "But not as bad as I thought, this honesty thing. I might keep it up."
Kuramochi laughs, bright and loud and free, immediately filling up the room with his presence instead of making himself smaller on Ryousuke’s bed and this is how it should be, always.
"Ryou-san," he wheezes, "that’s not fair," but his eyes are filled with affection and he’s spreading his legs so Ryousuke can step forward until his knees are pressed against the mattress, his thighs encased between Kuramochi’s. He fits well here, always has, and the world is shrinking, resolving itself to nothing but those points of contact and the space left between them.
"No, I suppose it isn’t," Ryousuke agrees. This is getting easier with each new sentence, and his hands gain freedom along with his words, reaching up unbidden to cup the sides of Kuramochi’s face. "Even so, since we never broke up properly, I have a question."
It’s another set of words he’s never said aloud, not to Isashiki or Tanba or Haruichi: it wasn’t necessary, when the evidence of it was littered across every interaction they were both avoiding. Feeling Kuramochi tense, Ryousuke wonders if he did. Looked at Sawamura or Miyuki or someone from home and said it. It’s over, we broke up. Or did he, too, keep the words buried deep, crushing them down in hope that it would somehow turn them into lies?
A silly romantic notion, of course. That's not something either of them can do alone, so Ryousuke leans forward, just enough to command Kuramochi’s full attention again. "When I kiss you in a minute," he says, and can almost taste the breath Kuramochi is holding, "will it be one last time, for closure?" There’s no reaction Ryousuke can see, but he does feel a change under his hands, light pressure on one side then the other: a single shake of his head, almost imperceptible. "Or a long overdue reconciliation?"
Kuramochi laughs again, a point blank hyaha that Ryousuke doesn’t even think to scold him for because it sounds like relief and hope and the first step to happiness.
"I don’t want a last anything with you, Ryou-san," he says, grinning wide and wolfish as his hands settle on his hips.
It’s almost overwhelming, the certainty and determination, and Ryousuke’s aware that his own smile is taking a turn for the goofy, but he couldn’t stop it if he tried. He did advertise honesty, anyway. "That’s a very cool answer," he says, overflowing with fondness.
"Heh." Kuramochi shifts — a little closer, a little tighter. Still not quite enough, but they’re almost there, just… "I have a question too," he whispers, and Ryousuke has to use every iota of self-control he has not to tilt his head just so and end the drought.
"Ask," he says instead. No cosmic observer can ever say he didn’t do this part right.
Kuramochi holds his breath for a moment, pulls back a little, seeks eye contact. Serious.
"Ryou-san," he says, voice filled with noble purpose. Pauses. "Has it been a minute yet?"
Ryousuke tugs at his hair in retaliation for that heartbeat of worry, says, "haven’t you been counting? It’s been six mon— hmf!"