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Semi first notices it at morning practice.
Shirabu, walking up to serve. Shirabu, grabbing his shoulder with a wince. Shirabu, who says nothing, wiping his face with a towel when Coach calls for a break—and his sleeve slips down, arms raised above his head—and faint purple bruises speckle his arm like a violent string of spring flowers.
His prickly underclassman can take care of himself. He knows this. But he thinks of bird bones, hollow. But he thinks of that soft-spoken voice, cracking on fear or rage or even an unfortunate fall onto sidewalk cement—and feels his heart constrict.
Semi will just—ask, then. Maybe after practice. Maybe when they’re cleaning up? Casual. He can be casual.
“What is that,” he says instead, his voice low, crowding Shirabu into the broom closet. They’re alone. He doesn’t say what he’s asking about out loud, no—but Semi has always watched Shirabu closely. And Shirabu—Shirabu notices everything.
The closet is lit by a single high window, dust-mote sunlight; a few shafts falling over Shirabu’s face. It’s quiet, for a few long moments. When Shirabu speaks, his voice is soft. He won’t lift his head to meet Semi’s eyes. This won’t affect my performance for the team. It’s fine.
He leaves without looking back.
Shirabu had gone into the closet quietly. Had hardly looked at Semi at all—
Doesn’t see how Semi reaches out to his retreating back, arm dropping to his side. Doesn’t see how his head dips, a defeated look on his face. Shirabu, whose heart wanted to collapse between his ribs, running at the back of the pack; whose slender pianists’ hands were wrapped in tape; who grit his teeth and kept up without a word—but never, ever complained. Who worked tirelessly—perhaps harder than anyone.
It—had filled Semi with satisfaction, at first. That this porcelain-faced boy with the unreadable eyes, stripping him of his position—was just as fallible as anyone else.
When had it made Semi want to take care of him?
No, Shirabu doesn’t see any of that at all.
That was the first time. But two weeks later, when Taichi claps Shirabu on the shoulder after they had made a particularly good play and Shirabu staggers, regaining his balance with a little punched-out noise—Shirabu feels those piercing grey eyes find him, across the court, and linger. God, did Semi-san really dislike his technique that much? Shirabu frowns and greedily gulps down water when Coach calls for a break, sinking slowly to rest against the wall. Taichi joins him, a graceless flop of limbs, leaning over slightly until their shoulders knock together. The middle blocker sucks water through his own water bottle’s spout, loud and obnoxious. Bastard, he was doing it on purpose. When Taichi speaks, his voice is soft. “What’re you staring holes in Semi-san for?”
“I’m not,” comes the automatic reply, before he blinks and realizes that oh, yes, he is, and when that head of ash-blond begins to turn, as if sensing them—he hurriedly glances away. ”Dammit,” he hisses under his breath, then elbows Taichi when he laughs. “Shut up, Taichi.” Shirabu sets his water bottle down and lets his head thunk against the wall. …He opens one eye. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Wow,” Taichi drawls, voice dry. “How’d you know. Are you some kind of demon?”
When Shirabu opens his eyes again, Taichi looks at Shirabu through a wink. “This better? How about this way?” He alternates eyes. Shirabu laughs and puts a hand on Taichi’s face. “Alright, alright.”
That prickling feeling of someone watching Shirabu is suddenly back, and Shirabu goes still for a moment—dropping his hand to his lap. Taichi looks at him, one breath, two, and leans his own head against the wall, too. He knocks their shoulders together gently.
“Semi-san doesn’t hate you at all, I think. And I know you don’t hate him either.”
The whistle blows, and Taichi lingers for a moment before getting up. He outstretches a hand to help Shirabu up as well before loping onto court, leaving Shirabu to question his departing back. Sure—he knew that. Probably. Where did this noodly bastard get off on being so perceptive?
(He smiles, too, at how careful Taichi had been to sit on his left side; to take hold of his left hand. “My bad,” he’d murmured on the court when Shirabu had stumbled and large blocker hands wrapped gently around his elbow to steady him. “I forgot.”)
He feels that piercing gaze on him again and shudders. Dammit! He hurries onto court too.
—
Shirabu supposes he must have been naive to think that Semi-san would continue to allow him, at least, this much grace.
When he closes his locker, shower-damp fringe in his eyes, it’s still not enough to block out how a shadow falls against him, a silhouette over the metal door. He braces himself, turning around.
“Semi-san,” he says curtly, hating how he has to swallow a sudden lump in his throat. It softens his voice, shaping it into a question. Fuck, if he wasn’t a good-looking guy. How was that fair?
Semi doesn’t say anything for a long moment, eyes in shadow. He’s scowling, almost, and Shirabu takes a step back, going still when his back brushes against his locker. “What,” he tries again, and when his eyes narrow his voice drips sharp and mean. “Was today’s performance unsatisfactory for you too, senpai? ”
A low thrill of satisfaction jumps in his gut at how Semi’s nostrils flare. What that said about himself, he didn’t care to explore. At least it makes Semi step back, and Shirabu releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Semi smelled like shampoo; like some sort of cologne whose top notes he couldn’t quite identify—
“Your shoulder.” Shirabu blinks. Semi must have seen it, he figures. When Shirabu had pulled his shirt over his head, changing out of his gym clothes—and a green-yellow bruise had flashed from the pale skin of his shoulder.
…Hm. Shirabu cocks his head, placing a hand against his hip. “What about it?”
He knows why Semi is asking, probably. But his favorite was Goshiki. Why is he bothering Shirabu, all of a sudden?
It was a pretty big locker room, but it’s not like they were alone, either. Taichi’s gaze slides over them for a moment, curious—before slipping away again. The team was no stranger to how the two of them bickered, paying little mind to their conversation, and for that, at least, Shirabu was grateful. It means he can devote his full attention, after all, to how Semi surges forward, reaching a hand out to Shirabu’s shoulder before stopping, as if in memory. It clasps around one of Shirabu’s elbows, instead—an echo of Taichi on the court—except this time, Shirabu feels the imprint of every callused musician’s finger like a brand.
“You’re hurt,” Semi says, voice low, eyes flashing. Who hurt you? Shirabu reads in the subtext. What the fuck, are those sparkle manga screen tones appearing behind Semi’s head?
“Sure,” Shirabu is saying before he can stop himself, and shrugs out of the touch. Then, “not really.”
It doesn’t look like Semi’s buying it. He’s worrying his lip, now, hand falling to his side; there’s a storm between those sharp strong brows, and when he speaks next, it’s almost pained.
“…Okay. Okay, Shirabu.”
He’s not fighting him.
He’s not fighting him?
Semi turns away, something defeated in the slope of his shoulders. Shirabu should like to see that. He should, but it feels wrong somehow! Did he get Pavlov’d?!
He sighs. “God, Semi-san, are you my attack dog or something?”
Semi whips around, expression wild. Bingo.
“What did you just say—“
He’s about to wind himself up again, and Shirabu just scoffs. He digs his phone out from his pocket, uncaring of how he can feel Semi staring holes into his forehead—
“Look.”
There’s a question in Semi’s eyes, no doubt—but Shirabu’s not looking at him. Just stands there, phone in his hand, waiting expectantly; until Semi walks forward again, and their heads are pressed together—shoulders almost brushing, feet pointed toward each other. Semi closes in on his space like breathing, and Shirabu pretends that it doesn’t make his own breath catch. They go silent as Shirabu swipes through his photos, one, two, five, seven.
“This is Kensuke.” Swipe. “This one’s Kenshirou.” Swipe. “This—you get the picture.”
My little brothers, Shirabu means; and has to pretend, looking at their little copper-colored heads, that he isn’t so proud of them that it hurts. They’re in middle school now, just barely. Shirabu sighs when he gets to the second to last photo—even though it’s all the explanation Semi needs. It’s just that the explanation is embarrassing, damn it!
It’s a landscape picture, and he turns his phone to the side. Pixels open up to Shirabu himself lying flat on the grass, face down. He looks almost dead, bangs like a sad splat across the lawn—and he might as well have been, what with the way two giggling young boys are splayed over him. Kensuke, the youngest; laid across Shirabu’s back to form a little cross—Kenshirou, the older; standing with one foot on Shirabu’s right shoulder, as triumphant as a conqueror of a new kingdom, or perhaps the fallen spoils of the hunt. Kenshirou’s hand is raised in a salute, smirking into the distance. That little rascal had kicked Shirabu’s shoulder, when they had been rough-housing—harder than he should have, though he hadn’t meant to. …Hold on, he looks like Goshiki when he salutes like that. Dammit, where did he learn that—
Shirabu scowls, not bothering to gauge Semi’s expression before he swipes to the next photo. Semi would understand, if that brain of his was any good. It’s a selfie, this time. Blurry, hastily taken. Shirabu snorts at the view up his older brother’s nostrils, and turns his phone off with a decisive click.
…Why is it so quiet?
He jerks his head up, suspicious of the pin drop silence—and knocks heads with Goshiki. ”Ow,” Goshiki whines, backpedaling into a locker from where he had practically been touching foreheads with Shirabu—but Shirabu doesn’t notice. Had he really been so absorbed with Semi, in that little bubble of theirs? Taichi’s hovering over Semi’s shoulder, now, half-lidded gaze looking uncharacteristically surprised. Oi. Oi, when’d they all get so close, this was practically a team huddle—
“I was not aware you had siblings, Shirabu.” Ushijima booms, emerging from the showers with only a towel wrapped around his waist. …Ah. Shirabu loses his grip on the phone with a startled shriek, mind going to static.
”OW,” Goshiki whines again, this time from the floor.
(When he catches Semi’s eye, his stormy expression has softened, opening up into a smile as he walks forward to help Goshiki up from the hard tile.
Okay, Shirabu, he says again, and this time, Shirabu knows he means it.)
—
Nothing was okay!
Shirabu wants to shout to the heavens; a wordless yell with a thousand profanities in his mind. Curse the stupid clouds that had rained on him, curse his stupid self for being born —
As it stands, his voice comes out in a feeble trickle, no stronger than a newborn kitten. …Goddammit. He shouldn’t be causing a ruckus in the school hallways anyway, and at the next step he takes forward, he stumbles, knee buckling as he collapses on his side against the wall with a startled grunt. Shit. There’s sweat dripping into his eyes, body hot and clammy and heavy all over. …Shit! His face is pale, his hands are probably shaking, he’s going to be late —
“-ey. Oi, is that you, Shira-”
Shirabu blinks hazily, the world going in and out of focus. It sounds like someone’s talking to him.
“-Hey, Shirabu Kenjirou!”
Ah, he knows who that is.
“Senpai,” he croaks. Knows the sincerity in the title makes something light up in that stupid boy’s eyes—knows that’s why he will never, ever use it. It falls from his lips unbidden, and when he forces his head up, he sees that Semi is crouching to meet him.
“You look like shit, Shirabu.” Shirabu’s lips part, a shaky little inhale—and comes up short. …Shit. Is Semi going to scold him again?
(He knows Semi means well, really. Knows that he thinks it’s a little funny when Semi gets pissed off with Shirabu’s attitude—knows that they’re like oil and water, ready to bicker at the drop of a hat.)
Knows that he is tired beyond reason, today—stretched thin at his every brittle, nameless limit. Shirabu holds Semi’s gaze, amber and gunmetal grey, for one moment, two—and drops it, eyes suddenly blurring hot.
“Yes. I’ll be missing practice today. Please excuse me.” Shirabu ducks his head, perfunctory politeness, and makes to shoulder past his upperclassman. He doesn’t want Semi to see him like this. …And he doesn’t expect to trip.
”Woah!”
Semi’s voice swims in his ears. When the world steadies, there’s a hand on his arm, just as warm and grounding as that day in the gym. Shirabu sways in place, mind half made up to maybe say thank you—
But then the hand at his elbow turns into an arm—and then the world is swept out from under his feet, as Semi’s other arm hooks beneath the cradle of Shirabu’s knees, and suddenly the younger boy is airborne, thin arms looping around Semi’s neck with a startled squeak.
”Hey, what do you think you’re doing— ”
Semi’s already walking, arms shifting subtly as he adjusts to the new weight in his arms, one hand sliding up, momentarily, to press Shirabu’s face into the cradle of this throat.
“Aish, don’t fuss. I’m taking you to the nurse’s office.”
…Was Semi always this strong? Shit, he might be swooning a little. Now he knew he was losing it. This was the kind of ridiculous fodder that occurred only in his dreams—and Shirabu closes his eyes to the nonsense. It must be a dream, then. He hiccups against Semi’s skin, momentarily overcome. “You smell nice,” he murmurs. Shirabu lets himself drift away.
Just inches above, auburn hair tickling his chin, Semi Eita’s eyes flare wide, a soft pink flush rising to his face. Little shit underclassman!
—
When Shirabu opens his eyes, the sky is dark.
Purple-indigo, slow-shifting gold, spills in through the slightly parted curtains. When had he gotten to his… dorm room?
His gaze moves, molasses slow. Book bag, dumped unceremoniously on the floor. The orchid on his desk from his grandmother. Semi-san sitting at the foot of his bed, fiddling with a game console, tongue stuck out. His violin case, stood against the corner. Hmmm, looked like his dorm room.
…Hold on.
“Oi,” he croaks, one foot shifting beneath the sheets to nudge at Semi’s back. Semi startles, dropping the console in his lap. “Brat, did you just kick me —“
“What are you doing here? Practice isn’t over yet.” Semi’s face flashes through what must be the five stages of grief, and he slips the console in his pocket to scoot up the bed. “Stay still,” he says, in lieu of an answer, and then he’s leaning over Shirabu, their faces a scant few feet, inches, centimeters away —
A hand feathers at his face, brushing sweat-damp hair away from Shirabu’s brow; Semi presses their foreheads together, one two three—and sits back. “Hey,” he grins, eagle-wing hair tousled from where his other hand had hurriedly pushed it back. “Your fever’s definitely broken now!”
…Yah. Shirabu scowls, flopping back onto the pillow and turning his head to the side, his heart suddenly racing. What the hell is he feeling disappointed for?
“Hey. Hey, Shirabu.” That smug bastard sounds like he’s laughing —and Shirabu’s breath catches as he refuses to acknowledge that Semi’s voice drops soft, fond and warm.
“Go away,” he mutters, petulant. “I’m still dreaming.”
Silence. “You really are so much cuter when you’re asleep.” What was that supposed to mean!
Shirabu turns back around, awareness creeping slowly through his fingertips. “You brought me here, didn’t you? Why are you missing practice?” He goes quiet, dropping his gaze. “…I mean. Thank you.”
(His shoes are off. His uniform blazer is hung up on the wall. His sheets had been tucked up to his chin —and he flushes. ashamed for having to be treated like a child. Or… thrilled that Semi cared?)
… Setter, goes unspoken. You would be playing setter.
He works hard. He knows he does. But he isn’t so cruel as to taunt —and Semi must see the question in his eyes, too.
“Ahhh,” Semi says, a long gust of breath, and flops back over Shirabu’s bed. “You could say I’ve found something more important.”
…Shirabu wasn’t about to unpack any of that. And come to think of it. Why is Semi-san so comfortable here? Shirabu didn’t exactly treat him like Prince Charming—and when he shifts his legs with a grumble, trying to get comfortable under Semi’s weight, Semi just grumbles right back. He opens one eye, a stupid little furrow to his stupid handsome brow. “What are you, a worm?”
Shirabu scowls, head lifted slightly from his pillow. He knows he must look stupid from this angle, but right now he doesn’t really care. “Then what, do you want to be called the early bird? I’m sure I could have walked to the office on my own.”
He wriggles again. Semi’s weight isn’t unfamiliar, by any means. After all, Shirabu has three brothers. But.
Semi just snorts. “Sure, Shirabu,” he says—and then he’s getting up, rising to his feet with an exaggerated groan. The sudden turn he makes, then, gunmetal grey eyes focused on him with all the focus of a hawk—catches Shirabu off guard.
“I know you’re always prepared, Shirabu, sometimes your competency pisses me off…” Semi’s voice drops into a low mutter here, though he’s quick to pin his gaze on Shirabu again. “That means you had an umbrella. And that means you got sick because of something else.”
(Oh my, the nurse had clucked, frowning contemplatively at the bags under Shirabu’s eyes even as he’s laid in a cot, fast asleep. He must be exhausted. Take care of your partner, okay?)
That last part Semi doesn’t relay to him, of course—and for a moment the older boy is grateful that he had only turned on the desk lamp in the room. Partner, such an innocuous word—though something about the shape of it makes his ears flush red. Shirabu blinks at him from his bed, doll-like eyes wide and shimmering in the dying light, and Semi swallows. Held in his arms, surprisingly light—Shirabu had felt so small. He hurriedly clears his throat.
“Well, you’ve woken up now. That’s what I was waiting for. I left you medicine and water.” He jerks his chin to Shirabu’s dresser, shoving his hands into his pockets. “No need to show me out.”
…Ah. Shirabu blinks, taking the new information in. Had the nurse really said that? God, that was embarrassing. At the sight of Semi’s retreating back, his throat goes dry. He won’t ask him to wait. But.
“…The bruise,” he croaks, and swallows his pride when he sees Semi pause. “The first bruise. When you asked me in the closet.” His eyes drop to his lap, fingers twisting in the bedsheets. “That was my brother, too. We fell off a sled.”
God; why is he telling him this? It’s not like he owed Semi an explanation, and sometimes it felt that all he did was nag —
But he’d seen it. Seen the soft sheen to those piercing, grey-gold eyes—cutting down through all the layers—down to Shirabu’s prickly, pear-soft heart.
“Okay,” Semi says softly. He doesn’t turn around once—and the door shuts gently behind him with a click.
—
That wasn’t the only thing Semi didn’t tell him.
(“Hey. Hey, Shirabu.”
Laid up in the infirmary cot, face soft and open as Semi has never seen him—well. Semi just can’t help himself. Shirabu’s lashes flutter, cheek smushed against the pillow as he turns toward Semi with a soft hum.
“Kenjirouuu,” he tries next, because hell, that cold medicine was pretty strong, anyway. Shirabu’s eyes pop open, lips parting in a pretty little oh.
Semi laughs under his breath, scooting closer. Shirabu’s eyes were practically sparkling, and Semi leans in close, as if sharing a secret. He’d get this off his chest, just like this, then. Just like the coward he was.
“If I tell you a secret, will you tell me one, too?”
God, Shirabu’s looking up at him as if he were Ushijima Wakatoshi. He practically feels drunk on it—but he has a mission, here. He has to focus!
(Had felt his stomach twist; at the easy ways Taichi and Shirabu moved together on the court; fluid, familiar as if they had known each other, for a lifetime; a hundred lifetimes, and the next.)
“Hey,” he swallows, and hates himself a little for how he can’t resist gently brushing the hair from Shirabu’s brow. “Do you— like Taichi?”
Shirabu blinks, slow. His eyebrows furrow as if he finds Semi to be very stupid. Hmm, he’s familiar with that particular expression. “Of course,” he says, soft and slow. “But Taichi’s my best friend. That’s not a secret.”
Clever bastard.
Semi purses his lips, sitting back. “No,” he agrees, “it’s not.” He pinches his pointer fingers and thumbs together, until both hands are pointed so that the tips meet each other with a gentle press, one two. “Like this then,” he says, as he makes his hands kiss. “Chu chu.”
Chu chu, Shirabu mouths to himself, contemplative at Semi’s words as he’s never seen him. Brat. The younger boy is silent for a long moment, to the point that Semi thinks he’ll have to explain again—
“Oh,” he says simply, and looks up at Semi with a smile so sweet that it’s blinding. “Then I like you.”)
When Semi closes Shirabu’s dorm room door behind him, and when Shirabu stares at the empty space where Semi had been, and when Semi slides down against the wall onto carpeted floor, face in his hands, and when Shirabu feels like he’s missing something, something important, but he just doesn’t know what—
Shirabu’s eyes shutter, an unfamiliar pit forming in his chest, dropping down to his gut. No, maybe he shouldn’t have told Semi about the first bruise at all. He doesn’t know Semi had left because he knows Shirabu likes him. He doesn’t know that Semi thinks Shirabu won’t ever, ever tell him again.
He doesn’t know that Semi is wrong.
—
Semi is avoiding him.
Shirabu sees it in the way they never pass each other in the halls—in the way Semi’s gaze skitters away from him, the rest of his body following, whenever Shirabu catches his eye.
The way Semi never speaks to him at practice, anymore.
It’s been two days, now. Maybe three. He should not notice Semi’s absence so sharply that it aches. He should not—should not—be thinking of Semi at all —though he knows that that’s not true, either.
(Knows that, somehow, in some way—eagle-wing hair will always come to mind.)
“Shirabu-senpai,” a familiar voice calls; confident and trepidatious and somehow too loud even in a gym full of teenage boys, all at once. Shirabu turns, and the volleyball between taped fingers, readied in a serve he was sure would hit the net—falls to the ground in muted fanfare.
“You don’t need to add senpai to the end, Goshiki.” The boy startles, and for a moment, Shirabu feels the fog lift from his chest. Ah, this kid.
“Shirabu-san,” he tries again, and this time, Shirabu is listening, really listening. He tilts his head to the side, curious, and waves a hand for Goshiki to go on. Maybe he wanted Shirabu to toss to him? This morning was more of a loose practice anyway…
Goshiki straightens. “…Uhm! I know Semi-san keeps hiding from you, and I think you look really sad, and I heard from some of the girls in my class that they saw Semi-san carrying someone like some sort of manga love interest, and I know you’ve been staying after practice even though you really shouldn’t, I know you look tired too— ”
Shirabu eyes narrow, scowl deepening the more Goshiki goes on. At some point Goshiki’s gaze had dropped down to his hands, fiddling with his volleyball sweater in front of him—and when the younger boy looks Shirabu in the eye, he squeaks, shoulders jumping. Goshiki just takes a deep breath, soldiering on.
”I really like your tosses please don’t kill me I heard Semi-san is going to be by the offices after evening practice today okay Shirabu-san I love you bye!”
Goshiki all but hurls the last of his little speech at Shirabu, that shiny black head bobbing in a shallow apologetic bow before nearly all six feet of him flees, over-enthusiastic voice like a foghorn. Tendou-senpaiiii, he’s yelling now, voice trailing after him like a damn cape—and Shirabu is left to gape at his retreating back, the depth and weight of Goshiki’s perceptive intellect punching all the breath from his lungs.
Skills! What skills! Should Goshiki just become a damn private investigator?!
“…Hey,” he hears himself saying, turning slowly in place to gawk after Goshiki. “HEY, WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN I LOVE YOU?!”
—
Chasing Goshiki soon ends up with Shirabu panting against the wall, his troublesome athletic underclassman long run off to cower behind a smiling Yamagata—but it does offer him clarity on one thing. Semi had been the perfect gentleman, yes. And whatever had happened; this sudden rift—
Shirabu knows it’s his own doing.
…In that sense of the word! Shirabu had no problem trying to corner Semi to offer a more solid shred of thanks, because he’s been raised with manners, damn it—it’s just that Semi keeps running away!
(But the way his ears go hot, when he thinks of corded arms; of the soft, warm skin of Semi’s throat, where he recognized, for the first time now, the scent of vanilla—)
Hell, Semi-san might not like Shirabu back in that way at all—but maybe, if he were in that situation—he would be running away, too.
…Ugh!
All this he relays to Taichi in an empty classroom, sunshine slanting in. They’re eating lunch, Taichi at his desk; Shirabu turning his own desk chair around to jostle for space as they clink around the small shared surface of polished wood.
“And he smelled nice, Taichi, and I think that’s pissing me off—“
“Uh huh,” Taichi says soullessly. The crunch of a shrimp’s tail echoes ominously from between his teeth, but Shirabu says nothing. Best to leave the middle blocker to his own…strange devices. He’s about to go on again, something now about his stupid cowering when Shirabu just wants to talk to him, god, something—
Shirabu’s waving a bit of fish in the air, chopsticks gesticulating rudely as he would never allow but for how all his emotions suddenly seem to be boiling over—when a hand suddenly wraps around his wrist, and Taichi eats the fish off his chopsticks, leaning over the desk until their heads brush together. Taichi lets go and sits back with a little burp, one eyebrow raised.
“Chase him down, then, Kenjirou. Because it sounds to me like you want to kiss him, and I really don’t want to think about you kissing anyone while I’m still eating lunch.”
Taichi gets a kick to the leg, for that—
Shirabu goes still.
Kiss, Taichi had told him—and the memory of Semi’s voice overlaps. Chu chu.
Shit.
—
He corners Semi by the teachers’ offices as the last of the evening begins to die. Just like Goshiki had said. Semi’s back is turned, about to leave—Shirabu’s mouth opens before he can think better of it, fists balled up at his sides. Relief, that he’s caught Semi here, finally—and all the irritation of this wild goose chase to go with it. His voice falls dry and brittle. “You’re so unfair, Semi-san.”
Semi freezes, turning slow, so slowly. He looks distraught, and Shirabu sees, for perhaps the first time, that he’s just a boy, too. Shirabu walks forward, until there’s only a few paces between them. Semi has gone still.
In the golden afternoon, the early evening; the light plates Semi’s face so sweetly; as if he is something too delicate to touch.
“Semi-san,” he says again, and watches his expression break open. “You never told me a secret back.”
(He remembers, now—Semi turning pale, then pink. Then red, red, red.
Oh, the boy had said simply, frozen in shock; a deer in headlights. And—and maybe Semi would brush it off, here. Maybe he’d even say it back. But then the nurse walks through the door, footsteps like spring rain; but then the curtain around the cot is pulled back, and this fragile world of theirs shatters.
He can sleep the rest off in his dorm. Your partner, wasn’t he? Are you alright to help him back?
Yes, Shirabu hears hazily. Then yes, again.
And then there is sunlight through the curtains, muted behind the clouds; and then there are strong arms around him, so gently—and Semi bridal carries him again.)
Shirabu’s heart thunders in his chest, suddenly uncertain. What if he’s wrong, and Semi doesn’t like him at all? He swallows, looking down, then up, across. Even.
“Here, then. I’ll ask you something back.”
Shirabu raises his eyes; until they’re looking at each other head-on, and wills his hands not to shake.
“You called us partners. Back in the office. Did you— would you— mean it?”
Partner was abstract. Partner was what the nurse saw when two boys came in, sporting the same sports duffel bags.
Partners—Shirabu blinks, hard and fast. Is what Shirabu so desperately wishes Semi will want to be.
And perhaps he isn’t being so clear, and perhaps Semi won’t understand the question the way Shirabu wants him to, not really—
But somehow, he knows Semi will —and he feels this nameless, bursting something swell between his ribs—when Semi swallows, a hand raising, self-conscious to the back of his neck—and smiles at Shirabu with something so genuine that it hurts.
“If you’ll,” Semi says, stop start, and steps forward to take both of Shirabu’s hands in his own, glancing up from beneath his lashes, almost shy. “If you’ll let me.”
…This protagonist gentleman bastard.
Semi must read the embarrassed, happy ire in Shirabu’s face as displeasure, because he watches Semi’s expression falter, that glimmer of earnest hope crumpling as he makes to let Shirabu’s hands go. No, no, dammit—
Shirabu surges forward, tangling one hand into the loosed knot of Semi’s tie; until he’s tugged Semi down to eye level; until their breaths fall onto each other’s parted lips, and Shirabu murmurs “push me off if you don’t want it” and presses a kiss to that soft, dancing mouth.
Oh, he thinks, when Semi’s eyes flutter closed—and the older boy pulls him in by the waist, holding him so close that Shirabu feels as if he will be consumed entirely. Oh.
Yes, I do, of course I want it, Semi is murmuring into his lips, tender as the love songs Shirabu sometimes hears floating from the third-year dorms—and Shirabu just tugs Semi even closer, hearing all the notes in the lines between.
Sorry, one kiss to the corner of his mouth, soft and tender. I want you, another; when Shirabu pulls back to gasp for breath, and Semi chases after him like a man starved for air.
Shirabu kicks him in the shin.
“Ow, what the hell—“
“I can’t believe you thought I liked Taichi!”
“Man, come on! ”
—
I like you, Semi murmurs, later.
When they’re budged up together in Shirabu’s narrow dorm room bed; when Semi holds his hands, tracing the ridge of every knuckle, lifting the fingertips up to his mouth for a sappy little kiss. “I think…I want to take care of you, too.” His gaze drops, shy. Shirabu watches him closely, a supernova of emotion between his ribs. “That’s why the bruises upset me, even when I…had no right to, I guess.”
Ah. Shirabu blinks, suddenly overcome, and squeezes their joined hands together so tight that Semi yelps. “Yah, you’re so mean to me—”
Shirabu leans forward, gentle even as the rest of him isn’t—and muffles Semi’s complaints with a brush of their lips. Semi tastes like coconut lip balm, and Shirabu finds that he wants more.
He sits back, and the wide surprise of Semi’s eyes makes him laugh. “Now you can, Semi-san,” he’s saying, even as Semi cups his jaw to draw them together again; a garden growing between his ribs, singing Eita, a hundred flowers to the sun.
It’s not a secret anymore.