welcome to my ~*~twisted mind ~*~

 ok a) why is writing so hard to start
b) why is writing so hard to do
c) why do i feel so bad about my writing when writing
d) how do i write
e) SCREAM

-dont think that it would be too much for them to get together. they kind of slip into relationship, since both of them are so laidback and comfortable with each other, it seems natural.
-just their normal friendship except with kisses and probably more ye?
-they maybe are more pda during practice than usual just to mess w oikawa
-maybe their problem/conflict comes most with saying their i love yous, its kind of awkward for them both, since their relationship is still based mainly on the physical. video games, pranks, mall food courts, some kissing/more? but little tenderness beyond what is necessary as volleyball teammates.
-they probably have a really huge mutual appreciation though!!!! of appearances, volley skills, intelligence, humor
-mayb their first conflict (??) is during biology when dissecting a pig during valentines day and a girl came up to matsukawa and said that she loved him. awkward silence after matsukawa kindly turns her down. hanamaki, holding up the pig heart: "issei, happy valentines day!" matsukawa: "o so if u are giving me ur heart are u a pig then"
-it leaves an impression though, and they feel like they're skirting around the issue.
-i will probably come up with how they resolve this later.
-ok but this convo though:
matsukawa feeds hanamaki a profiterole or something during lunch
iwaizumi: ugh get a room
oikawa: gasp! iwaizumi read my mind! must be soulmates~
hanamaki: hey mattsun read my mind
matsukawa: profiterole
hanamaki: gasp! soulmates~~~~~~
matsukawa: makki read my mind
hanamaki: many think of pokemon as a children's franchise, but its themes of animal care, environmentalism, and training are universal. a classic of the late 21st century, pokemon spans across language and culture to touch the hearts of children and adults alike, for we all gotta catch'em all. (i will come up with more bs later lmao)
matsukawa: how did you know
-also maybe a scene about matsukawa pretending to be a magician to trick oikawa and hanamaki being like OH MY GOD HOW DID YOU KNOW I HAD THE FIVE OF SPADES ARE YOU A WIZARD even though it was the three of clubs
oikawa: TELL ME MATTSUN TELLME HOW DID YOU DO IT
matsukawa: a magician never reveals his tricks ;)

“I,” Daichi said, “cannot believe I let you talk me into this.”

“Oh?” Suga looked pointedly across the counter and towards the crowded cafe, tables fuller than they had been in months and the sound of orders being frantically filled loud over the whir of coffee machines and blenders. Daichi was sure he wasn’t imagining the smugness in Suga’s voice when he said, “Personally, I think that it’s working out pretty well.”

“Easy for you to say.” And it was: Daichi would be jumping up and down with joy at the sound of clinking cups and their increased revenue if he could manage to pull off a maid outfit with as much aplomb as Suga, whose delicate hands fluffed the dress’s frilly underskirt absentmindedly and whose fair complexion was flushed prettily with either excitement or rouge.

Daichi, on the other hand, felt as comfortable as Asahi did with confrontation or large dogs, which was to say, not at all. He had never felt as hulking and broad as he did now, stuffed into a dress that was much too tight and much too short. The edges of it dug harshly into the sensitive skin under his armpits, and sweat collected damply in the stiff, heavy fabric. He frowned and tried to ignore it; if Hinata and Tanaka could manage running (and nearly tripping) in their new patent leather shoes serving coffee without complaint, then so could their manager survive sweating through his sheer pink thigh highs. And with that, he busied himself with the coffee machine.

“Hey, Sa–” The bells over the front door tinkled as someone entered the shop.

“Oh, hey Kuroo,” Suga called easily, wiping down the counter and seemingly oblivious to the way Daichi’s shoulders tensed up before he willed them to relax. He’d be damned if he ever run and hide from Kuroo, stupid outfit notwithstanding.

“W-What’s going on here?” Kuroo said, walking over to the counter behind which Daichi and Suga worked without any of his normal ease, standing stiffly with hands on either side and lips pressed together, white.

A shrug from Suga, eyes bright and gleeful. “Oh, you know. Just a promotion for the cafe,” he said airily, fluffing his skirt. “A maid cafe sorta thing. It was only for today, but…” A subtle, smug smile meant to put Kuroo on edge. “I mean, we are doing pretty well today..”

Kuroo cleared his throat. “Oh?” he said, glancing around the bustling cafe with apparent disinterest. “Well then, congratulations, I suppose. Though this is really only an average day at Nekoma.”

“What are you doing here then, if it’s so busy for there?” Daichi said. They all knew that when Nekoma Cat Cafe hit a lull in the middle of the afternoon, Kuroo liked to casually waltz in to pester Daichi and investigate how the competition was doing. Maybe it was a little unfair to be ganging up on Kuroo with Suga in the weird little rivalry that their two cafes had, but. Daichi was currently sweating in a maid costume because they were losing customers to Kuroo and his stupid cats, and he wasn’t really feeling courteous.

Kuroo’s eyes slid towards Daichi, and quickly away. “Just a short break,” he said after pursing his lips white and shoving his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “I’m worn out from our very, very, very busy morning.” Abruptly, he straightened even further. “Well. I should get back to work. Bye.”

He marched stiffly out of the door, leaving as suddenly as he came.

Daichi bit his lip and looked over at Suga. “That was weird,” he said. Normally Kuroo snagged himself an empty seat by the counter, bullied Daichi into making him a cappuchino, and settled in to spend at least an hour bothering him about exactly what area of South Africa their beans were from and whether they use castor sugar or fine castor sugar until Daichi hurled a wet rag at him and Kuroo got to lecture him on the importance of customer service.

“Hm, yeah,” Suga said innocently, turning to froth some milk. “Weird.”

–

Kuroo was feeling definitely, definitively, weird. Not so much the weird of when Lucy, his favorite calico, purred and snuggled up against Kenma instead, nor the weird of how Bokuto inexplicably picked up a very cute jogger from the passenger seat of Kuroo’s old car using nothing but “Eye of the Tiger” on the speakers and Bokuto’s inability to hold back tears. It was a weird that manifested itself in crawling heat up his spine, warm curls twisting tight with tension in his stomach, a lingering flush in his cheeks.

All because of…

Because…

Okay, he could admit it, at least to himself; Sawamura Daichi looked way too damn good in a short skirt that barely covered his ass and some tights that covered nothing at all.

Yeah. Right. Okay.

Kuroo curled into a ball on one of the sofas in the cafe and moaned, because, fuck it, it was a slow time between the lunchtime rush and date night, so it wasn’t like anyone was there to see his pitiful state except for Kenma behind the counter, who’d seen worse, and the cats, who couldn’t relay this sensitive information. All because of stupid Sawamura and his stupid maid outfit. Was it on purpose? Did he get a size too small just to screw with Kuroo? Kuroo nodded to himself in the dark cramped space between his head and his knees. Seemed like something Sawamura would do.

Despite what he would like people to think, Kuroo hadn’t even seen anyone naked before, let alone a really hot guy with thighs sent from heaven dressed up like in one of Kuroo’s fantasies. It was overwhelming and embarrassing and honestly, made Kuroo feel way out of his league. He was the one who was supposed to make people feel uncomfortable, poking and prodding for the right reactions just for the hell of it. Not responsible, staid Sawamura, who dad-ed the hell out of his employees and made snowman cookies for everyone, including Kuroo, during Christmas. And yet, here he was, in the middle of his own empty cafe, hiding a semi from Kenma’s too perceptive eyes because of Sawamura fucking Daichi.

He closed his eyes and threw his pride out the kitty-decorated window.

“Say, Kenma…”

“What happened this time,” Kenma sighed from his seat behind the counter, and fuck if that didnt sound like Lucy purring next to him.

“If I were to find… a certain cafe owner… a-attractive…”

A huff from the counter. “Didn’t know that me asking Shouyou out last week would lead to you, of all people, asking me for weird relationship advice.”

“Okay, what is me, of all people, supposed to mean?” A pause. There’s only so much pride Kuroo can throw out before needing a break. “Also, the advice, if you don’t mind.”

Kuroo was suddenly startled out of his fetal position when he felt Kenma sit next to him on the couch. “I just asked him out in the middle of Rainbow Road.”

Uncurling from his ball and sitting on the couch like a functional human being, Kuroo squinted at his best friend suspiciously. “It didn’t happen to be a surprise tactic because Hinata started beating you at Mario Kart, did it?”

He was duly ignored. “I just asked him and he said yes and now we’re happy together, unlike some sadly single cafe owners,” Kenma said with the pissiness of a cat faced with his second-favorite brand of cat food, and Kuroo noted miserably that perhaps, he’d been replaced.

They sat together in silence for a while, Kuroo sliding his head into Kenma’s lap and Kenma patting his head kindly, and damn if it didn’t actually make Kuroo feel marginally better. Maybe there was a reason why Lucy had been gravitating towards Kenma lately. “Just ask Daichi,” he said finally in between pats, “I think it will turn out better than you might think.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. Yeah! I’m going to do it!” Kuroo sprang up with newfound conviction. He could do it. He was going to do it.

–

He couldn’t do it.

There he was, standing pathetically in front of a closed door at Karasuno Cafe after hours. Suga, cleaning up the last of the tables, had told him that Sawamura was in the back room, and it was just a door away. Just a door away until he gave up the last vestiges of his pride and gets to slink away in rejection and humiliation. No– no good thinking that, when he was already here and the image of Sawamura in a skirt was burned forever in his mind. He could do this.

He took a deep breath and opened the door to reveal…

Sawaura Daichi struggling to unzip the back of his dress, twisting his broad chest to search for the zipper, the half-open closure gaping open and revealing the majority of his muscled back.

Kuroo. Was about. To puke.

He must have made some sort of strangled noise, because suddenly Sawamura’s eyes snapped up with horror and scrambled back towards the wall. Kuroo felt his face flush in a flare of heat as he caught a glimpse of his nipple behind the slipping dress before Sawamura clutched the bodice tight to his chest. “Kuroo,” he said, panting in panic, and so with none of the bite that he normally had when he said Kuroo’s name, “what are you doing here?”

“U-uh-um….” Half of Kuroo wanted to fling himself out the window and the other, more lascivious half, wanted to see more, more of smooth, muscled skin glistening in sweat, more of Sawamura’s blushes and lips bitten flushed and swollen.

The former side won out as he turned around and said, “I-I gotta go,” turning the door handle with desperate conviction.

Inexplicably, it was locked. Or, rather, explicably, it was locked, because Kuroo knew that a certain deviously scheming, know-it-all barista was on the other side. Probably congratulating himself by eavesdropping on this conversation, or something like that.

Kuroo rapped sharply on the door where he estimated Suga would hold his ear and was rewarded by a quiet yelp. In the space of time that Suga nursed his ringing ear Kuroo blurted out quickly, “Hey Sawamura Ithinkyou'rereallycuteandwouldyouliketogooutwithme,” but apparently not quickly enough, for he heard Suga’s excited squeal muffled through the door.

“O-okay,” Sawamura said, eyes round and wide with surprise, mouth gaping a little and hands slipping from their tight grasp on his dress. “I…I think you’re pretty cute, too, or something.”

“…Thank you.”

“…You’re welcome.”

A pause, pregnant with unspoken implication and awkward expectation.

“Oh, come on, just kiss already!” Suga howled from the other side of the door. “I’m friends with a couple of idiots…”

Kuroo took a small step towards Sawamura, gulping. This is it. “Right.”

“Right,” Sawamura said back, easing off the wall to take a matching step towards Kuroo.

“Right,” they said, finally close enough for Kuroo to take Sawamura’s hand and for Sawamura to curl his other hand shyly around Kuroo’s neck.

They took another step closer to each other until the stiff ruffled top of Sawamura’s half-unzipped dress dug into Kuroo’s stomach. “Right,” he said in the scant space between them just before pressing his lips to Sawamura’s and determinedly ignoring the loud clunk of overeager teeth and Sawamura muttering “ow” before kissing him all the more enthusiastically.

It was with awkward determination and confused insistence that they finally managed to fit their lips together in a way that pleased both of them, Sawamura first timidly nibbling at Kuroo’s lower lip the way he did with his own when he was nervous, and growing in conviction as Kuroo squeaked-slash-moaned loudly enough for Suga to hear, and god, would he ever hear the end of it from that particular barista. And then he forgot all about Suga and Sawamura’s outfit and the fact that his knees would be buckling if not for Sawamura’s lace and muscle-bound arms (okay so maybe he didn’t forget Sawamura’s outfit completely), for Sawamura was now alternating between licking and kissing his ravaged lower lip with dizzying intensity, and Kuroo scrabbled for support by hanging onto Sawamura’s sturdy, bare shoulders.

It was when Kuroo started pressing kisses deep into Sawamura’s neck that his hands starts drifting down strong biceps and bulging forearms, and then making their meandering way back up a corded neck and round, pink cheeks. This time it was Sawamura who clutched tight into Kuroo’s hair, moans coming high and long from lips pouting open, pants brushing hot and moist against Kuroo’s cheek. Kuroo finally managed the courage to sneak down Sawamura’s neck, pressing kisses into his collarbone, trailing across to one of his nipples when:

“I’M LEAVING NOW! HAVE FUN, LOVEBIRDS!” Suga called through the door, and they sprang guiltily apart.

Sawamura licked his swollen lips, and Kuroo felt a corresponding warm tingle across his. “Right,” Sawamura said finally, raising up the fallen bodice of his dress back up to his neck in delayed modesty.

“Right,” Kuroo echoed, and turned towards the door. “I should let you get changed.”

“Would you like to help?” Sawamura blurted, and Kuroo couldn’t deny the call of duty, for he was actually always this nice.

here are some ideas for this akisaeko/tanatsukki au for haikyuu rarepair weekend

*akisaeko: maybe just a short sweet scene about saeko comforting akiteru about his guilt about his effect on his little brother. may come up with more shenanigans later. fulfills day 1: begin again

*akisaeko: saeko punches someone (and is punched back) in the face while watching a karasuno match (someone said tanaka looked like a reject monk), runs out of the gym and jumps on akiterus bike, "DRIVE MOTHERFUCKER, DRIVE!". when they get home, akiteru tends to saekos black eye as he lectures her on self-control, and failing that, being fast enough to run away without being hit after punching a middle aged tattooed bara man. aww yiss. fulfills day 2: hurt

*tanatsukki: akiteru and saeko are now dating longdistance, since akiteru works in tokyo. they spend many long nights bragging about their respective high schoolers and decide that they would be so cute together. double tsukishima/tanaka dates yo. they try to get them together when akiteru invites his brother to his tiny tokyo apartment (one room, "two" if you count the partition that akiteru made using a shower curtain down the middle of the room) on the same weekend as saeko and ryuu. madness ensues, including but not exclusive to: tanaka and tsukki playing mario kart and hearing the horrifying sounds of their siblings getting it on, awkward dates at the movies when akiteru and saeko just happen to not show up, arcade competition, younger siblings bothering and snarking the elder, "neechan is that a hickey", tsukki and tanaka bonding over making fun of their siblings, that one time tsukki accidentally walked in on tanaka taking a shower, shower duets, akiteru and saeko making dinner together and hearing the horrifying (yet adorable?) sounds of their siblings getting it on. fulfills day 3 (kind of): intimate/lascivious

*tanatsukki: last morning in the ol apartment. sweet mornin kisses. tanaka is surprisingly quiet in morning sleepiness, and tsukki takes advantage. fulfills day 4: ardor

“FUCK YOU, KAMASAKI!” Futakuchi calls in greeting. The man across the coffee shop flips the bird in response, and Ennoshita gapes as a laughing Futakuchi mirrors the sentiment.

“Ah, sorry, Ennoshita-san,” he says mildly, turning back towards Ennoshita with a calm smile, as if he hadn’t just yelled obscenities above the whir of coffee machines and the low chatter of other caffeine-deficient college students. “My sincere apologies. Please continue.”

He’s back in character, apparently; Futakuchi Kenji’s growing local following know him for his smooth vocals, acoustic guitar, and gentle personality, the last of which Ennoshita is quickly learning is a pretty big damn lie.

“Ah– well,” Ennoshita says, glancing down at his notebook, “what are you thinking in terms of time frame?”

Futakuchi sips a bit of his latte, and as the singer rests his chin daintily on his hand, Ennoshita idly wonders who the fuck he thinks he’s fooling. “Well, I just wanted a little music video to promote the new album, so,”—a soft sigh—“I don’t want it to take too long. Could we get it filmed by the end of this week and edited by the end of the month?”

“Yeah, we can work out the schedule for when neither of us have class. Did you have any ideas for scenes or settings you want to shoot in?”

Futakuchi’s eyes take on a sudden gleam, and he starts pulling things out of his backpack to show Ennoshita ideas scribbled in the margins of notebooks and in the corners of coffee-stained napkins. “Okay, so for this one scene I had this idea for–”

He pauses abruptly, digs vigorously through the mess of candy wrappers, discarded receipts, and loose guitar picks in his pants pockets. How he fits so much trash in those tight skinny jeans, Ennoshita will never know, but Futakuchi finally extracts a beat-up iPod with triumph. “Wait, no, first listen to the song with me.”

He shoves an earbud in each of their ears. “In my dreams…” the song plays, and Futakuchi hums along for a brief moment before ripping off a vigorous bite of his cheese danish and spreading his ideas across the table. Sifting through the pile, he snatches out an old envelope he’d scribbled on.

“So,” he says enthusiastically, spraying danish crumbs across the table, “I was thinking that the camera’ll cut to my face right as I say, ‘I close my eyes and hope you’ll find me sleeping,’ and I’ll have my eyes all fluttering closed, you know? And the stars are bright and there’s a breeze in my hair, and it’ll totally look awesome…”

As Futakuchi impatiently brushes the crumbs off the table mid-sentence, Ennoshita discovers another facet of Futakuchi Kenji: earnest and hardworking, honestly endearing. This Futakuchi spreads his arms wide in gesturing and is oblivious to his surroundings, voice growing in volume the more he talks. They agree on meeting on Wednesday at the park Ennoshita suggested, and the Sunday after that in Futakuchi’s dorm room, to film the scenes that excite them the most: the first, Futakuchi playing his guitar on a bench next to a street lamp, and the second, Futakuchi sitting alone on his bed, surrounded by tousled blankets.

When they finish, Futakuchi takes Ennoshita’s hand in a warm, strong grip and shakes it excitedly with both hands. “See you tomorrow!” he says, grinning, and Ennoshita’s just wondering if he’d imagined the first five minutes of their meeting when he sees Futakuchi impishly knocking over Kamasaki’s coffee and snickering uncontrollably as the waitress makes his fuming friend pay for the broken mug.

–

It’s about midnight when Futakuchi finally comes running up. He drops his guitar case on the grass and flops down next to Ennoshita on the park bench. “Sorry I’m late, man,” he pants, “chem lab ran late and then I had to run back to my dorm and get my case.”

“It’s okay,” Ennoshita says, slipping his phone in his pocket and resisting the urge to fix Futakuchi’s sweaty hair, which is sticking up oddly from his run to the park. “How was chem lab?” he asks, starting to set up the camera stand and equipment as Futakuchi digs through his wallet to find his guitar pick.

“Well, I mean, it’s Nekomata-sensei,” Futakuchi says around the pick clasped between his teeth, setting the guitar on his lap and adjusting the strap. “He farts and blames the god-awful smell on sulfur that we aren’t even using.”

Ennoshita snorts. “Yeah, I had him for Chem 122 last year, and people stopped sitting in the front three rows. Like one of those splash zones at the park.”

Futakuchi snickers and they exchange easy, thoughtless conversation while preparing their respective equipment. The park is empty and quiet besides the occasional start-up beep from Ennoshita and a few warm-up strums and notes from Futakuchi. Finally, Futakuchi coughs and dips his head, bangs falling forward and hiding his eyes. “Um, yeah. You can start when you’re ready.”

Ennoshita nods and hits play on the speakers he brought, the first strum of the recorded guitar loud and startling in the midnight silence. Futakuchi quickly picks up the chords and Ennoshita scoots back with the camera to fully capture the circle of yellow lamplight that bathes Futakuchi in artificial brightness. A sharp line marks the stark and lonely contrast between his spotlight and the dark field around him, the sky surrounding the scene in dull, light-polluted gray.

A barely audible inhale and Futakuchi begins singing. “‘Cause in my dreams, we can spend a little time just talking,” Futakuchi croons, his characteristically raspy and soulful voice scratching pleasantly. With Futakuchi’s mischievous eyes closed and dark shadows playing under his eyes and cheekbones, Ennoshita can see how he pulls off his sensitive stage persona.

“In my dreams...”

Futakuchi opens his eyes halfway and gazes pensively into the shadow-laden distance. Maybe it isn’t so much an act as another part of his personality, Ennoshita wonders as Futakuchi furrows his brow and frowns a little in concentration, rocking backwards in the rhythm.

“... we’re side by side just walking,” he sings, head tipped up and tinted dull yellow by lamplight. The shadows shift, expanding and retracting with the bob of Futakuchi’s head. Ennoshita slowly circles around him for more angles, making sure to capture the slow wave of dark trees and the sparkle of stars above them, and then returning to the lone silhouette on a dark park bench singing so longingly.

Finally, Futakuchi gently strums one last time and lets his voice fade into a low hum. And like a switch flipped, he opens his eyes and he’s back to the Futakuchi that friends and strangers alike are simultaneously entertained and exasperated by. “How was that, Ennoshita?” he asks, grinning. “I have to say, one of my better performances. That one high note in the middle was exquisite, if I could say so myself.”

“You know that all of your singing now is going to be replaced by the studio version, right?”

“Well, yeah.” Futakuchi shrugs and laughs. “Still doesn’t change the fact that I fucking killed it.” Ignoring Ennoshita’s look, he grins and leans back, strums lazily. “Is that it then? Can I go home now?”

And Ennoshita would be lying if he said he didn’t feel the slightest pleasure at the sight of Futakuchi’s fallen face when he replies, “Not even close.”

For the next takes, Ennoshita focuses on close-ups of Futakuchi, of the subtle flex of muscle when he strums, of the tap of his shoe against the pavement, of the unnatural yellow gleam of his guitar and his hair, of his blunt fingernails rapping against the strings and the shadowed hollow of his eye socket.

“Jesus,” Futakuchi pants after the tenth or so take, “should have known that you were such an obsessive perfectionist when I saw your hair.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?” Ennoshita asks, and he’s not offended. At all. Especially coming from Mr. Side Bang over there.

“Wellll,” Futakuchi drawls, setting his guitar on the bench and stretching his now free arms behind his head, “do you use a ruler to make your part that straight?”

“What?!” Ennoshita yelps. “No! Do you use a hair straightener on your bangs?”

“No. Shut up.”

“Ooh, have we found Kenji-chan’s sensitive spot?” Ennoshita teases, enjoying this more and more as Futakuchi splutters. “Is that why you were so late today?”

Futakuchi’s face is sullen and flushed. “Fuck you. Just start the goddamn music again.”

Ennoshita puts up his hands and backs away, still snickering. “Okay, okay. Anything for Ken-chan.”

It takes a few more takes and some scolding (and apologizing) from Ennoshita to get Futakuchi back in the mood, but they finally finish shooting, enough to satisfy even Ennoshita. He sits on the bench next to Futakuchi and reviews some of the footage on his camera, checking that the shots were well-lit and composed correctly. During Take 6 Futakuchi kept feeling like he was about to sneeze, so he couldn’t use any of that footage, but there’s a certain bit from Take 7 that the lamp flickered a bit and the shadows danced nicely. He would have to remember to put that in. He fiddles with settings and modes on his camera, engrossed in the play of color and light, subtle movement and stark stillness that brought the song to life. And in the center of all that, Futakuchi: unintentionally lovely, with his eyes shadowed dark and his hair gleaming smooth as honey, and hmm, where were these thoughts goin–

A sudden clunk breaks Ennoshita’s concentration, and he remembers that Futakuchi is still next to him. He’s now asleep, limp hand flopping over the dropped guitar. “Shit,” Ennoshita says, hurriedly examining the guitar for scratches and, finding none, slips it back in its case to hide the evidence.

“Futakuchi. Futakuchi.” Ennoshita shakes his shoulders and, in a fit of sadistic desperation, slaps his cheek a couple of times. But of course Futakuchi sleeps like the dead. Of course. Not surprising considering the energy with which he snarks through life.

With his normal smirk now relaxed and drooling, and the surprisingly lush bloom of eyelashes shadowing his cheekbones, he looks... kind of cute, actually. He guesses that wouldn’t hate those lips, drool and all, beneath his own, or the fan of those dark lashes brushing his skin. And he wouldn’t exactly be averse to the rasp of his voice against his ear or the scrape of his callused thumb across his cheek. Hm. Well. Shit. Ennoshita tucks the thoughts away into that dusty corner of his brain that houses bad, post-midnight ideas.

He packs up his own equipment and slings the bag over his shoulder. Gripping Futakuchi’s guitar in one hand, he lugs Futakuchi’s dead weight onto his back and arranges his arms over Ennoshita’s shoulders and his legs around his waist. It’s a little awkward because of the bag of Ennoshita’s equipment now pressed between them and the handle of the guitar case digging into Futakuchi’s left thigh, but really, Ennoshita thinks a bit bitterly as he trods with his heavy, excessively warm load back to his dorm, he better be grateful.

It’s a short walk back, and Ennoshita had never been so grateful for his single dorm on the outskirts of campus. He drops the equipment along with Futakuchi heavily on his bed, everything bouncing for a second on the mattress before settling. Ennoshita marvels once again at how Futakuchi sleeps as deep as the ninth circle of Hell before sighing and flipping the lights on. He changes into sweatpants and brushes his hair and is his side part really that straight?

He frowns at his reflection and ignores the twinge of insecurity that makes him want to look nice for this kind-of-crush who is currently his kind-of-employer, who is kind-of-hot and kind-of-funny, and whose voice kind-of-makes-him-want-to-take-off-his-clothes.

Ennoshita’s frown deepens into a scowl at his own thoughts, but he runs a hand through his hair anyway and brushes it into a more jagged part. He has a Japanese Indie Film class tomorrow morning, but he’s too excited for this music video project and too nervous that the subject of said project is currently snoring on the very same bed that Ennoshita himself lays on every night. Does it still smell like pickled ginger from when Kinoshita came over and spilled pickle juice all over his comforter? Is Futakuchi nicely settled in the Ennoshita-shaped dent in the mattress? Is the bed a little too short for his goddamn legs?

Ennoshita rubs a hand through his hair and does the only thing one can do in these types of situations of ill-timed adrenaline due to a long-limbed, side-banged, sexy-voiced crush in one’s bed: he pulls out his laptop and watches the 2004 American adventure/heist classic, National Treasure, starring Nicolas Cage.

It’s really the only thing one can do.

Five minutes later, halfway into the opening credits, Futakuchi somehow awakes, rubbing his eyes and squinting at Ennoshita before exploding into energy. “Is that National Treasure?”

Ennoshita narrows his eyes in suspicion. “Convenient for you to wake up now after I carried you for ten minutes from the park and dropped you face-first on the bed.”

He is duly ignored in the face of Futakuchi’s surprising liveliness, given that he was stone-cold asleep half a minute ago. “Man,” he grins, digging out a half-eaten bag of sour gummies from his guitar case, “would have thought that a fancy film major like you would look down on such plebeian-pleasing blockbusters.”

Actually, Ennoshita had written his final last year on its themes of conspiracy and mystery, and he still didn’t know himself if it was bullshit or not.

“Anyway, look, are you watching or not?”

They look at each other in silence for a minute, Futakuchi glaring and patting the spot next to him on the bed, and Ennoshita gesturing towards the extra chair he has by his desk. “Fine,” Ennoshita finally huffs, and it was only because the bed’s more comfortable anyway, and not at all the prospect of sitting so close to Futakuchi that their arms or fingers could accidentally brush.

He settles next to Futakuchi and they watch National Treasure, which soon turns into (at Futakuchi’s insistence) National Treasure 2: Book of Secrets and (at Ennoshita’s insistence) Titanic. Time passes easily and quickly, measured not by such impersonal measures as minutes or hours but rather by the number of Futakuchi’s jokes or the frequency of Ennoshita’s snickers, the increasing ease with which they brushed fingers passing the bag of sour gummies or the growing heaviness of their pressed shoulders.

They have just finished Titanic when Ennoshita’s 8 AM alarm goes off, and wiping the remaining tears from his eyes, he peels his shoulder away from Futakuchi’s and starts moving to pack his bag. He’s already thrown it over his shoulder and started munching on a granola bar when he sneaks a look at Futakuchi, who in the meantime has slid down the wall and is now watching him, eyes half-closed and unfocused, and dark bags forming beneath them.

Ennoshita snorts. “You look like shit.”

“You...” Futakuchi squints at him and flops a heavy arm over his eyes. “You look exactly the same as you normally do. No wonder you look so sleepy all the time, you freak of nature.”

Ennoshita laughs and steps out the door. “See you Sunday, Futakuchi.”

–

It’s only Saturday, and yet Ennoshita’s hidden behind large sunglasses and a Hollywood cap he’d borrowed from a kouhai in costume design. Honestly, he could have never predicted himself stooping so low. Yet, here he is, skulking behind his two best friends as they walk into the coffee shop, holding his breath and tiptoeing as they slowly move past the slightly risen stage. “Ah,” Narita says dryly when he sees who, exactly, is warming up on that particular stage. “I was wondering why you dragged us here disguised as Justin Bieber.”

Kinoshita pauses and gives Ennoshita a considering look. “To be honest, you have the side bang for it.”

Narita snorts. “So does he.”

“No wonder you two like each other!” Kinoshita coos, and this time Narita almost doubles over in laughter, leaning on an empty coffee table for support.

“Ah, yes,” Narita manages between snickers, “hair compatability. The most important factor.”

Ennoshita scowls darkly at them, but his friends are too busy laughing at their own jokes to notice or even care, and they never really listen to him like Tanaka and Noya do, anyway. All he can do now is turn away from the stage and slouch down inconspicuously.

Finally, they settle down with some final self-congratulatory chortles, and Ennoshita’s able to push them towards the line. They buy steaming mugs of coffee and grab a table in the back, Ennoshita situating himself so that he’s perfectly hidden behind his friends’ shoulders. By this time, Futakuchi is warmed up already, smiling that warm, calm smile that he has when performing in front of his fans, who are pretty numerous today and crowd the seats in front of the stage, armed with their own coffees.

He starts off with an easy one, the first song of his that became popular, and was played on a lot of local indie radio stations for a while. Compared to “In My Dreams,” it’s lively and upbeat, guitar chords bright under the easy rasp of his voice. It’s one of Ennoshita’s favorites off of the album he bought online, which he’s taken to listening while walking to class. Sometimes his pockets are so warm and Futakuchi’s voice so clear in his ear that Ennoshita can almost imagine him walking next to him, holding his hand.

But watching Futakuchi live is even better, for it’s his onstage energy and graceful movement that bring life to simple words and notes. Each vibration, each slow hum, each rap of nails against strings, tugs against him, pulling him inevitably closer, closer, to Futakuchi. Even Narita and Kinoshita, who only came along because they just finished their programming exam and because Ennoshita confessed his kind-of-maybe-crush to them, seem momentarily speechless, caught up in the motion and energy of the music.

And, thoughts swept away in the rush of the melody, Ennoshita feels himself fumbling for the camera in his backpack, the movements unbidden yet so instinctively natural. It’s natural to want to capture Futakuchi, so beautifully at ease, forehead gleaming slightly with sweat and brow furrowed in emotion, as if he himself was lost in song. It’s right to remember this very moment, with afternoon sunlight streaming in long rays through the window and coffee steam curling in fragrant puffs. And it’s fitting, Ennoshita thinks as his heart thumps off-rhythm, that this precise moment in which he finally, relievedly accepts his overwhelming crush, is recorded on his very own camera.

Futakuchi finishes the song with a slow strum, with each slowly plucked string Ennoshita feels the tempo of his heartbeat slowly return to normal. Kinoshita turns slowly back around and, seeing Ennoshita holding his camera sheepishly, almost snorts his coffee out. “Oh man, this keeps getting better and better.”

“It’s for research!” Ennoshita says defensively. “Theres so many layers of him, you know? One second he’s making weird fart jokes with this friend of his, and the next he’s singing these really sensitive lyrics. I’m just… you know.” Ennoshita clutches the camera tighter to his chest. “Researching.”

His best friends level him identical looks, perfected over the years: right eyebrow raised slightly, lids lowered and mouth skeptical. Ennoshita’s delivered a fair share of them himself, but being on the receiving end is always unnerving.

“Do you really think you can get by us with your bullshit,” Narita finally says, face still settled into that awful expression, just because he knows how much Ennoshita hates it.

“Look,” Kinoshita sighs, taking a gulp of coffee as if for strength. “We know that you like him. You know that you like him. Hell, he probably knows that you like him, unless he’s as dense as my dear grandmother’s rock-hard fruitcake. Just tell him, already, and give that stupid hat back to Kageyama.”

Ennoshita slumps forward onto the table. “But what if he doesn’t like me backkkk,” he whines, hearing the 13-year-old in his voice but not really caring to hide it.

Kinoshita opens his eyes wide in mock surprise. “Wait. Like? Or like-like?”

“Should you leave him a secret admirer note in his locker during lunch-time?” Narita adds with false enthusiasm, his voice pitched unnaturally high.

Ennoshita groans into the pillow of his arms. “I hate you guys.”

“Well.” Kinoshita huffs. “It’s the only way to know if he like-likes you.”

“You could make him a bento,” Narita muses. “Make it super cute, Ennoshita.”

They continue exchanging ideas pulled out of shoujo middle-school manga before Narita finally drops the charade and bops Ennoshita on the head. “He pulled an all nighter with you to watch your trash movies,” he sighs, not unkindly. “Ennoshita, are you the dense one?”

“Besides,” Kinoshita adds, poking Ennoshita’s forehead hard through the cap before his friend could argue the merits of the National Treasure franchise. “What did we say to each other about never giving up on things we really like?”

“We were talking about volleyball,” Ennoshita grumbles, “but fine.”

–

It’s the last day of shooting, and as Ennoshita fluffs Futakuchi’s sheets into artful rumpledness (how it would look if Futakuchi actually slept like a normal person instead of a log), he thinks about how exactly, to bring up the topic of possibly... going on a date... together... possibly.

Yeah.

He adjusts the blanket corner into the exact right position and ignores Futakuchi’s muttering about perfectionism, lost in simulations and conversations playing out like movie scenes. John Cusack with a boombox overhead, or something like that. Ennoshita eyes his speakers and regretfully decides that they’re too expensive to risk breaking; he would have to make up his own script, preferably:



[Enter Ennoshita, stage right]

Ennoshita: Hey

Futakuchi (shirtless): Hey let’s go out



Futakuchi strums impatiently, three sharp chords breaking the thread of Ennoshita’s anxious musings. From his perch on his bed he kicks a socked foot into Ennoshita’s stomach. “Come on, lets start already!”

Mumbling an apology and ignoring the blush creeping up his neck, Ennoshita scrambles off Futakuchi’s bed and sets up behind the camera. He hits play and Futakuchi’s song fills the tiny room. Futakuchi himself fills Ennoshita’s vision, overwhelming and breathtaking. Inescapable, for Futakuchi is in all his senses: his smell, clean and easy, ingrained in his sheets and his room; his sound, voice low and yearning, each word scraping like fingernails across Ennoshita’s skin; his look, dust motes dancing around him in a romantic halo, the window beside him painting half his face with pinkish sunset; his touch, a remembered press of shoulders, warm and firm, with the sour taste of gummies in their mouths.

“In my dreams...” Futakuchi sings, and Ennoshita’s stomach curls deep in longing, fingers gripping tightly around the camera lens.

“In my dreams...” Futakuchi sings, and Ennoshita feels it everywhere: from the hotness of his ears to the loud pounding of his heart, every cell in his body aching, yearning for Futakuchi, to be touched and kissed and made to laugh with dumb jokes whispered in his ear. And he doesn’t know if it’s his overactive imagination or if Futakuchi is actually trying to tell him something, but he’s looking straight at him through the lens of the camera, eyes dark and intense, rasping voice low and meaningful.

“In my dreams...” Futakuchi sings, and Ennoshita jumps him.

"In my dreams," the speaker sings, as Futakuchi drops his guitar and wraps his arms around Ennoshita, the tripod camera obediently recording their breathless kiss before Ennoshita, lids heavy and lips flushed, reaches over and clicks it off.

–

“Get your feet out from under my butt, Kenji.”

Futakuchi wiggles his toes and giggles as his boyfriend frowns at him sternly, the work glasses that are slipping down his nose ruining the effect. “But my toes are so cold... and your butt is so warm...”

Ennoshita sighs and puts his laptop on the floor by the bed. Futakuchi grins triumphantly. Finally he’s distracted Ennoshita from editing videos enough to maybe watch a movie and make out for a bit, which has been his plan all along. And which is also why he is so taken aback when Ennoshita suddenly makes his move, kicking his foot out and slipping it under Futakuchi’s butt in one smooth motion. “Cold!” Futakuchi laughs, and they kick at each other for a while, legs windmilling in midair, until they are both panting with exertion and laughter and Ennoshita finally crawls over into Futakuchi’s lap where he belongs.

“Hm,” he hums against Futakuchi’s neck, bangs brushing his ear as warm, strong arms sneak around to encircle his waist. “Wanna watch a movie or something?”

“Mm,” Futakuchi kisses into his boyfriend’s soft hair and curls his arms around his back, enjoying the heat that seeps between them. “Since you didn’t like Shrek 4… Titanic, maybe? Should I get a box of tissues for you?”

“... Kenji, you’ve used that joke for months now, it’s not funny anymore.”

“Shh, it’s okay little Chikara, don’t cry!”

Ennoshita pushes on Futakuchi’s chest, laughing. “You cried, too, you asshole!”

“Hm? Sorry I can’t hear you, babe. I’m going through a tunnel and the signal is going bad!”

Ennoshita drops his head back onto his boyfriend’s shoulder, defeated. “You fucking dumbass,” he moans, hiding a quiet smile in the crook of Futakuchi’s neck.

Futakuchi imitates crackling static into his hand-slash-phone and looks around Ennoshita’s room with wide eyes. “Say that again? Chikara? Chikara? Hello? Can you hear me?”

“You know what...” Ennoshita mutters, shoving the heel of his hand into Futakuchi’s cheek as he extricates himself from his boyfriend’s arms to lean over the edge of the bed and retrieve his laptop. Futakuchi watches as he scrolls quickly and, face lighting in triumph and anticipation, climbs back into Futakuchi’s lap and presses play on a video. The first thing Futakuchi sees is Ennoshita’s face, dark in the unlighted room, the flickering of the movie playing with the shadows on his face. Then, over “My Heart Will Go On” in the background, his own giggling voice, embarrassingly high-pitched in the presence of his crush: “A rare sight tonight, folks. A rare Ennoshita Chikara, crying like a baby!”

In his arms, Futakuchi feels Ennoshita shift in embarrassment at the red eyes and dripping nose so lovingly blown up in full screen, and leans down to kiss his boyfriend’s reddening ears. “Hey, you brought this on yourself, idiot. I didn’t even know you saved this video.”

The sound crackles as the video Ennoshita– glowing red in the darkness– scowls and grabs the camera to point it towards Futakuchi, whose face is also gleaming suspiciously with tears and who may or may not be sniffling into a tissue hidden in his fist. The real Ennoshita snorts and leans his head back to grin up at his face. “That’s why, you clown.”

“And I... will always love you...” Celine Dion belts out in the background, and they watch as video Futakuchi’s face slowly grows redder and redder the longer Ennoshita focuses the camera on him. “God, you can practically feel my pining,” real Futakuchi groans, dropping his face into the crook of Ennoshita’s neck to avoid looking at those wide eyes, too open and vulnerable. “This is embarrassing. Turn it off, Chikara,” he mumbles.

Ennoshita’s shoulders shake with laughter. “Why do you think I was filming you for so long, hmm?”

“Mmm, I don’t know. You enjoy my pain, maybe.”

“That’s true,” Ennoshita laughs, twisting around to peck Futakuchi’s lips. “Like I always get a kick out of this,” he says, pulling up a prime picture of Futakuchi mid-howl, drenched in chocolate syrup, after accidentally triggering his own prank on Ennoshita.

“You told me you deleted this, asshole!” Futakuchi yells, but Ennoshita is cracking up too much for Futakuchi to exact any revenge other than reaching up under his shirt and tickling that soft spot under his ribs that makes him double over in laughter. “Stop, stop–” Ennoshita gasps in between giggles. “I’m– hah– sorry!!”

“What else do you have on your laptop, you sadist?” Futakuchi asks, and while his boyfriend is laughing and vulnerable, seizes possession of his laptop. He clicks on the folder simply titled “Kenji” and freezes. Hundreds of pictures and videos, each carefully named, tagged, and organized; row after row of neat thumbnails.

There’s pictures from when they picnicked on a sunny day in the park, of Futakuchi testing how many grapes he can shove in his cheeks and of Ennoshita leaning against a tree and closing his eyes in the shade. And from Ennoshita’s birthday, clumsy one-handed snapshots of frosting-sweet kisses and hands curled together. There’s that video that Futakuchi himself took when he tried to wake up Ennoshita one morning and got hit in the face by a pillow.

But most of them are taken by Ennoshita, secretly in early sunrises, kisses pressed into sleep-soft skin and a snoring Futakuchi leaning instinctively into the brush of his hand, close-up shots of the jut of Futakuchi’s knee, the arch of his foot, the shell of his ear, the pout of his lips, all illuminated by soft morning light. Each picture feels like a whisper-light caress, and Futakuchi shivers at each brush. He feels worshipped by the camera. By the cameraman. By Chikara.

“Hmm, I liked this picture a lot,” Ennoshita says as he pulls himself up to curl against Futakuchi’s side, as if nothing was different. As if he hadn’t just confessed his love in a thousand pictures of a thousand words.

“Chi–”

“No really, look at this,” Ennoshita laughs, avoiding Futakuchi’s gaze and clicking on a thumbnail. It’s of a guilty-looking Futakuchi caught red-handed trying to hide ten bags of sour gummies by shoving them into a box of Raisin Bran.

“Jesus, Kenji,” Ennoshita shakes his head, still not looking at him. “You can be so ridiculous sometimes. Who do you think you’re fooling, no one likes Raisin Bran. It’s still amazing to me that they’re still in business; I mean unless you have bowel movement problems, for which I suppose the fiber can be useful, but you go to the bathroom pretty regularly so I don’t really– ”

“Chikara!” Futakuchi pushes the laptop off to the side and pulls Ennoshita to face him. “Shut up. Listen. I love you. And I will always love you.”

After their smiling lips pull reluctantly apart, Ennoshita shakes his head and snickers into Futakuchi’s ear. “Careful, before Celine Dion sues your ass for plagiarism.”

There were a lot of things Futakuchi didn’t know, but one thing he did know was himself: he looked best in green; his record for most sour gummies eaten in an hour was 108; he felt guilty about his atrocious English because his father was an English teacher back home. It was his awareness of the last one in particular that drew Futakuchi towards the worst student in English 231 after grabbing his test from the front. He glanced at the grade at the top (solid 72), sighed, and scanned the lecture hall. Finally zeroing in on the boy he needed, he grinned. No matter what, he had definitely done better than Sleeping Guy in the Back Right, whose face has never actually been seen because he was always slumped over on his desk.

Sure enough, there he was, head pillowed by a combination of arms and a crumpled sweatshirt, fine hair sticking up floppily on the left side, coffee bought in morning optimism now abandoned on the ground next to his seat. Sidling sideways through the row, Futakuchi slid into the seat next to him just in time for the professor to begin her mindnumbingly dull lecture on past participles. “Hey man,” he said out of the corner of his mouth, aiming for a conspiratorial, confide-in-me tone, “Dude, I totally bombed the last test. How’d you do?”

No response. Futakuchi was just realizing how weird it was for him to sit next to Sleeping Guy just so he could feel better about himself when he heard a snore, muffled slightly by arms but seriously, how soundly did this guy sleep? As Futakuchi leaned closer to confirm that yes, that was the soft wheezing of someone deep in dreams, he saw the corner of Sleeping Guy’s test peeking out from under his folded arms. One last check and hand wave in front of his eyes and Futakuchi was trying to wiggle the paper from under sleeping limbs as surreptitiously as possible. Just a little more... just one more centimeter and he’d be able to see the first digit…

Suddenly, with an unexpected loss of the dead weight holding down the test, Futakuchi found himself gripping the test with too much pressure and awkwardly meeting the eyes of an awake Sleeping Guy, whose expression quickly narrowed from sleepy confusion to sharp and wary suspicion. “Hello...” he said, sarcasm impressively biting for someone with drool stains dried in a telltale streak down his chin.

Futakuchi cleared his throat. “Ahh.. hello...” He tried for a winning smile, which probably didn’t work because he saw Sleeping Guy’s eyes narrow even more. Damn it. Should’ve listened to Kamasaki when he’d informed Futakuchi that his winning smile wasn’t so winning, apparently.

Clearing his throat again, Futakuchi searched the classroom for excuse inspiration but found none. “Mmm.. well... I can explain...” He glanced down at the test, which in the force of his grip was now crumpled a bit in the corner, and lost his train of thought. Circled in red on the test of Sleeping Guy in the Back Right, the one person Futakuchi thought he could count on to do worse than him, was a 98, complete with a smiley face and “Fantastic!” scrawled above it.

“You... You got a 98...” Could he trust anyone anymore? Overcome with a sudden feeling of betrayal, Futakuchi thrust the paper back to “Ennoshita Chikara,” according to the neatly printed name written in the corner. He turned back to face the front and slumped forward, cradling his face in his hands.

A quiet laugh came from his left. “Are you pouting?”

“Shut up and go back to sleep.”

“Well, I was going to offer to help tutor you, but...”

Futakuchi’s pride held for a couple of seconds until he gave Ennoshita a wary, sidelong glance. The idea of coming home and bragging to his dad that no, he did not suck at English and yeah, in fact, it was the easiest class in his schedule, was too tempting to pass up. “Well...”

---

“Are you paying attention, Futakuchi?”

Yes, he had been– not to verb conjugations but instead to the lush curl of Ennoshita’s eyelashes, subtle pout of his relaxed mouth, soft smoothness of his neatly parted hair. He had been looking not at the sentences dissected and explained with precise handwriting but rather at the hand that wrote them, the trimmed nails and tapered fingers that held a pencil with natural grace.

It was no love at first sight; instead a gentle slide, slow as one of Ennoshita’s smiles, and just as easy. It was easy to slip into this routine, of furtive conversations over milkshakes smuggled past “No eating in the library” signs and idle walks back to dorms under the glow of dim streetlamps. It was as easy as falling, and the rush just as exhilarating.

“Futakuchi. Futakuchi.” Ennoshita sighed in the face of Futakuchi’s lack of response, and leaned down to pull out something from his backpack. “Maybe you need some incentive today.” He dropped it with a small thump on the table, grinning when he saw the look on Futakuchi’s face.

“Sour gummies?!? How did you know?”

Ennoshita scoffed. “Please, you buy one of these every day from the vending machine after class. You can have one for every question you get right.”

“Peachy keen, jellybean,” Futakuchi said, quoting from when Ennoshita made him watch Grease with him for “studying purposes.” Apparently, an unhealthy addiction to American TV and movies had provided Ennoshita his flawless accent and easy grades, despite having designated English 231 as naptime to make up for sleep lost over countless late-night movie marathons. Ennoshita wrinkled his nose at Futakuchi’s awful Rizzo accent, and the expression was so cute that Futakuchi didn’t notice that Ennoshita had already pulled out the textbook in search of good questions until it was too late.

Ennoshita spent the next hour alternating between chucking neon gummy worms into Futakuchi’s open mouth like three-pointers and frowning at him like it was his fault when he yelped too loudly trying to catch an errant worm and a librarian came over to scold them.

After a particularly spectacular mid-air catch, Futakuchi collapsed into his seat. “Let’s stop; I feel like a dog,” he complained, partially because his jaw ached and partially because Ennoshita looked far too good with that carefree grin and the sour crystals sparkling on his lips from stolen gummies.

Ennoshita grinned and leaned back in his chair. “I’m just providing treats for when you’re a good boy.”

“What if I don’t want those treats anymore,” Futakuchi said petulantly, and when Ennoshita gave him a disbelieving look, he pouted. “I’m full.”

A pause, and then Ennoshita glanced up at him through his eyelashes, his innocent look betrayed by a wicked smile. “Well, is there anything else that would motivate you?”

It took a second for Futakuchi to understand his point. It took a second for a flush to bloom red on his ears, and it took a second for his heart to start beating again. But when it did, it beat with gusto, drumming a rapid rhythm against his chest. Every second that he sat there, frozen and replaying that smile again and again, blood rushed in frantic waves, leaving him dazed and floating in its wake.

“Yeah,” Futakuchi finally choked out, and stood up so quickly that his chair toppled over. He grabbed Ennoshita’s hand and, ignoring the blush creeping up his neck, pushed him against the back side of a bookshelf, away from sight; they looked at each other for a few moments until Ennoshita laughed softly and reached up to wrap his arms around Futakuchi’s neck. “Hurry up and kiss me, idiot...”

So it was there, hidden behind scarred wooden bookshelves and under the flickering yellow glow of old fluorescent lights that their lips first tentatively pushed together, a shy courting of breath and sour-sweet tongue, gentle give and subtle press, slowly melding with the curl of fingers in hair and curve of closing eyelids. A first kiss– the first of many to be pressed into skin between heated whispers or sleepily brushed in early morning laziness. The first of many, a taste of what would be to come, soft words exchanged in the breeze of candied breath, language and meaning lost between the crush of sugared lips.

don't pity me
your soft-hard eyes pierce me
as i lie broken and bleeding,
don't pat my bare bone
don't clog my ears with honeyed words
don't look down on me
and congratulate
you
you judge with surface
and prestigious pedigree
you touch your pretty
porcelain smile
you tower in stilettos,
heels digging into my poor bruised skin and
you stand on me
you crack my ribs, but
don't pity me
i am not below you
i see deeper than simple surface
i think
i am