thoughts of a dry brain in a wet season - Santa's Early! v.2 - PoT, Golden Pair.

#2. Golden Pair drippiness (in the non-smutty sense, alas) for fyredancer. It's, um, terrible. 'M SORRY. x_x The GP in my head lose all capacity to behave like intelligent beings, apparently.


Ours
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As the final-year exams draw near a routine like this is worked out: they go to Ooishi's house after classes, and Ooishi's mother gives them lunch. Eiji enthuses, with a huge and artless smile, that she makes the best omelette rice in Japan; as a result they eat that most days, with variations on the ingredients in the rice filling. Then it's upstairs to Ooishi's room to get the books out, and Ooishi leaves Eiji be when Eiji groans and tosses his math notes aside after thirty minutes. He knows it's useless trying to push Eiji's attention span. He also knows Eiji will pick up his notebook with a resigned pout, after ten minutes or so of mumbled invectives against book-learning and trigonometry. And then he gives his partner a smile, patiently encouraging; Eiji returns it, a little self-consciously, and they bend over their notes again until one of them (usually Eiji) breaks the quiet to ask a question. Ooishi's able to field most of them, but in any case Fuji and Tezuka have their cellphones on if he can't.

Eiji moves his fingertips on the desk, drumming out silent rhythms of melodies being piped through absent headphones. He likes to tap his pen against his fingers when figuring out questions, or to press it into the soft, full curve of his lower lip, pushing it down to reveal a glimpse of white enamel.

(Ooishi has learned, for his own benefit, to avoid looking at him when he does this.)

They break after three hours. Ooishi's mother, used to them, will knock on the door with tea and snacks, and sometimes they go out for a breath of air. Ooishi watches Eiji turn a series of exuberant cartwheels for a group of amazed children, once, flushed and bright-eyed under a sky of lead, and basks in amused, indulgent affection: this is Eiji, this is what Eiji likes, and Ooishi watches because he likes that. Eiji flips back onto his feet with perfect poise, brushing off his reddened hands while the children cheer, and as they head back to Ooishi's house he listens to Eiji chirp about the coldness of the pavement and the cute kids, his breath huffing out in clouds, and wasn't I cool, Ooishi, nya?

One afternoon Eiji takes a nap, having stayed up the night before playing computer games after a day of studying. He flops onto Ooishi's bed, curling up cat-like under the first layer of sheets, and proceeds to kick them off when he falls asleep as if he finds even their meagre weight heavy. Ooishi folds them into a neat oblong at the foot of the bed, and makes himself turn back to his notes.

An hour passes. The alarm clock shrills. Eiji groggily pushes himself up with an expansive yawn, tousled hair flattened against his cheek. When he stretches his arms above his head he arches his back so that his shirt rides up over his stomach, exposing a bar of lightly tanned skin. Ooishi takes in all of this display of sleep-rumpled sensuality; watches the supple shift of muscle and bone in Eiji's neck and arms, the quicksilver shadow-curve of lashes on cheekbones as Eiji blinks. And his eyes are very dark and tender.

Eiji tilts his head from side to side, running a hand through stiff strands of auburn hair, and pads over to the desk, radiating sleepy warmth as he leans on the back of Ooishi's chair. Asks, in a voice scratchy with drowsiness, what's he studying now? And without waiting for an answer, he reaches over to pick up the practice paper Ooishi's working on. His hair brushes Ooishi's face, and Ooishi silently inhales traces of lemon-fresh deodorant, the fragrance of GATSBY hair wax. It is another reminder for him to be grateful for their comfortable familiarity, the ease with which they give and accept physical contact.

"I don't under - hhhnya - understand -" punctuated by another yawn, "- how you like English so much. Teach me this section later, Ooishi?"

Of course, he replies. Anytime you want. The curve of Eiji's mouth is warm and lopsided, and Ooishi lets it draw him in.

(he contemplates contentment, simple and golden like sunny-side up eggs for breakfast.)

"Eiji," he merely says, taking up his pen again. "Pull your shirt down, please."