Miyuki's fingertips are fire on his pulse, veins of lava, rushing heat all across his skin, and Hisashi is sure he'll burn up like this.
But that's normal, right? He thinks, it's normal to curl up under kotatsu in winter, to reach out to a campfire to dry out your palms. He moves to stand in front of Miyuki, doesn't shake off the hold on his wrist or the stutter still hanging in the air.
"Or, you could come with me," chilly breeze whipping at his hair, cooling his forehead but not his cheeks.
Kazuya lets his arm swing while Nabe moves, slides his heels back across the ground to make room so he isn't tripping, and catches Nabe's eye. When his hair gets messed up like that, Kazuya's always got the urge to brush it back down nudging at his fingers.
"I--" he laughs, jittery, and twists his wrist to tuck his fingers around Nabe's palm, instead. "Yeah, I could do that, couldn't I?" He rocks to his feet, rushing because if he doesn't, he starts to have second thoughts with the subtitle Cowardice. He bumps into Nabe's space like he hadn't, before, grip pulsing gently tight around Nabe's fingers.
Miyuki's hand feels heavy in his own, not shifting the slightest even as Miyuki gets to his feet. Miyuki agreeing without a thought, quick and unsteady movement to get upright, was not a part of Hisashi's mental calculations. He was expecting hesitation, reluctance, but he supposes he should have known better than to expect Miyuki of all people to give him a free out.
They could go back to reviewing matches like they usually do, scorebook and rewinds a buffer against the raw edge Hisashi feels when they're alone; people nearby if he has to seek refuge from the worst of Miyuki's running commentary. But it all sort of feels like overwrought excuses, and Hisashi knows the pause to think has run awkward.
He twists his wrist to lace their fingers together, distribute the weight of warm skin between them.
"I didn't really have anywhere in mind, yet," and leans in a little to say it, like it could be a secret, just the two of them.
The space between them is small enough that that minute shortening of it is enough to strangle something in Kazuya's throat. His grip tightens just a notch in reaction, putting skin-to-skin contact even closer together from wrist to fingertip. His eyelashes flutter short behind his glasses as he looks down at Nabe.
"Now there's a shocker, you not knowing something," he teases, soft in the space. "My roommate's not usually in around now," he offers, wondering if that's unfair, if that's putting something too heavy on him. "But I'm sure we can find somewhere, if you don't... want to," he continues, trailing off with a little uncertainty.
His fingers twitch against Nabe's, and suddenly he feels like his palms have to be pond-slick. He swallows, and hopes it's not obvious, but knows it probably is.
"And then what?" Hisashi thinks to himself, too many theoretical dead-ends and bad outcomes buzzing in his head. But Miyuki's tenderness is new, and he's curious, desperately curious, so he puts the math to rest and looks for trust instead.
He brushes his thumb past Miyuki's knuckle as reassurance, for both of them. "That's fine," he starts, stumbles a little on it, "I don't mind."
He waits, weak with hope, and breathes out heavy worry, Nabe's thumb grounding him. The start-stop-start again rattles him a little, but it shouldn't be a surprise he's not alone on new ground. He shifts his weight, a corner of his mouth twitching.
"I'm... glad," he says, because he is. It's awkward with a certain uncertainty, and he shakes off the admission, itching with that constant urge to move forward, leave anything less than ironclad and untouchable behind. Because it's Nabe, though, he tries to do it slowly. "C'mon, then, before we freeze standing up." He moves carefully toward the dugout's entrance, his hand slipping slowly - regretfully - from Nabe's. It feels colder than it had before: he tucks his fingers into his pockets to stave it off.
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But that's normal, right? He thinks, it's normal to curl up under kotatsu in winter, to reach out to a campfire to dry out your palms. He moves to stand in front of Miyuki, doesn't shake off the hold on his wrist or the stutter still hanging in the air.
"Or, you could come with me," chilly breeze whipping at his hair, cooling his forehead but not his cheeks.
no subject
"I--" he laughs, jittery, and twists his wrist to tuck his fingers around Nabe's palm, instead. "Yeah, I could do that, couldn't I?" He rocks to his feet, rushing because if he doesn't, he starts to have second thoughts with the subtitle Cowardice. He bumps into Nabe's space like he hadn't, before, grip pulsing gently tight around Nabe's fingers.
no subject
They could go back to reviewing matches like they usually do, scorebook and rewinds a buffer against the raw edge Hisashi feels when they're alone; people nearby if he has to seek refuge from the worst of Miyuki's running commentary. But it all sort of feels like overwrought excuses, and Hisashi knows the pause to think has run awkward.
He twists his wrist to lace their fingers together, distribute the weight of warm skin between them.
"I didn't really have anywhere in mind, yet," and leans in a little to say it, like it could be a secret, just the two of them.
no subject
"Now there's a shocker, you not knowing something," he teases, soft in the space. "My roommate's not usually in around now," he offers, wondering if that's unfair, if that's putting something too heavy on him. "But I'm sure we can find somewhere, if you don't... want to," he continues, trailing off with a little uncertainty.
His fingers twitch against Nabe's, and suddenly he feels like his palms have to be pond-slick. He swallows, and hopes it's not obvious, but knows it probably is.
no subject
He brushes his thumb past Miyuki's knuckle as reassurance, for both of them. "That's fine," he starts, stumbles a little on it, "I don't mind."
no subject
"I'm... glad," he says, because he is. It's awkward with a certain uncertainty, and he shakes off the admission, itching with that constant urge to move forward, leave anything less than ironclad and untouchable behind. Because it's Nabe, though, he tries to do it slowly. "C'mon, then, before we freeze standing up." He moves carefully toward the dugout's entrance, his hand slipping slowly - regretfully - from Nabe's. It feels colder than it had before: he tucks his fingers into his pockets to stave it off.