He's nervous, that much is for certain. For one thing, the man's never had a romantic interest since the spring of his youth, and if he's being honest with himself, that time has long since passed. Much less, he's in love with a man this time around and it's both godawful embarrassing and confusing as all hell. He runs his fingers through his hair nervously, inwardly cursing his lack of it. Goddamn male pattern baldness all the way to hell and back. He paces the classroom length, each step growing heavier and heavier with anxiety as he mulls over the plan in his head.
But he's unfortunately out of time, he realizes with panic. The old door sticks for a second, deterring the detective's otherwise smooth entry into the room for just a moment longer. He's completely floored for what action to take next. Play it cool, he thinks with feigned conviction. But Morooka's completely forgotten what it's like to be himself anymore; especially where Ryotarou Dojima is concerned.
The detective begins talking to him, something about the murders that've been occurring as of late; a third year who got herself killed and strung up a telephone pole like a kid's pinata. If you were to ask Morooka, he would've badmouthed the student to begin with, despite the fact her barely knew the chick (outside of the fact that her family owned the booze store).
His tangent of thought is interrupted when he realizes the detective is staring at him expectantly. Shit, did he ask a question? Though it wasn't as if Morooka could really focus if he'd heard the inquiry to begin with. Not under the intense scrutiny of Dojima's imploring gaze. He feels his knees buckle, and inwardly curses himself once more for his stupid behavior, especially in the presence of him—
In a panic, he quickly focuses his attention elsewhere— anywhere but Dojima's hypnotic gaze as he attempts to gather his thoughts and come up with a method to bullshit his way out of answering the prompt. Dark hues fall on the crimson tie, hung loosely around the detective's neck. If it were anyone else, he would have thought the tie to be ugly, lacking in some distinct mustard-yellow diamond pattern that added a certain level of 'cheap, tacky low-budget school teacher' air to it. But the way the detective wore it, with that rugged demeanor and lackadaisical manner of dress, was nothing short of enticing.
All signs of reason or logical thought gone, Morooka moves the few steps forward and closing the space between the two without a second thought. He grabs a fistful of that familiar red tie, the fabric smooth between his rough hands, before tugging the taller man forward and swiftly crushing his lips against Dojima's. The kiss is rough, likely due to the fact that it was shared between a pair of men who rarely used chapstick, but that hardly made it any less enjoyable for the distinguished educator. And a moment later, he pulls away, still clutching the detective's tie in his feeble grasp as he rises to the very tips of his toes and leans in to whisper in a sultry tone,
"Descartes."