"You're anticipating our fallout!" she accuses, referring to her and Tsuchiura, and sighing into her hands as he stares.
"No, I'm not. I'm anticipating you and me," Kaji says, unwavering, reeking of uncertainty. Her face is a flurry—a light snow—of emotions, each appearing for a split second until she settles on confusion, because it is easiest. Love would make her eyes starry and lustrous, and he knows it. His shirt lies awkwardly on his frame, his shoulders projecting through the pale tint.
"I—I can't be here," she decides, striding across the slick floor, running a trembling hand through red hair. Her fingers grip the doorknob as his face falls, his eyes liquid amongst the solid room.
---
Kaji loves music, the strained vocals, the rumbling of the precise guitars, the rigid drum rhythm beating quicker than his heart. The words tumble into his ears, shuffling through the melody, saying everything he wishes he could. He falls away, closed eyes, a world with only clever lyrics and the sheer feeling of intense control. He loves her music; the calming, soothing sound of her violin; the notes lilting in triple time. He loves her music, he loves—her.
Kaji hates music, the utter perfection of it, the exact timing and fit of each chord; the passion. Most of all, he hates the fact that he will never create anything so flawless. The notes jump around the staff, arbitrarily landing on the lines, making a song without effort. He hates her music, he hates feeling vulnerable and drawn and hopeful. He hates her music, and he hates the fact that she is playing for him. Music is reminiscent of her. It's all about Hino.
---
"You still love her?" Tsuchiura pries, waving to Hino from across the room, his lips creeping into a guilty smile. Hesitation; acceptance. Kaji's eyes wander, as he digs his nails into his neck. It's only a mark, faded by next week.
"I don't want to…" Kaji falters, fluorescent lights beaming on his perspiring forehead. Inconclusive, unresolved. Tsuchiura shakes his head.
"I don't want you to, either," he says, cutting swiftly through the heavy air. His turned back becomes an image Kaji often sees, the aching never too far away.
---
He fights sleep for days, overlooking the appeal of slipping into a world without thoughts and sounds. So he escapes in the dark, running aimlessly into nothingness while others are forgetting, and he can only try. The night is deafening, he discovers, when he expects stillness from the ground to the stars. He stretches his arms—his fingers touch the broken strings of the viola lying on the floor—he closes his eyes—he slides his hand around her wrist, until her shallow pulse tickles his fingertips, and he thinks, maybe, this is what they need.
---
i keep on writing weird jumble of words these days. a kaji-centric fic; it's my first.