Just Searching
Featuring Tezuka, Echizen, cameos of others
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Tezuka stares and Echizen has to resist the urge to fidget; he's never felt so uncomfortable under anyone's gaze before, because he's never cared about an opinion before. And if this were anyone but Tezuka, he thinks he wouldn't care.
Rather, Echizen knows he wouldn't care.
"It is suitable," Tezuka says, but there's something in his tone that hints at displeasure, at disapproval. "It is simply not you."
He says no more; Fuji is at the door and Echizen doesn't ask, because that guarded look Tezuka wears when Fuji or Yukimura are around appears on his face.
He'll ask later.
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Echizen stares at Kirihara, draped in something he's designed and wonders what Tezuka means when he says it's not him. He can not see himself in the clothes he designs and doesn't think it is important.
Yukimura walks past him, stops at Kirihara's side, and says something into his ear, and Echizen's eyes are drawn to the model. He doesn't stare at the body, because he has no interest, but the clothes: this is Tezuka at his best. And when Echizen looks at Yukimura, or any of the models, clothed in professional black or slinky grey or astute blue, he sees not them or the clothes even.
He sees Tezuka.
And he wonders, staring at Yukimura talking to Kirihara, if that is what Tezuka means.
"You're going to give yourself a headache, staring like that," Fuji says into his ear, and Echizen doesn't jerk but it takes willpower. "Should I be offended, you staring at Seiichi so intently?"
"Che," Echizen mutters, and ducks away. He meets Tezuka's eyes, but looks away from him just as quickly as he escapes Fuji.
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That night, before the shops close, when he should be at a party thrown in honor of the show earleir that afternoon, Echizen stops at one and buys a cheap, simple shirt Tezuka's designed. He wants the opportunity to study, to regard it, to figure out how Tezuka makes it his own. Wants to see if he can copy it, twist it, change it, add something to his designs.
Echizen's phone rings, but he ignores it, assumes it will be Atobe or Tezuka or someone else, demanding him to show up to the party he's beyond fashionably late to.
He returns to the hotel room instead, his home for the night and the previous night and probably the next night, and digs out the shirt, intent upon studying it. His hands ghost over the fabric, wonder what Tezuka does differently than everyone else, because even when Echizen is sitting in a darkened room, the only light shining from his bedside lamp, he can see Tezuka in the shirt he holds.
The little kit he cares everywhere, like any designer, of scissors and pins and needles and string, remains tucked away for the night. He can't take his hands or his eyes off of the shirt he bought, even when he wraps it around his cock and strokes.