#souharuweek

[ He has his elbow propped on his knee, wrist suspended, loosely, off the edge. He looks like he ought to be in a period movie – instead of Inari, then, like a fourteen-year-old Japanese James Dean: burning bright, burning out. ]

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i am ready to owe you anything
Author:pennyofthewild
Prompt: @souharuweek2015 day 1: firsts/childhood
Word count: 820 
Ratings/Warnings: T+, smoking, brief strong language
Summary/Notes: middle school souharu ft. delinquent!haru for @buttleronduty because this is literally all her fault (please accept this humble offering).

[listen]
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The school’s rooftop garden began as an accident, really – born of an enthusiastic seventh grade science experiment and nurtured by Iwatobi’s yearlong mild weather. Years later, it is an overgrown, untidy jungle of experiment plants grown dense and thick: muggy like a rainforest in summer, eerie and lifeless in the winter.  

On a hot afternoon in late spring, Sousuke finds Nanase perched on the balustrade, sitting on the concrete wall with one knee drawn to his chest, the other stretched out in front of him, surrounded by garden plants run wild. Like some sort of reincarnation of Inari – the hopeless nerd in Sousuke thinks – what with the gently waving leaves hovering over him, and the sunlight filtering through the canopy to dapple, pale gold and gray, over his face and hair and summer uniform, arms gleaming with afternoon sun.

The image is ruined, however, by the large, mottled bruise on his chin, varying shades of yellow and purple, and the cigarette in his mouth, smoke curling out the end like a slow obscenity. Sousuke’s matching bruise stings. Nanase hears him and looks up. His eyes flicker over Sousuke, narrow to blue slits.

“I’m not going to apologize,” Sousuke says, before Nanase can deliver one of his rare, but infamous, tongue-lashings.

Nanase’s eyebrows hitch upward, as if to say, good, because I’m not going to accept it.

“I stand by what I said,” Sousuke tilts his chin, crosses his arms over his chest. Nanase remains staunchly un-intimidated. “But we’ve got another English period and Nakamura-sensei said he would have the principal call your parents if you don’t come to class.”

“Fuck you, Yamazaki,” Nanase spits, cigarette resting in the fork of his index and middle fingers. He has his elbow propped on his knee, wrist suspended, loosely, off the edge. He looks like he ought to be in a period movie – instead of Inari, then, like a fourteen-year-old Japanese James Dean: burning bright, burning out. He looks like Rin.

The thought smarts: like Nanase’s punch, earlier – but duller, deeper, heavy in Sousuke’s chest. He shrugs. “Maybe some day, when we’re older and you know what you’re doing, I might let you.”

He can see when what he’s said sinks in: Nanase’s eyes widen, the tight line of his mouth loosening – and then he laughs – short, sharp, mirthless – like a thunderclap. Sousuke wonders, briefly, what he would sound like really laughing.  The thought closes his throat.

“Maybe,” Nanase says, “if the offer is still standing.” The promise hangs low in Sousuke’s belly – a vague, pleasant heat. Nanase moves to stub his cigarette, swings his legs off the wall.

“Wait,” Sousuke gestures at the cigarette, runs his tongue over his lips. “Don’t put it out just yet.”

Nanase pauses in his half-crouch, one foot on the ground, and looks up at Sousuke from underneath raised eyebrows, an amused smirk dancing around his mouth. “Oh? What brought this on? You’re usually just as much of a scaredy-cat as Rin.”

As usual, the sound of Rin’s name spoken aloud causes a pang in Sousuke’s chest, like peeling the scab off a day-old wound. Nanase is watching him carefully, though, so Sousuke shrugs. “I’m not against trying something new.”

A flicker crosses Nanase’s face – something between a grimace and a strange wistfulness – but then his expression clears, and he scoffs, “yeah right,” derisively, but he holds out the cigarette anyway.

Sousuke takes it, cautiously, holds it as far away from the lit end as he can. He looks down at it – it is so innocuous – a rolled-up paper stick – but strangely heavy in his hand. He can feel the weight of Nanase’s gaze on his face, and perhaps it is the idea that Nanase is waiting for him to back down – but Sousuke swallows his hesitation and lifts the cigarette to his mouth. He sucks in a quick, shallow breath, feels heat coil in the back of his throat.

It burns.

Letting the smoke escape his mouth, Sousuke decides it isn’t an altogether unpleasant feeling, but probably not something he’d do regularly. The paper is damp where Nanase’s mouth had been, and belatedly, Sousuke’s ears heat up.

“First smoke, first indirect kiss,” Nanase’s voice is its usual expressionless drawl, but Sousuke detects amusement underneath the surface, “my, my. Big day for you, isn’t it, Yamazaki-kun?”

Sousuke watches him stub the cigarette out with his heel. He swallows, looks down at his feet, attempts a light, teasing tone. “Well – you know. Have to start somewhere.”

When Sousuke looks up, Nanase is smiling at him. It isn’t a smirk. It is a smile: a soft, fond smile that brightens his eyes and lights up his face. Sousuke didn’t know Nanase could smile like that – at least, not at him. 

Sousuke’s heart sputters.

“Well then,” Nanase says, still smiling that heart-stopping smile, dimples deepening. If he hadn’t been head-over-heels for him before, Sousuke thinks, then he definitely is now, “where would you like to start?”