auuuuuuuuuuuuugh
I hate you, Saki, I hate you so much. It wasn't enough for this to be some sort of twisted Xanadu AU, oh no. I made Kazu Erato. /HATES SELF FOREVER
He's been watching the boy every day. And Sano knows, he knows how creepy that sounds and he does it anyway.
The boy passes Sano's apartment every afternoon at 4:11. And every afternoon at 4:11, Sano just happens to be near the window that faces the street, just to catch a glance. (Spitfire would have laughed himself silly and told Sano to ask the kid out already, but Spitfire didn't need to know.)
It's as if a dam has burst inside of him. All the months of artist's block, the crumpled failures and the frustrated sleepless nights staring at a blank canvas, the combini dinners and barely paid rent checks, gone from his mind. Gone, and replaced with the solid curve of the boy's shoulders, the tense in the muscles of his legs just before he makes the leap from one rooftop to the next. Sano is captivated by the twist of the boy's hips when he nearly falls, landing safe at the last moment, by the teasing glimpses of throat and collarbone under the unbuttoned collar of his uniform shirt and the gleam of his A-Ts as they catch the sunlight. His sketchbooks fill up faster than ever as Sano tries to capture that breathtaking, unrestrained freedom, to pin it to the paper with graphite and charcoal.
It's only when he goes to scrounge up something in the kitchenette and finds nothing that Sano realizes he hasn't left his apartment in nearly two weeks. And it's just his luck that he doesn't check the time before stepping out the door, onto the street, and right into his muse.
"Watch where you're going!" the boy yells, not looking back.
And before he can stop himself, Sano reaches out and catches the boy by one slender wrist. "Wait."
The boy spins around to face him. "Who the hell," he starts, then scowls as realization dawns. "You're the guy who's been watching me!"
Well. He's got Sano there. "I just want to know your name," Sano tells him, and thinks he does a pretty good job of sounding suave and casual instead of mildly desperate.
The boy looks at him for what feels like an hour, a strange suspicion flashing in his eyes. "Kazuma," he says finally. "Kazu."
"Kazu," Sano repeats, liking the way the name tastes on his tongue, wondering idly if the boy who possesses it tastes just as good. As if hearing his thoughts, Kazu's irritated frown deepens and he shakes his arm free of Sano's grip.
"Pervert," he says, without any real heat, and then: "See you around, Sano."
And with a flash of those skates, he's gone, and only then does Sano realize that he never gave Kazu his name.
He's been watching the boy every day. And Sano knows, he knows how creepy that sounds and he does it anyway.
The boy passes Sano's apartment every afternoon at 4:11. And every afternoon at 4:11, Sano just happens to be near the window that faces the street, just to catch a glance. (Spitfire would have laughed himself silly and told Sano to ask the kid out already, but Spitfire didn't need to know.)
It's as if a dam has burst inside of him. All the months of artist's block, the crumpled failures and the frustrated sleepless nights staring at a blank canvas, the combini dinners and barely paid rent checks, gone from his mind. Gone, and replaced with the solid curve of the boy's shoulders, the tense in the muscles of his legs just before he makes the leap from one rooftop to the next. Sano is captivated by the twist of the boy's hips when he nearly falls, landing safe at the last moment, by the teasing glimpses of throat and collarbone under the unbuttoned collar of his uniform shirt and the gleam of his A-Ts as they catch the sunlight. His sketchbooks fill up faster than ever as Sano tries to capture that breathtaking, unrestrained freedom, to pin it to the paper with graphite and charcoal.
It's only when he goes to scrounge up something in the kitchenette and finds nothing that Sano realizes he hasn't left his apartment in nearly two weeks. And it's just his luck that he doesn't check the time before stepping out the door, onto the street, and right into his muse.
"Watch where you're going!" the boy yells, not looking back.
And before he can stop himself, Sano reaches out and catches the boy by one slender wrist. "Wait."
The boy spins around to face him. "Who the hell," he starts, then scowls as realization dawns. "You're the guy who's been watching me!"
Well. He's got Sano there. "I just want to know your name," Sano tells him, and thinks he does a pretty good job of sounding suave and casual instead of mildly desperate.
The boy looks at him for what feels like an hour, a strange suspicion flashing in his eyes. "Kazuma," he says finally. "Kazu."
"Kazu," Sano repeats, liking the way the name tastes on his tongue, wondering idly if the boy who possesses it tastes just as good. As if hearing his thoughts, Kazu's irritated frown deepens and he shakes his arm free of Sano's grip.
"Pervert," he says, without any real heat, and then: "See you around, Sano."
And with a flash of those skates, he's gone, and only then does Sano realize that he never gave Kazu his name.