[May 1] [Sket Dance] and I would have met you
Title: and I would have met you (1/31)
Day/Theme: May 1 / this was once a love poem
Series: Sket Dance
Character/Pairing: Ryosuke/Haru, Akane
Rating: PG-13
On the day Ryosuke proposes to Haru, Akane takes him aside to go over the finer points of stressing him out under the pretext of picking out his clothes.
"Did you remember to call for reservations?" Akane asks, dusting off imaginary lint off the shoulders of his long-sleeved shirt. It is white and easy to crumple with every movement, but under the severity of Akane's care, it looks relatively better than it would have with Ryosuke's unsupervised flailing as he rummages through his closet for the cufflinks Akane's father lent him. "What about flowers? You know you shouldn't get her peonies - they -"
"Make her kind of allergic, I know," says Ryosuke, rolling his eyes. He would have shrugged, under normal circumstances, but Akane had expressly forbidden it (read: she had thrown a bitch fit and upended a side table) when he had tried to do so as she nattered on about how teasing Haru was a surefire way to boost his chances of getting rejected. "I've been with her since I was a kid, you know, you're not the one who had a panic attack the first time around, mother."
The smack upside Ryosuke's head is probably a little excessive and not altogether undeserved, but Ryosuke enjoys the mild distraction. "Keep talking like that and you'll be showing up with a black eye to match that tie of yours, jerk," says Akane, waving her fist in the air.
Ryosuke bends to cover the back of his head with his hands. It's worth the effort to hide the wide grin threatening to ruin his plaintive whining. "Ow, stop, damn it, you're ruining my hair!"
"Oh, for god's sake," says Akane, grabbing him by his elbow and steering him back to face the mirror. "Pass me the hair gel and quit whining."
Ryosuke surrenders the bottle, grumbling under his breath, but he does not flinch when Akane passes her palms across his bangs, the top of his head, into his scalp. Instead, he meets Akane's eyes, raising his chin and settling down. When he stares at himself, he does not know what to think, and even when Akane runs a comb through the more unruly strands of hair, he cannot even recognize himself. To be sure, it is his appearance reflected in the mirror, but beyond that, in the places well-hidden, in his pockets where a box lay, there is that unsettling sense of surety that tomorrow, perhaps tonight, he will not be the same person as he is today.
"It's scary, isn't it?" Akane's voice, trembling despite the detachment in her expression, makes him turn to look at her despite the click of her teeth and tongue. "I never thought we'd all become adults so quickly."
Ryosuke feels a slight pang, at that; there are some things Akane says that make him feel nothing but regret, because Akane has had a relatively normal life, and Ryosuke and Haru have never really understood that kind of stability, where moving out was not a requirement imposed to make more space for younger children. Still, he understands, in the way that Akane hesitates. He catches the back of her hand, strokes her knuckles and lets her hold on to him, tightly.
"Since when were you a kid?" Ryosuke says, absently -- fondly, almost..
Akane's lips settle into a thin line, but her eyes are soft and her touch is still and reassuring. "I forgot you're talented at denial."
"Come on," says Ryosuke, bopping her arm gently with his head, "you're getting really sentimental on me."
"Consider it practice for when Haru cries all over the table napkin after you fuck up," says Akane. There is a warning in there, but Akane holds him gently, like a mother would to her child.
"Don't worry," says Ryosuke. "I've never been more serious in my life."
They stare at each other, assessing, like strangers or rivals at a rare moment of recognition, and Akane must find something earnest in his expression, then, because she relaxes into a sigh.
"Good," says Akane. "Now run that proposal to me one more time, and I promise this time I won't laugh at your attempts at waxing poetic about Haru's beautiful eyes."
There's some jest in there, but Ryosuke thinks of the things he had written, all false starts and fits of hysteria with a rare tinge of sudden, startling clarity, and this could not be anything but love, he realizes.
He thinks Akane must know that, too.
"Never should have showed that draft to you," says Ryosuke, groaning.
Akane smiles, showing teeth. "Just start talking, Romeo."
He talks, and he talks, and he talks, until the clock strikes eight and the quiet staccato of Akane's heels and his own leather shoes sound outside his door and into the hallway of Haru's apartment, where he knows someone waits for him as surely as he has waited his entire life for her.
Day/Theme: May 1 / this was once a love poem
Series: Sket Dance
Character/Pairing: Ryosuke/Haru, Akane
Rating: PG-13
On the day Ryosuke proposes to Haru, Akane takes him aside to go over the finer points of stressing him out under the pretext of picking out his clothes.
"Did you remember to call for reservations?" Akane asks, dusting off imaginary lint off the shoulders of his long-sleeved shirt. It is white and easy to crumple with every movement, but under the severity of Akane's care, it looks relatively better than it would have with Ryosuke's unsupervised flailing as he rummages through his closet for the cufflinks Akane's father lent him. "What about flowers? You know you shouldn't get her peonies - they -"
"Make her kind of allergic, I know," says Ryosuke, rolling his eyes. He would have shrugged, under normal circumstances, but Akane had expressly forbidden it (read: she had thrown a bitch fit and upended a side table) when he had tried to do so as she nattered on about how teasing Haru was a surefire way to boost his chances of getting rejected. "I've been with her since I was a kid, you know, you're not the one who had a panic attack the first time around, mother."
The smack upside Ryosuke's head is probably a little excessive and not altogether undeserved, but Ryosuke enjoys the mild distraction. "Keep talking like that and you'll be showing up with a black eye to match that tie of yours, jerk," says Akane, waving her fist in the air.
Ryosuke bends to cover the back of his head with his hands. It's worth the effort to hide the wide grin threatening to ruin his plaintive whining. "Ow, stop, damn it, you're ruining my hair!"
"Oh, for god's sake," says Akane, grabbing him by his elbow and steering him back to face the mirror. "Pass me the hair gel and quit whining."
Ryosuke surrenders the bottle, grumbling under his breath, but he does not flinch when Akane passes her palms across his bangs, the top of his head, into his scalp. Instead, he meets Akane's eyes, raising his chin and settling down. When he stares at himself, he does not know what to think, and even when Akane runs a comb through the more unruly strands of hair, he cannot even recognize himself. To be sure, it is his appearance reflected in the mirror, but beyond that, in the places well-hidden, in his pockets where a box lay, there is that unsettling sense of surety that tomorrow, perhaps tonight, he will not be the same person as he is today.
"It's scary, isn't it?" Akane's voice, trembling despite the detachment in her expression, makes him turn to look at her despite the click of her teeth and tongue. "I never thought we'd all become adults so quickly."
Ryosuke feels a slight pang, at that; there are some things Akane says that make him feel nothing but regret, because Akane has had a relatively normal life, and Ryosuke and Haru have never really understood that kind of stability, where moving out was not a requirement imposed to make more space for younger children. Still, he understands, in the way that Akane hesitates. He catches the back of her hand, strokes her knuckles and lets her hold on to him, tightly.
"Since when were you a kid?" Ryosuke says, absently -- fondly, almost..
Akane's lips settle into a thin line, but her eyes are soft and her touch is still and reassuring. "I forgot you're talented at denial."
"Come on," says Ryosuke, bopping her arm gently with his head, "you're getting really sentimental on me."
"Consider it practice for when Haru cries all over the table napkin after you fuck up," says Akane. There is a warning in there, but Akane holds him gently, like a mother would to her child.
"Don't worry," says Ryosuke. "I've never been more serious in my life."
They stare at each other, assessing, like strangers or rivals at a rare moment of recognition, and Akane must find something earnest in his expression, then, because she relaxes into a sigh.
"Good," says Akane. "Now run that proposal to me one more time, and I promise this time I won't laugh at your attempts at waxing poetic about Haru's beautiful eyes."
There's some jest in there, but Ryosuke thinks of the things he had written, all false starts and fits of hysteria with a rare tinge of sudden, startling clarity, and this could not be anything but love, he realizes.
He thinks Akane must know that, too.
"Never should have showed that draft to you," says Ryosuke, groaning.
Akane smiles, showing teeth. "Just start talking, Romeo."
He talks, and he talks, and he talks, until the clock strikes eight and the quiet staccato of Akane's heels and his own leather shoes sound outside his door and into the hallway of Haru's apartment, where he knows someone waits for him as surely as he has waited his entire life for her.