PoT: familiarity syndrome
I have absolutely no self control. I mean it. None at all. So after going through kirabop's stuff, I just had to snag this idea about-- and wouldn't you believe it-- Momo throwing rocks at Ryoma's window. Back to ripping of people who are better than me. *grin* I never learn.
The first time, he breaks Ryoma's window, because he chooses a stone that's too big, and he throws it too hard, and he doesn't know about this stuff; he just pulled it out of his head and a novel he had been reading. It seemed right then. It's a Saturday morning, and Ryoma's still in his pajamas, blurry eyed, standing there aghast at his broken window, yelling, "Momo-senpai, what do you think you're doing?"
"Did I throw it too hard?" Momo asks sheepishly, even though the answer is obvious.
"Are you trying to play baseball?" Ryoma demands angrily, but, smiling as he pretends to reconsider, adds, "As a baseball player, you're horrible, and as a messenger, you're even worse."
"I'll try harder, then," Momo reassures him, grinning.
He breaks a lot of windows trying to get it right. Mostly in the weekends at first, because it's easier for Ryoma to replace the window then, and easier for Momo to make an excuse to hang around and wait with Ryoma until they replace his window, and easier for Momo to step into Ryoma's room to watch him as he changes into more suitable clothes, and easier for Momo to linger. He likes hearing Ryoma yell, "You stupid powerhouse!" every time, how Ryoma makes it sound different from when Kaidoh yells at him. And it's almost disappointing when he finally learns how to throw the pebbles right so that they tap the window and bounce away instead of bounding forward.
Ryoma has a little collection of rocks in his bedroom, all the ones that Momo's broken his window with.
Nanako says to Ryoma a few times, "Your Momo-senpai, he's sort of strange, isn't he?" and Ryoma answers, "He's not my Momo-senpai," and Nanjiroh likes to feign lamenting sighs over how the only suitors his son gets are males, but they get used to it, Ryoma most of all, so much so that the sound of the doorbell surprises him.
Momo learns Ryoma's schedule slowly, too. He gets the timing down enough so that sometimes he makes an excuse to pass by at night just when he knows Ryoma should be in his room studying or when he calculates Ryoma's coming back from a shower. Other times he just stands outside of Ryoma's house and watches shadows pass by the windows, thinking things to himself like, "If within the next five seconds something passes to the right, I'll go home. If he turns to the left, I'll tap his window."
His math teacher tells him a few weeks later, "Your mental math is getting better," and Momo turns a very attractive shade of pink.
Momo pays Ryoma back for the broken windows eventually. It's all little things, like taking Ryoma to school every morning-- Momo gets good enough to throw a rockwhile biking-- and he never tells Ryoma that in order for him to pass Ryoma's house on the way to school, he has to take the long route. Other things, like picking up Ryoma's tab at the hamburger shop, or running little shopping errands so that he eventually knows what kind of grip tape Ryoma uses and what brand of tennis balls. He pays Ryoma back in debts of kindness, in slow increments of friendship and endearment, in little inches of love, so that by the time Ryoma's aware that he's addicted, it's already too late.
It gets to the point that one day, Ryoma turns to Momo in amazement and says, "I just realized there's nothing about me you don't know."
"Oh," Momo says, leaning in mischeviously, "I'm sure you can think of something," and presses his lips against Ryoma firmly, as if this too was something he had done already, as if this too was some integral part of Ryoma he had already learned about.
The first time, he breaks Ryoma's window, because he chooses a stone that's too big, and he throws it too hard, and he doesn't know about this stuff; he just pulled it out of his head and a novel he had been reading. It seemed right then. It's a Saturday morning, and Ryoma's still in his pajamas, blurry eyed, standing there aghast at his broken window, yelling, "Momo-senpai, what do you think you're doing?"
"Did I throw it too hard?" Momo asks sheepishly, even though the answer is obvious.
"Are you trying to play baseball?" Ryoma demands angrily, but, smiling as he pretends to reconsider, adds, "As a baseball player, you're horrible, and as a messenger, you're even worse."
"I'll try harder, then," Momo reassures him, grinning.
He breaks a lot of windows trying to get it right. Mostly in the weekends at first, because it's easier for Ryoma to replace the window then, and easier for Momo to make an excuse to hang around and wait with Ryoma until they replace his window, and easier for Momo to step into Ryoma's room to watch him as he changes into more suitable clothes, and easier for Momo to linger. He likes hearing Ryoma yell, "You stupid powerhouse!" every time, how Ryoma makes it sound different from when Kaidoh yells at him. And it's almost disappointing when he finally learns how to throw the pebbles right so that they tap the window and bounce away instead of bounding forward.
Ryoma has a little collection of rocks in his bedroom, all the ones that Momo's broken his window with.
Nanako says to Ryoma a few times, "Your Momo-senpai, he's sort of strange, isn't he?" and Ryoma answers, "He's not my Momo-senpai," and Nanjiroh likes to feign lamenting sighs over how the only suitors his son gets are males, but they get used to it, Ryoma most of all, so much so that the sound of the doorbell surprises him.
Momo learns Ryoma's schedule slowly, too. He gets the timing down enough so that sometimes he makes an excuse to pass by at night just when he knows Ryoma should be in his room studying or when he calculates Ryoma's coming back from a shower. Other times he just stands outside of Ryoma's house and watches shadows pass by the windows, thinking things to himself like, "If within the next five seconds something passes to the right, I'll go home. If he turns to the left, I'll tap his window."
His math teacher tells him a few weeks later, "Your mental math is getting better," and Momo turns a very attractive shade of pink.
Momo pays Ryoma back for the broken windows eventually. It's all little things, like taking Ryoma to school every morning-- Momo gets good enough to throw a rockwhile biking-- and he never tells Ryoma that in order for him to pass Ryoma's house on the way to school, he has to take the long route. Other things, like picking up Ryoma's tab at the hamburger shop, or running little shopping errands so that he eventually knows what kind of grip tape Ryoma uses and what brand of tennis balls. He pays Ryoma back in debts of kindness, in slow increments of friendship and endearment, in little inches of love, so that by the time Ryoma's aware that he's addicted, it's already too late.
It gets to the point that one day, Ryoma turns to Momo in amazement and says, "I just realized there's nothing about me you don't know."
"Oh," Momo says, leaning in mischeviously, "I'm sure you can think of something," and presses his lips against Ryoma firmly, as if this too was something he had done already, as if this too was some integral part of Ryoma he had already learned about.