Chapter Text
The first thing Tsukasa noticed was that Rui was sitting wrong.
Not wrong in a bad way—nothing Rui did was ever wrong—but wrong in the way that made Tsukasa forget how to exist as a functional person. Rui always sat with elegant posture, ankles neatly together, hands folded like some refined prince from a stage play. Today, though, he was sprawled across the classroom bench like he owned gravity itself, long legs stretched, knees apart, completely relaxed, his bunny tail flicking lazily against the wood as if it had no idea the damage it was causing. Tsukasa had been in the middle of an enthusiastic explanation about rehearsal schedules—very important, world-class matters—and then he saw it, and his voice simply… stopped. His mouth kept moving for a few seconds, but no sound came out, like a wind-up toy that had lost its key.
Rui, of course, did not look at him.
That was the second suspicious thing.
Because Rui always looked at him.
Tsukasa tried—truly, valiantly—to continue talking. “And then! We shall dazzle them with a performance so radiant that—” His gaze dropped again. His brain shut off again. His ears, traitorous fluffy things, drooped so low they nearly brushed his shoulders. He snapped them upright with a violent shake of his head and clapped his hands together. “—that the entire audience will be moved to tears! Rui, are you listening?!”
“Mm? Always,” Rui said, still not looking at him, chin propped on one hand, a faint smile tugging at his lips as if he were watching a play unfold that only he could see.
Tsukasa’s face burned hotter.
He told himself he was simply curious. Yes. That was it. Rui’s outfit was different today—the dark fabric of his pants fitted neatly along his thighs before disappearing into shadow—and Tsukasa, as a devoted friend, was merely observing the change in fashion. A completely normal, scholarly observation. One befitting a future star.
He looked again.
He immediately looked away.
He looked again.
His heartbeat was so loud he was convinced Rui could hear it.
Rui’s ears twitched.
Tsukasa froze.
Had he noticed?
No—Rui tilted his head the other way, as if distracted by something outside the window, his expression serene. Too serene. Rui was never this unaware; Rui noticed when Tsukasa so much as breathed differently. Which meant—and Tsukasa’s stomach flipped—he did know.
Tsukasa straightened abruptly, nearly knocking his chair over. “Rui! Your attire today is— is— where did you procure it? It is… highly structured.”
Rui turned to him at last.
Golden eyes gleamed.
“Oh?” he said, voice soft and lilting. “You’ve been looking for quite some time to arrive at that question.”
“I have not!” Tsukasa’s voice jumped an entire octave. His ears shot straight up in panic, then immediately drooped again when Rui’s smile widened.
“Really? Because from my perspective,” Rui leaned closer, close enough that Tsukasa could see the faint shimmer in his eyes and the delicate way his cyan streaks framed his face, “you’ve been staring at me like you’re about to pounce.”
Tsukasa made a sound that could not be classified as human speech.
“I WOULD NEVER POUNCE WITHOUT PRIOR DECLARATION!” he burst out, slamming his hands on the desk. “AND I WAS NOT STARING! I WAS— I WAS—”
“Admiring?”
“NO!”
“Evaluating?”
“NO!!”
“Struggling?”
Tsukasa opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Rui’s tail flicked once, slow and satisfied.
Tsukasa turned away so fast he almost got whiplash, staring at the far wall as if it had personally requested his attention. His entire face felt like it was on fire. This was unbearable. He was Tsukasa Tenma, a radiant future star, a man of boundless confidence and brilliance—he did not get flustered by his best friend sitting a little differently than usual.
Except he did.
And the worst part was that Rui kept shifting just slightly, like he was getting more comfortable, like he had all the time in the world to stretch his legs further and lean back and exist in a way that made Tsukasa’s thoughts scatter into absolute nonsense.
“Tsukasa,” Rui hummed, “your ears are doing that thing again.”
“They are not doing a thing!”
“They’re drooping.”
Tsukasa slapped his hands over them in horror. Rui’s laughter—warm, bright, and delighted—wrapped around him like ribbon.
“I find it very charming,” Rui continued, voice gentler now. “It makes it quite easy to tell what you’re feeling.”
“I AM FEELING COMPLETELY NORMAL!”
“You’re looking again.”
“I AM NOT—” Tsukasa looked.
Rui tilted his head, triumphant.
Tsukasa let out a strangled cry and buried his face in his arms on the desk.
Silence settled for a moment, broken only by Rui’s soft chuckle and the faint rustle of fabric as he shifted closer. Tsukasa could feel the warmth beside him, could feel the presence he had always gravitated toward without thinking. That was the problem. Rui had always been there—brilliant and strange and endlessly kind — slipping into Tsukasa’s life until it was impossible to imagine a world without him. They stood too close, spoke too softly, shared too many glances that lasted just a second too long. Everyone else saw it. Everyone else knew.
They just never said it out loud.
“Tsukasa,” Rui said quietly.
Tsukasa did not lift his head.
“If you’re that distracted,” Rui continued, his tone now threaded with something softer, something that made Tsukasa’s heart stumble, “you could simply sit closer. It might make your… observations easier.”
Tsukasa’s brain stopped functioning entirely. He lifted his head in slow, mechanical increments. Rui was very close now.
Too close.
Close enough that Tsukasa could see the faint dusting of color across his cheeks that hadn’t been there before. Oh.
Oh.
“You’re teasing me,” Tsukasa whispered, the accusation lacking its usual theatrical force.
“Of course I am,” Rui replied, equally soft. “You’re adorable when you’re like this.”
Tsukasa’s ears went rigid.
His face turned an entirely new shade of red. He was absolutely, unquestionably doomed. Because Rui shifted again—just slightly—and Tsukasa looked.
Again.
And Rui smiled like he had won.