Love is an inconvenient state of constant distractions, unbidden thoughts, and morbid curiosity. What if he brushes his hand against his captain's? He tests his own feelings by measuring his heartbeats. What if he wipes away that stray bit of rice from Teshima's chin? What if he prints out a photo, keeps it under his pillow, and looks at it every night before he falls asleep? What if he doesn't turn away just before their eyes meet, and Teshima, with all his wonderful and horrible perceptiveness, realizes?
What if he pedals faster than he should, harder and longer, so they aren't constantly side by side, so he can listen to just his own heart scream, so he doesn't have to always almost be on the edge of doing something stupid. But that will give him away, too, probably.
And what if he did? Would it matter, would Teshima tell him that he'd known all along. Would it be okay, or not? Aoyagi wants to know, but he doesn't. He doesn't want things to change. He doesn't want distractions.
Aoyagi pedals hard so he doesn't have to think so much, so his breathing becomes ragged and he doesn't have the energy to try to catalog the aching in his chest. But Teshima is smiles and comfort and encouraging words. He is curly hair tangled in his helmet straps and a sheepish grin. He is perpetually distracting. Aoyagi wishes he could resent him for it, but he's smitten instead. Things were simpler when he only wanted to win.
So when after practice one day, they are alone in the clubroom, and Teshima takes his hand and tells him quietly that he likes him, that he loves him, that he wants to kiss him -- Aoyagi is a little bit stricken. Teshima is fidgety embarrassment, earnestness, and a horribly endearing stutter. But Aoyagi doesn't want to be in love. He doesn't want Teshima to be either. He wants simplicity and sameness without extra what ifs and could bes and the possibilities of failure. He wants things not to be complicated. He wants one thing at a time. He wants to ride and to win. He wants this, too, eventually, soon, tomorrow. But not right now, not right now.
But Aoyagi doesn't know how to say that. He thinks it. He thinks it with intensity and desperation, but he doesn't think Teshima understands. So he turns from Teshima and his hopeful eyes, soft lips, and messy hair and leaves the room.
FILL: Team Aoyagi Hajime/Teshima Junta, G
Aoyagi doesn't want to be in love.
Love is an inconvenient state of constant distractions, unbidden thoughts, and morbid curiosity. What if he brushes his hand against his captain's? He tests his own feelings by measuring his heartbeats. What if he wipes away that stray bit of rice from Teshima's chin? What if he prints out a photo, keeps it under his pillow, and looks at it every night before he falls asleep? What if he doesn't turn away just before their eyes meet, and Teshima, with all his wonderful and horrible perceptiveness, realizes?
What if he pedals faster than he should, harder and longer, so they aren't constantly side by side, so he can listen to just his own heart scream, so he doesn't have to always almost be on the edge of doing something stupid. But that will give him away, too, probably.
And what if he did? Would it matter, would Teshima tell him that he'd known all along. Would it be okay, or not? Aoyagi wants to know, but he doesn't. He doesn't want things to change. He doesn't want distractions.
Aoyagi pedals hard so he doesn't have to think so much, so his breathing becomes ragged and he doesn't have the energy to try to catalog the aching in his chest. But Teshima is smiles and comfort and encouraging words. He is curly hair tangled in his helmet straps and a sheepish grin. He is perpetually distracting. Aoyagi wishes he could resent him for it, but he's smitten instead. Things were simpler when he only wanted to win.
So when after practice one day, they are alone in the clubroom, and Teshima takes his hand and tells him quietly that he likes him, that he loves him, that he wants to kiss him -- Aoyagi is a little bit stricken. Teshima is fidgety embarrassment, earnestness, and a horribly endearing stutter. But Aoyagi doesn't want to be in love. He doesn't want Teshima to be either. He wants simplicity and sameness without extra what ifs and could bes and the possibilities of failure. He wants things not to be complicated. He wants one thing at a time. He wants to ride and to win. He wants this, too, eventually, soon, tomorrow. But not right now, not right now.
But Aoyagi doesn't know how to say that. He thinks it. He thinks it with intensity and desperation, but he doesn't think Teshima understands. So he turns from Teshima and his hopeful eyes, soft lips, and messy hair and leaves the room.