nostalgia and other tricks of memory.

[cordated]

[ As of late, Makoto's been having trouble sleeping. While insomnia is an ordinary facet of his schedule as of late, given copious amounts of coursework and essay after essay bound to induce catatonia in any student worth their salt, there's more to his perpetual tiredness than he ever lends credence toward. The nights elongate for him like they leech off unorthodoxy, his perception of time passing skewed for hours upon hours of navel-gazing.

Sometimes, he even catches glimpses of what he's after. It's always diaphanous, always partially unreal, but it's only in that strange limbo between wakefulness and slumber that Makoto remembers someone he isn't entirely ready to think about, the recurring ghost at the edge of his consciousness, snapped around awareness, the failure of memory and how it never retains sentiment as it should.

It's Monday morning, again.

Seven A.M. and Makoto is sloughing off the dredges of early-bird traffic to find a parking spot. Give or take another fifteen minutes, and he's on campus, winding through the thoroughfare of absently milling students to make his first class. His breath keeps echoing somewhere in his lungs, shattered and partially discrepant, like he's running a high, high fever. Invariably, he's spent the entire morning tossing and turning, restlessness pricking holes in his exhaustion. Tiredness elapses around his yawns, rounding them out as he enters the class with a couple of the last-minute stragglers.

Even arithmetic won't let up on banalities. The instructor keeps speaking in a steady stream of nonsense like his words dwell on an exponential curve, and for the first half Makoto's preoccupied with meticulously spot-checking his textbook as if it'll lend anything in the way of understanding. The answers continue to evade his concentration, and after a while he forgoes listening to the teacher drone in lieu of making sense of the hieroglyphics passing for equations on the current assignment.

Digging a heavy fist into one eye socket, Makoto shakes his head in vain, peering down at the page. Underscored with frustration, it's largely a byproduct of flayed nerves and discomposure on the rise that he knocks his pencil off, sends it skittering with an ill-time knock of his wrist. It's a simple enough maneuver to blink awake and drowsily grasp for it along the floor, but he keeps coming up empty, inexplicably, and gazing down is just enough to freeze him in place.

It's gone.

Makoto has half a mind to rise up out of his seat, thrashing around to find the writing utensil when something sharp pokes into his side and he directs his gaze sidelong, expecting the worst.

Instead, he's confronted with an outstretched hand, the pencil slid out between the index and middle finger, cursorily offered to him. His gaze falters, then rises — up to a stranger that, for all intents and purposes, feels too familiar to dismiss.

(A memory of blue, blue eyes, bright and intent, nearly luminous —)

Alarmed, Makoto nearly collapses out of his seat with a clatter, only saving himself from topping over by hooking one foot around a table leg and pulling himself up through sheer force of will. ]

O-Oh. Thanks.

[ Confusion irradiates his voice, blotchy with disrepair as he abruptly resettles, tentatively taking the pencil in hand but not retracting his hand. The seconds tick by on a lopsided axis, but Makoto manages to work up enough internal fortitude to ask the big-ticket question beating against his skull. ]

... Have we met before?

[ Talk about clichés. He can't help but ask, either way. ]

Comments

[mackerels]

[ Having a math class so early in his new morning schedule certainly isn't ideal, but it's required for the next course he wants to take, so he gets himself to class this day. Somehow.

Haru sees the pencil first. It skitters on the floor. A quick glance at it puts one of the other students in his field of view. Brown hair, neutral-colored shirt. Haru offers the pencil at a level that results in a near-injury, distracted momentarily by the gleam of light off the other young man's hair.

Have we met before? ]

No.

[ That's his automatic reply. Haru retracts his hand, only letting his gaze linger only for a moment before looking back at his paper. They can't have met before... he thinks, anyway. Even if he seems familiar, it must be a coincidence of some kind.

But he looks at him again, despite that, accidentally catching his gaze more than once, until the class is over and he's starting to clean up his things. ]

[cordated]

[ Well, that went about as well as expected. Stymied, Makoto's forced to relent with a flurry of open, tumultuous apologies and enough mortification to collapse under when he's read the riot act in point-blank dismissal.

It's bad enough that he catches his gaze a few minutes after, their eyes skittering past each other like jostled marbles thrown out of sync. The class apparently dwells on some sempiternal lifespan, judging from the way it slogs on and on, and the minute it ends, he's ready to dash out and forget the matter entirely.

However, he can't exactly account for the pathetic excuse he'd scrounged up as an apology, which explains why he's a masochist plunging straight in for the second round, sliding his seat in to confront him firsthand. ]

I'm sorry about earlier ... ! Er, I shouldn't have assumed anything. That was my mistake. Anyways, I won't bother you anymore, but ...

[ And whatever reservations he had go out flying out the door in lieu of some crumpled attempt at social faux pas. ]

... would you let me take you out for lunch?

[ Talk about a non-sequitur. He's just about shot himself in the foot. ]

[mackerels]

[ Haru looks up when he hears the voice again. The timbre is familiar.

The question isn't—or at least, not at first.

Lunch. It's harmless, isn't it? ]

I can pay for my own lunch. [ But he stands, after putting his things away into his bag, and tilts his head at the door. Lead on, stranger. ]

[cordated]

[ Talk about a stroke of blighted luck. Makoto can't keep himself from wheezing just a little, hand clenched over his the straps of his backpack as he swaps out tactical retreat for ruminating over lunch menus.

At the subtle acknowledgement, Makoto does a half-assed job of properly easing the door open, walking down the hallway with a stutter-stop to his pace. ]

So, ah ... what were you planning to get?

[ It's times likes these that he curses his fatal inability to incite an actually interesting conversational topic like Nagisa on the pop-fly. ]

[mackerels]

[ Haru picks up his backpack, slinging the one strap over his shoulder and across his chest. He walks by the stranger's side, but it's familiar. ]

You invited me. Haven't you thought of a place?

[ ...this, too, is familiar. Haru doesn't say it to be rude, but because it's true, and because he knows the brown-haired boy will fluster a little—and that's cute. ]

[cordated]

[ C'mon now, be kind. He's genuinely suffering here, bleeding heart and all. Give or take another second and he'll compulsively apologize for something that doesn't even make sense. ]

I-I mean, I have, but I don't want to insist.

[ His gaze skitters along the ceiling like he's sending a prayer heavenward, but when he drops his gaze back to floor-level, he's notably placid. The only saving grace is that it isn't quite as awkward as it should be.

Something familiar. ]

The place doesn't matter to you, then?

[mackerels]

[ Nope, no mercy from Haru. He goes with Makoto, feet only pausing slightly when he asks. ]

...no.

[ It's just lunch, isn't it? Haru gives him a long look, waiting for him to take the lead. ]

[cordated]

[ Terrible. Makoto sighs, leeching off the momentary solace that it's not an outright refusal, and leads all the way to ... the rinky-dink café like three steps off campus, rife with exorbitant prices and a packed house. He fails to notice that the only kind of food here is sugary confectionary goods until they're sealed in with the noonday crowd.

Turning to Haru, he meekly gestures at the overhead menu. ]

What do you want to order? I'm treating you, so I'll pay.

[mackerels]

[ Haru wonders if he should have expected this. But it isn't like there are many other close locations to eat near campus, so his only reaction is a slightly pursing of his lips that disappears after they're in line. ]

Bagel.

[ Because doughnuts aren't proper lunch fare (even if Haru's only idea of proper lunch fare is mackerel). ]

[cordated]

[ Nah, this is completely outta' the realm of expectation. But Makoto appears unfazed by the idea of waiting, even if Haru resembles a grumpy cat in disposition and appearance now. ]

That's all? You should at least order a drink.

[ A single bagel isn't a full and balanced lunch, but it's not like he was expecting anything better from his classmate. Weird. Makoto relegates that mental tidbit on the backburner for now. ]

[mackerels]

Water's fine.

[ Haru looks sideways out the window, ignoring the hubbub in the crowded cafe and mostly Makoto, by extension. It's hard to ignore his presence, though—and yet Haru doesn't mind that so much. ]

Why did you want to see me? [ Outside of class, that is. ]

[cordated]

[ Coming to a flummoxed standstill, Makoto makes a show of glancing around, like he's gauging the menu for another frenzies perusal of a list he's memorized by heart instead of getting to the heart of the matter. ]

Well, I — ... we're classmates, you know! And you always sit right next to me, so ... I was a little curious about the kind of person you were.

[ Terrible. He can't curl up like a bug in a rug, but his dissatisfaction bears a striking similarity to an insect at the moment before death. ]

Why did you agree, Haru?

[mackerels]

[ "Haru." Even though that's what most people call him (or Nanase-kun), it sounds weird coming from this guy, somehow. He's thinking about it, and waits slightly too long before replying. ]

It was lunchtime.

[ Hmm. Haru moves slightly forward in line before looking back up at Makoto. ]

What kind of person?

[cordated]

[ The delay before speaking is unnerving enough without Haru throwing a wrench into his faux pas. ]

Well, yeah, I knew that much.

[ He makes an elaborate show of scratching one cheek. ]

Cool and distant, I guess. ... Not that I think the same now! Um ... I guess I was just surprised. You're pretty blunt, huh?

[mackerels]

[ Haru, undeterred by the comment, looks aside before simply remarking, ] You're pretty forward.

[ Asking him out to lunch and all. Haru gets to the front of the line and orders his bagel. ]

[cordated]

Y-Yeah, I guess so!

[ DON'T BE SO BLUNT, HARU????? But okay, let him stew in acute distress at this bombshell of an epiphany. It's not like it's a genuine date or anything, what with Haru being perfectly content with a bagel and water for lunch. Quelling the worst of his disquiet, Makoto chimes his order right afterwards, and quickly doles out a payment for their overpriced food before his stoic friend has the chance to retaliate.

Bundling the food in both arms, he gestures to the ... absolutely packed state of the café, increasingly flustered by the need to impress Haru without putting his own sanity on the line. ]

Where should we sit?

[ Outside seating might hold better prospects for them, honestly. ]

[mackerels]

Outside.

[ There really aren't any tables open, except for those four-seaters occupied by one person, their laptop, and a spread of papers. Haru would rather be outdoors, even if the sun is a little too bright. He starts leading the way to the door. At least he holds the door open for Makoto. ]

[cordated]

Ah, okay.

[ And Makoto concedes to that request easily enough, already following him into the great outdoors — or at least the relative vicinity of the café, scanning the area for viable tables? ]

Would this table be alright?

[ It's a two-seater ... how intimate ... but no, it's really the one that hasn't been taken up by student(s), apparently. Makoto glances sidelong at Haru to gauge his reaction. ]

[mackerels]

[ Haru nods and sits down at it with his food. They don't have many other options, after all!

Once they're settled he goes about spreading cream cheese on his bagel. Conversation seems secondary to the needs of lunch, at the moment. ...and most times, with Haru. He focuses on his food with singular intensity. ]

[cordated]

[ And here he thought they were finally going to get around to the pleasantries?!?! He's trying to appeal to the commonality of being in the same class as opposed to those weirdly nostalgic vibes he's getting from the stoic guy chewing a bagel with a dogged fervor, so Makoto picks at whatever egregious menu item he ended up snagging as a last-minute café purchase to broach the silence between them. ]

So, um. What're you interested in, Haru? Outside of class, I mean.

[ His knees are weak, arms are spaghetti heavy ... but his mental perseverance won't let him while away this chance to figure out what's been bugging him about Haru this whole time. If he (not-so-subtly) interrogates him under the guise of getting to know him better, he's bound to find the answers he's looking for. ]

[mackerels]

[ Nup. Not when Haru could block off the trouble that he feels will come with admitting he feels something weird about Makoto, too. He nibbles on the bagel, looking up when Makoto asks. ]

Swimming.

[ It's a hobby for Haru now. But swimming puts him closer to water, and that's his entire desire. ]

Do you swim? [ The question slides out, almost immediately. ]

[cordated]

[ That's enough to get a rise out of him, even if Makoto appears oddly displaced by the inquiry. ]

Oh! Yeah, I mean, I used to when I was younger. If I'm not mistaken, we do have a swim team on this campus ...

[ While Makoto still appears slightly discomfited with the subject, it isn't enough to entirely thwart his curiosity. ]

Do you swim competitively, Haru?

[mackerels]

No.

[ "Haru" again. He takes another bite of his bagel and chews, but this time is looking at Makoto with a considering expression. So... improvement? ]

Backstroke.

[ For some reason, it's what comes to mind when he looks at Makoto. He has no explanation for it, but it doesn't matter if he's wrong. —and yet, he does think it's true. ]

[cordated]

[ Makoto can't even begin to veil his shock when Haru gets it in one, although he does do a good job of abruptly choking on his cup of water in his throttled panic. ]

How did you know? I mean, you strike me as the kind of guy who'd —

[ And while he catches himself mid-sentence, the rest of his assumption tumbles out of his mouth after a five-second delay. ]

... swim freestyle, maybe?

[mackerels]

[ Haru's surprise is a little less obvious, and perhaps less in the first place. Makoto's presence is becoming more familiar the longer they spend together. ]

Yeah. [ How did Makoto know? How did he know, for that matter? ] You seemed like you swam backstroke.

[ Haru takes a long moment to look at his classmate. With other people he'd never thought much about them, but as he looks at Makoto he has faint ideas of his life that he couldn't possibly know. ]

...I don't know how I knew. What about you?