you make all the flowers bloom

 Yahaba doesn't expect him to be here. He guesses it's about twelve-thirty in the morning by now, the hours wasted away as he sits upon a swing at the playground. He doesn't actually know why he came to the playground, he just knows that it drew him in, and he liked the overgrown ivy that crawls up the poles of the swingset.

But there's Kyoutani Kentarou, taking a seat on the swing next to him, like Yahaba doesn't even exist. They've only known each other for three whole years, Yahaba thinks sarcastically. It kind of bugs him— to an extent— that Kyoutani doesn't acknowledge him, but he continues to stare off into the distance at the sky, which is a deep purple with grey-stained clouds cluttering the sky.

"What about you?" Yahaba hears from somewhere off to his right. It's Kyoutani, who has apparently had a whole conversation with Yahaba in his head already.

"What?"

"Why'd you come here? No one just sits around in an old playground at half past midnight, okay?" Kyoutani scratches the back of his head. Yahaba's never really noticed his flowers, he realizes. Kyoutani's got black flowers that travel across his skin. They're small, and each little flower has five petals. They look delicate, Yahaba thinks, It's kind of soothing to look at them. They contrast his own flowers, his baby blue daisies that tangle in big clumps by his wrists. They get frustrating when he's writing sometimes, but he doesn't get tired of looking down at the little blossoms.

Yahaba's not sure when he answers, he's not even sure what he says, but Kyoutani nods in agreement, and suddenly, they're both sighing in relief.

"They're nice," Yahaba begins, "your flowers."

He doesn't expect Kyoutani to blush, raising his wrist to hide his face. "Y-Yours too," he splutters, and Yahaba can see the yellowish gleam of the moon from behind a thin strand of clouds. He's never thought of it before, but right now, at this very moment, Yahaba compares Kyoutani's voice to honey. He sounds sweet and like liquid gold, and Yahaba can feel the pangs of longing in his chest. He's not quite sure what he's longing for, but Kyoutani's brown eyes are softer now that they're not in school, and they're falling right on Yahaba.

Kyoutani kicks his legs a bit, making the swing under him shift and he sways back and forth under the support of the swingset. It's quiet besides the gentle whistle of the breeze, but now that Kyoutani's swinging— even if it's ever so gently— the metallic creaking of the old playground has arisen. It's not a pleasant sound usually, but it feels nostalgic and Yahaba doesn't really care. He begins to hum somewhat subconsciously, and he's fairly sure it's one of the first pieces of music he'd ever heard his piano teacher play (he was around seven when he heard it first, the tune drifts back into his mind sometimes). It's in an E-flat chord, and for some odd reason it seems to fit Kyoutani's pattern of swing. He wonders the himself if he's altered the tempo in his head to match Kyoutani's pace, but disregards the thought process.

Besides, he thinks, it'd be a lot cooler if the tempo actually matched. It'd seem kind of coincidental.

He pushes off of the gravel with his own shoes, old sneakers that he hadn't the chance to replace since his first year of high school (two years, Yahaba corrects himself— it sounds too much like saying "twenty-four months old" versus "two years old"). He's forgotten the feeling of sitting on the swings, to feel the cold breeze in his hair and brush across his skin. In a way, he gets kind of lost in it.

"Yahaba," Kyoutani says quietly, and a few thoughts fly through Yahaba's head. He doesn't use honorifics, I guess, is first— followed by then again, I don't actually think he ever addresses people by their names— succeeded by if that's the case, maybe he's not such a bad guy, if he's actually using my name. He swears at himself mentally.