The day is cool and moist; a few shafts of wan sunlight bravely venture through the occasional gap in a sheet of feathery gray clouds hanging low in the sky, and a steady drizzle patters gently against the windowpanes. It is Hiyoshi's favourite weather for curling up with a good book1, and, spurning his extensive collection of well-thumbed novels for some slightly different fare, he picks out a book – one he'd recently picked up on impulse and has yet to read – and does just that.
He is completely absorbed in the book he is reading, brow furrowed slightly as he gnaws pensively on his lower lip; can't help but stiffen a little as slender arms wind about his waist, a familiar form pressing against his back. It is not in his nature to be comfortable with close physical contact, but the loose embrace holds the comfort of long familiarity, and almost against his will, Hiyoshi finds himself relaxing, eyes sliding shut as he tilts his head back.
"What're you reading?" Ohtori murmurs, breath brushing warm across his ear. The silver-haired boy leans forward, peering inquisitively over Hiyoshi's shoulder; exclaims in delight as he sees the title of the book.
"Tennyson," he breathes, fingers brushing almost reverently across the faded cover. "He's one of my favourite poets," he remarks; he knows that Hiyoshi already knows.
"I didn't know you liked Tennyson," says Ohtori conversationally. Hiyoshi just turns his head and looks at the taller boy; feels, rather than hears, the low, warm laugh rumble against his back, and if Ohtori's arms tighten around him a little, he pretends not to notice.
"So, do you like it?" asks Ohtori, looking hopeful. He leans further over Hiyoshi's shoulder; idly flips through the pages of the book with his right hand, left hand still curled loosely around the other's waist.
Hiyoshi looks thoughtful for a moment. "It's not bad."
"Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his glowing hands; every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands," Ohtori quotes, a smile touching his lips.2
The brown-haired boy raises an eyebrow. "That wasn't a very happy poem," he points out, pragmatic as ever. "The narrator's lover left him."
"It wasn't," admits Ohtori, smiling ruefully. "But I still like the poem."
Hiyoshi tilts his head slightly, considering. "Happy poems suit you better," he remarks.
The silver-haired boy blinks, then chuckles softly. "Poems in which the lover doesn't leave?"
"No," agrees Hiyoshi, "he doesn't." He tilts his head back, capturing a surprised Ohtori's lips in a possessive kiss.
I'm not an eloquent person. I can't write you long, flowery love letters and I can't quote you romantic poetry. I've never felt this way about anyone else, and this is the only way I know to show you how much I love you. I'd like to believe that you know, even without my saying it.
He knows that Ohtori understands.
1 According to 20.5, Hiyoshi likes to read (especially the nanafushigi novel).
2 From Locksley Hall. In this poem, the narrator falls in love with a woman who eventually rejects him.
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