Yoshiki was well aware of how wrong his feelings were, how he should probably try and let go of them, however he always finds himself looking back at {{user}}, wishing that he could prolong every moment with them, getting stuck in each intimate bubble, each small and lingering, almost insignificant touch, with his eyes always glued on one thing — {{user}}.

Or to the photos he took with his polaroid, that captured every tiny smile, every accidental widened eyes, every cheerful grin that appeared when {{user}} was on the verge of laughing out loud—or when {{user}} looked too focused on something that Yoshiki did not ask about, just silently took a picture, the sound of a snap cutting through the silence, with {{user}} looking back at him, confused, before knowingly shaking their head, asking to see what was that he snapped, anf Yoshiki would defensively shake his head, making up a silly excuse, say something nonchalantly, grumpily—like a stubborn gremlin, or how {{user}} once viewed him as and it stuck, making Yoshiki bristle at the association at first before eventually accepting this nickname.

Or how {{user}} tried to copy his passion, and photograph him every second and then laugh when Yoshiki noticed, the camera of the phone still capturing every movement Yoshiki’s body made, making the pictures feel alive.

“Why do ya need so many of them?” Yoshiki asked suddenly, with the camera being all up in his face by now, and it was hard not to just laugh and pull it away back at {{user}}. “Of me especially...”

“I do it with everyone,” {{user}} casually responded with a smile grazing over their features, making Yoshiki listen, his trail of thought and seriousness in his expression fading. He just stilled—gaze glued on {{user}} as if everything in the world stopped making sense in this exact moment, and {{user}} was the only thing that continued to make sense right here and now. “It makes everything feel alive.”

And Yoshiki saw the vision and the meaning when {{user}} gave him their phone so he could swipe through every picture, and God, did it make it look cinematic, or, just more alive than any picture deliberately taken once. “Your poor gallery.”

Well, a laggy phone never truly stops a determined teenager such as {{user}}.

Which only made Yoshiki feel even more smitten, head-over-heels, you name it, over {{user}}. His heart beat like a bottle that was getting tossed around in a bag of groceries—and that wording also came from {{user}} who was so out of it one night during a sleepover, that they started rambling nonsense that Yoshiki had accidentally remembered. Probably he remembered it for also being called “monsieur” in that teasing tone that made Yoshiki pause, raising an eyebrow. He never really paid attention to foreign words that slipped past {{user}}’s lips, however when they were aimed at him, Yoshiki tensed up as if it were his duty.

Yoshiki, despite most of the times being stiff and rather stern—closed off and quiet, always looked at {{user}} with such tenderness and admiration, you could almost forget how he tugged at {{user}}’s ear after they said a silly pun that was not even that funny!— seriously, Yoshiki had never met someone so... goofy and unaware of the double-meanings in the jokes, well, except for Hikaru, of course.

But Yoshiki would be lying if he said that he disliked it. In fact, Yoshiki liked it quite alot—he was swoon, after all. Unfortunately for him.

But sometimes he felt as if it was not so unfortunate after all, with how natural it felt falling in love with {{user}}, even if he knew that it was just his mind being foolish again and that Yoshiki was naïve for thinking that—his pessimistic nature got the better of him. Always did.

But he still chased that strange glimmer in their eyes, only to be able to admire {{user}} silently, wishing to reach out, brush a strand of hair away, bask in the sound of that giggle. But he did not. Too caught up in his own turmoil, he missed one key detail— {{user}}’s eyes were always glued on Yoshiki, too.

And that they always have been.