Summary: Sometimes it feels like Fujigaya's the one slipping away.
Disclaimer: This work is purely fiction.
Warnings: Vague... emotional-ness.
Kitayama watches him from across the room, pretending to be asleep, an arm thrown carelessly over his face, but with enough space that he can still keep an eye on Fujigaya.
Fujigaya’s normally in the middle of the action, laughing loudly and talking fast, that exuberant smile never leaving his face as he teases everyone into a chaotic rumble, leading them on a merry dance that will eventually get Yokoo yelling at them, but even then, Fujigaya would just laugh, eyes twinkling.
Today is different, though. Fujigaya’s nose is in a book, fingers gently turning it page by page. Kitayama’s not sure what he’s reading, can’t see clearly enough to read the cover, but it doesn’t matter much anyway; his attention is all for Fujigaya. He wonders what he’s thinking about, feels bothered that he can’t read Fujigaya’s face like the other is reading the book, because, for once, Fujigaya’s face is closed, almost expressionless, his eyes clear and deep, devouring words on the page.
Fujigaya glances up, eyes unfocused, gazing at something that isn’t there, a small, thoughtful smile on his lips. Kitayama watches as alien thoughts dance behind Fujigaya’s eyelashes, still completely unreadable.
Abruptly, Kitayama rolls, burying his face into the upholstery of the couch, trying to ignore the strange tension he feels inside.
It scares him, when Fujigaya’s like this. Not because he thinks Fujigaya has to always be noisy and happy, but because in those moments, Fujigaya feels like he’s a world away, too far away for Kitayama to reach, even if he’s still physically so near.
It’s irrational, but Kitayama just closes his eyes, trying to forget it.
A/N: I'm not sure about this one. It just popped in my head last night and it's not quite saying what I want it to say, but... I don't know, I like it, sort of. Except it totally is not appropriate for the times we're in right now.