Social suicide.
Kuramochi feels his heart hitch. He pans through various different initial reactions and emotions; eyes wide, he wants– needs to look around and see who had found interest in their conversation. Then comes the realisation and the faint shrivelling. His leg that was once nervously tapping grinds to a halt, and he takes refuge with his own hands; lacing fingers rigidly together. Then the final reaction he decides upon - a brief glance sideways, before eyes narrow at the male posing the question, with a look that pierces the comfort zone miles deep.
It occurs to him: he can’t say he’s void of all care for what others think, but his vision shifts and oh god, he’s playing a fucking game, isn’t he? The shortstop pulls himself up from his position, he keeps his eyes glued to Miyuki’s. There’s an almost uncomfortable pause, but Kuramochi doesn’t let it get that far. two can play at this, right? The hardened expression is wiped away in an instant; replaced with a pout and a passing glance as he shrugs, muttering something along the lines of agreement. He feels the heat of gazes on his back. It’s fucking hot in that place, he notes. He’s uncomfortable and wants to get OUT - Miyuki’s dropped them in it, and they leave together, and Kuramochi buries hands in his pockets and counts to 10 in his head.
It’s pretty silent on the way; Kuramochi isn’t giving much away. He leans on the wall beside Miyuki’s door as he routes around for the key, and there’s a groan uttered from his lips. “Nice one, genius. Loved that touch of confidence, too. Did I tell you I love playing these shitty games of ‘who can get the most uncomfortable first’? Because I fucking hate it.” It’s not a spiteful remark in reality. He really is thankful - not to Miyuki, no, he’d never admit that, but the heat has started to evaporate and he can feel muscles relaxing once again. Still, a role of the eyes as he slumps down onto the catcher’s bed, shuffling and resting head against the wall.
“Man, do you know how screwed we are?– Well, now everyone thinks we definitely are. In the literal sense of the word. Asshole.” More sighs, more utterances of how bad they are at this, more complains that bubble down into something.. Hard to pin down. Kuramochi thinks he’s taking it fairly well, despite his closest encounter with another person being an accidental ass touch at a crowded gig. Maybe it’s because of the lack of romantic attraction, maybe it’s because he’s just smooth, maybe it’s because it’s Miyuki. He doesn’t really know what that entails, but everything doesn’t seem as forced as he whines about. It’s more the situation of being stared at than the actions themselves. It’s confusing and Kuramochi doesn’t dwell on it - it’s nothing, it’s nothing.
The walk to his room is startlingly silent, as if eyes and ears were following them on their route -- which they might as well be. Miyuki didn't have a choice but use that exit strategy, he knew that much, but the lingering feeling of whispers and suspicious looks weighed heavy on both their backs. There was no denying the back of his neck was at least slightly tinged with red. He rubs his head, ruffling his hair and keeping his hands busy -- Kuramochi's in his pockets. Miyuki eyes them for a moment, letting his mind wander back to when those calloused fingertips met his own.
His hands go back in his pockets then, too.
The silence is broken with Kuramochi's complaints (unsurprising, Miyuki all but predicted this) as the brunette fiddles for his keys to the dorm room. "Relax, Kura. You were tanking out there, I had to get us out as soon as possible. " He takes the whining with a smile, because both of them are clearly calming down -- it's evident with Kuramochi's snarl that he's turning back to normal, compared to that frozen block back there. Miyuki himself feels the colour leave his face as well, their normal dynamic restored.
He shifts out of his shoes as the shortstop gets comfortable in his bed, a sight unfamiliar to him. Kuramochi would always make himself comfortable in his room. Not that Miyuki wouldn't do the same. Long before this act had even began, Miyuki had found that the other often took refuge in his room -- a roommate-less safe haven that transformed into a sort of den for the two. It's become habitual to leave his door unlocked for how often Kuramochi will stumble in.
It became less of a hassle and more of a routine. A routine that he wasn't much uncomfortable with, startlingly to him. In fact, he had gotten used to the image of Kuramochi sprawled over on his couch, or Kuramochi's shirts hanging off his furniture, or Kuramochi's old toothbrush rotting in his bathroom sink -- mighty quickly. Miyuki just chose not to entertain those thoughts much. Decided not to question how natural it felt to have him around.
Shoes off, he shuffles towards the bed, falling in not far from Kuramochi. His feet dig into the covers as he rests his himself against the headboard aside the other.
"It's not that bad," Miyuki starts, head shifting to Kuramochi's direction. He can't help a burst of laughter at the others words, hand curling over his mouth in a half-hearted attempt to stifle himself. "Pfft-- Isn't that kind of the point? They’re supposed to think that." He reasons, hand leaving his mouth to run through his hair, stopping at random to scratch at his scalp. Eyebrow raised and unconsciously leaning in, he says cheekily: "You ashamed of me, Kuramochi? Hm?"
