Preview of Homesick Martians and the Mint Field Epiphany, a HiyoIku Roadtrip AU for sagesprouts
Ikuya will be the first person to admit that he needs a break – a dead-end degree and working in decor retail will do that for you – but he didn’t expect Hiyori to suddenly act on his misery. Next thing Ikuya knows, Hiyori is dragging him through a plane terminal for some self-reflection on the open road, and it’s a little scary how much Ikuya trusts him at 3 A.M. diners and bizarre cornfield coordinates.
Long story short, Ikuya learns that being stuck in the cab of a ’96 Jeep with your hot best friend might not be the best way to relax.
Ikuya feels safest when he's looking at the sky.
The stars are the only thing he can gaze at so forwardly; he's wavered in the face of his own reflection, and no other person has brought forth such awe in his eyes. Ikuya could never be so bold as to look someone directly in the face for more than three seconds, and he does not feel joy when people regard him - their motive, praise, or attraction does not matter.
He cannot fathom how people can walk at night without their gaze turning skyward. Most individuals don't have the time nor imagination to view the stars as anything more than a twinkling map of dead fire. To Ikuya, the stars shine, therefore, they must be alive in some form. "That's fuckin' beautiful, man," Natsuya told him when he voiced these thoughts, when Ikuya's brother was a drunken teenager and welcomed a little brush with philosophy.
He knows it's bizarre and speaks volumes on his extreme introversion, but the stars don't make Ikuya feel the sick pressure of expectation, nor do they snap at him impatiently to speak up from his wobbly, shy baritone. Ikuya simply looks at the stars and they look back at him in perfect silence. It's a comfort in this burning world.
He knows people won't treat him the same as the sky's precious indifference, but it took him a while to accept that mournful reality. Before high school graduation, he thought his options were as far and wide as the sky itself; the world outside of his hometown was vague, but he was sure that he would be welcomed with open arms once he was an adult.
That was his first mistake.
He would have loved to dedicate his life to astronomy, but he thinks he would have been tormented like many art and literature majors, having his heart scraped raw of all passion for what once made him feel alive. Space was dear to him and he wasn't going to let anyone touch or judge or mold his good thing into something cynical and academic, so Ikuya focused on swimming with the assumption that his life would be normal and relatively boring. He was playing it safe; at the very least, he would be guaranteed a comfortable living and a steady income.
Ikuya was still navigating his life by that foolish motto his first year of college. He was overwhelmed, exhausted to tears, and could not keep up with his classwork. Once upon a time, he was an impeccable student and a prime athlete, but in university, he was considered average at best. Campus was a never-ending maze where everyone knew where they were going except him, he was petrified of making friends and he didn't understand why normal things were suddenly so impossible.
He was an unhappy, quiet boy, which makes for a wonderful observer. Nobody paid attention to him, which gave him the opportunity to learn that most of his peers were quite boring and their conversations were filthy at best.
Everyone around him was pretending to be extroverted and loud; there was only one person who seemed to be as bored with it all as Ikuya was. He sat a few rows in front of Ikuya during Intro to Astronomy, and the boy never asked questions nor spoke up in class.
He intimidated Ikuya. The boy had a threatening vibe, which was a concerning turn-on for Ikuya. It didn't seem as though the boy would shout at anyone, but he carried himself in a way that made it clear he was packing an arsenal of clapbacks that would leave someone spiraling in the middle of the night for at least fourteen years. That energy gave the boy a wide berth of space nobody dared to penetrate.
So naturally, he and Ikuya were partnered up for a project. Despite this order, Ikuya still had to choke out if it was all right to sit by Hiyori.
Hiyori smirked, bored with his thighs lazed open in that uncomfortable desk. He wore a gorgeous pea coat with his bedhead, which is standard for 8 A.M. lectures.
Hiyori threw a grand gesture to the empty seats on either side of him, saying, "Take your pick."
Ikuya did so, opting for the left of him, and tried to settle his backpack and notebooks most casually. It was freezing in the lecture hall, but he was clammy. Hiyori twirled his pencil, dropped it on the desk, picked it up again, and that's when Ikuya noticed the slice of pistachio pie. It was drooping in a paper plate on his desk - nobody was supposed to eat in here, and Hiyori was sitting right in front of the professor's desk.
Problem with authority. Yet another concerning turn-on.
Ikuya says, "Did you get that from that cafe just off campus?" He had admired the cakes in the window on his walk to the laundry mat, but he never had the courage to step into that crowded place.
"What'd you have for breakfast?"
Ikuya just blinks because he's worn this same hoodie to astronomy and all his lectures for at least three days now. Hiyori should be able to tell that he's obviously a college student with no coping mechanisms and no conscious for taking care of himself.
Hiyori smiles. "Here." He puts the plate right in Ikuya's lap and hands him a dainty fork, then he lazes back in his seat and scrolls through his phone.
Ikuya realizes just how long it's been since he's had a full night's sleep because he should not be feeling like he's at a crossroad of life right now. "Uh. You sure? It was probably expensive..." At least in college terms, anyway.
Hiyori's eyes roll from his phone and he lifts his brows. "Did you want me to feed it to you?"
Ikuya startles his first laugh in months and eats the damn cake.
