There’s a certain conductor, Futakuchi thinks irritably, folding his arms across his chest and watching him from a distance, who… well, pisses him off aren’t quite the words for it, but, yeah, he kinda pisses him off.
This guy is fairly new to their young, relatively small orchestra—the older guard has moved onto bigger things, bigger stages, bigger dreams. As much as Futakuchi butted heads with him, there’s a small part of him (a tiny, tiny, tiiiiiiny part of him) that will miss Oikawa Tooru, because it was hard not to feel breathless by the way he conducted, even as (especially as?) a member of the orchestra. Because Oikawa might be the most aggravating jackass Futakuchi has ever met and will ever meet in his entire life (Futakuchi might also be exaggerating a tiny bit), but he was also a magician who could pull everyone and everything together so very seamlessly and leave people utterly spellbound in his wake, in a way only Oikawa Tooru knew how.
So, yeah. Cheers, Oikawa.
Anyway. Futakuchi’s getting nostalgic. He must be tired. He shifts his weight onto his other foot.
This new guy—he’s good. Earned himself a bit of a reputation in these circles for being a bit of a perfectionist, and for his work ethic and needle-sharp attention to detail. The way he draws the orchestra together reminds Futakuchi of Oikawa a little. This will be his first concert with them, and in the weeks of rehearsals leading up to it… Futakuchi can’t quite figure him out. The new guy smiles often and is sweet to their group—he’s also admittedly pretty hot, which really doesn’t help—but there’s something deeper about him, and Futakuchi isn’t sure if it’s a good thing or a bad thing. He doesn’t really like it when he doesn’t understand something in this way, and he especially doesn’t like it when this new guy seems to be able to understand Futakuchi on a different level. In the few moments that they’ve spoken, and even in the way he looks at Futakuchi, it all makes him feel like he’s being pulled apart and studied very closely, like the new guy learns something about him every time, but not vice-versa, and it leaves Futakuchi feeling a little vulnerable around him.
(To say that he hates it would be a downright fucking lie.)
Miya smiles—Futakuchi tries very hard not to think about how difficult it is to look away when he smiles—and says, “Thank you. I’ll join you all soon.”
People around them begin to straighten up and turn towards the doors leading to the stage. Futakuchi trails behind them a little, unhurried.
Miya Atsumu, people would say in hushed, reverent tones, as if afraid he’ll hear them and turn some sort of spellbinding magic of his own on them with that charming smile of his.
Miya, Futakuchi would say, always with a hint of a sneer in his voice, never ever reverent in any way, because he’ll never give him that sort of power.
“Futakuchi.”
Just as he’s about to walk past him, Futakuchi stops at the sound of Miya’s voice, quickly runs through what he might’ve done wrong (bought a packet of sour gummies from the vending machine downstairs, but no one needs to know that, and anyway, there aren’t any rules against that, it’s not like he’ll eat them during the concert or anything (it’s tempting though, just to try and piss Miya off (would that piss him off? (who fucking knows)))), tells himself he’s being ridiculous, and turns to face him. Miya looks calm as ever, with that familiar smile on his face—but, fuck, it’s almost a smirk right now, isn’t it? What is this asshole’s problem?
“Miya!” Futakuchi says in his own familiar shit-stirring cheerfulness. “I hope you’re not too nervous—wouldn’t want you to screw up now, would we? That would suck, because I hear the mayor’s in the audience tonight!”
One of these days, he’ll figure out what makes him tick, but it’s not today. Miya just reaches out and firmly places a hand on his shoulder. Futakuchi freezes.
“I’ll be counting on you today, too,” is all Miya says—purrs, practically. And then with a slight nod of his head, he moves his hand away. His fingertips linger on Futakuchi’s shoulder for a moment—feeling as though he’s leaving trails of fire—before his smile widens slightly, and he brushes past him to head towards the stage, leaving Futakuchi in the now-empty corridor.
For just a moment, Futakuchi wonders how much trouble he’d be in if he simply grabbed Miya’s arm, pulled him back, slammed him against the wall, and kissed the fucking breath out of him right there and then. He imagines those long fingers of Miya’s running through his own hair, pulling him close, imagines filling each other with all five senses, thinking so go on, hot shot, show me how good you really are.
A lot of trouble, probably.
But holy fuck, did he want to get into trouble with Miya.
A chorus of applause from the audience jolts Futakuchi out of his thoughts. The others must’ve entered the stage. What ironically terrible timing.
Shaking his head and wishing he could take a cold shower right now, Futakuchi slaps himself on the cheeks, takes a deep breath, and begins walking out to join them. His knees feel a little weak, and he’s not entirely sure if it’s from nerves or from… whatever the fuck happened just then.
In any case, they have a concert to deal with right now.
no subject
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There’s a certain conductor, Futakuchi thinks irritably, folding his arms across his chest and watching him from a distance, who… well, pisses him off aren’t quite the words for it, but, yeah, he kinda pisses him off.
This guy is fairly new to their young, relatively small orchestra—the older guard has moved onto bigger things, bigger stages, bigger dreams. As much as Futakuchi butted heads with him, there’s a small part of him (a tiny, tiny, tiiiiiiny part of him) that will miss Oikawa Tooru, because it was hard not to feel breathless by the way he conducted, even as (especially as?) a member of the orchestra. Because Oikawa might be the most aggravating jackass Futakuchi has ever met and will ever meet in his entire life (Futakuchi might also be exaggerating a tiny bit), but he was also a magician who could pull everyone and everything together so very seamlessly and leave people utterly spellbound in his wake, in a way only Oikawa Tooru knew how.
So, yeah. Cheers, Oikawa.
Anyway. Futakuchi’s getting nostalgic. He must be tired. He shifts his weight onto his other foot.
This new guy—he’s good. Earned himself a bit of a reputation in these circles for being a bit of a perfectionist, and for his work ethic and needle-sharp attention to detail. The way he draws the orchestra together reminds Futakuchi of Oikawa a little. This will be his first concert with them, and in the weeks of rehearsals leading up to it… Futakuchi can’t quite figure him out. The new guy smiles often and is sweet to their group—he’s also admittedly pretty hot, which really doesn’t help—but there’s something deeper about him, and Futakuchi isn’t sure if it’s a good thing or a bad thing. He doesn’t really like it when he doesn’t understand something in this way, and he especially doesn’t like it when this new guy seems to be able to understand Futakuchi on a different level. In the few moments that they’ve spoken, and even in the way he looks at Futakuchi, it all makes him feel like he’s being pulled apart and studied very closely, like the new guy learns something about him every time, but not vice-versa, and it leaves Futakuchi feeling a little vulnerable around him.
(To say that he hates it would be a downright fucking lie.)
“Miya-san?” Futakuchi hears someone say. “We’ll start heading onto stage, now.”
Miya smiles—Futakuchi tries very hard not to think about how difficult it is to look away when he smiles—and says, “Thank you. I’ll join you all soon.”
People around them begin to straighten up and turn towards the doors leading to the stage. Futakuchi trails behind them a little, unhurried.
Miya Atsumu, people would say in hushed, reverent tones, as if afraid he’ll hear them and turn some sort of spellbinding magic of his own on them with that charming smile of his.
Miya, Futakuchi would say, always with a hint of a sneer in his voice, never ever reverent in any way, because he’ll never give him that sort of power.
“Futakuchi.”
Just as he’s about to walk past him, Futakuchi stops at the sound of Miya’s voice, quickly runs through what he might’ve done wrong (bought a packet of sour gummies from the vending machine downstairs, but no one needs to know that, and anyway, there aren’t any rules against that, it’s not like he’ll eat them during the concert or anything (it’s tempting though, just to try and piss Miya off (would that piss him off? (who fucking knows)))), tells himself he’s being ridiculous, and turns to face him. Miya looks calm as ever, with that familiar smile on his face—but, fuck, it’s almost a smirk right now, isn’t it? What is this asshole’s problem?
“Miya!” Futakuchi says in his own familiar shit-stirring cheerfulness. “I hope you’re not too nervous—wouldn’t want you to screw up now, would we? That would suck, because I hear the mayor’s in the audience tonight!”
One of these days, he’ll figure out what makes him tick, but it’s not today. Miya just reaches out and firmly places a hand on his shoulder. Futakuchi freezes.
“I’ll be counting on you today, too,” is all Miya says—purrs, practically. And then with a slight nod of his head, he moves his hand away. His fingertips linger on Futakuchi’s shoulder for a moment—feeling as though he’s leaving trails of fire—before his smile widens slightly, and he brushes past him to head towards the stage, leaving Futakuchi in the now-empty corridor.
For just a moment, Futakuchi wonders how much trouble he’d be in if he simply grabbed Miya’s arm, pulled him back, slammed him against the wall, and kissed the fucking breath out of him right there and then. He imagines those long fingers of Miya’s running through his own hair, pulling him close, imagines filling each other with all five senses, thinking so go on, hot shot, show me how good you really are.
A lot of trouble, probably.
But holy fuck, did he want to get into trouble with Miya.
A chorus of applause from the audience jolts Futakuchi out of his thoughts. The others must’ve entered the stage. What ironically terrible timing.
Shaking his head and wishing he could take a cold shower right now, Futakuchi slaps himself on the cheeks, takes a deep breath, and begins walking out to join them. His knees feel a little weak, and he’s not entirely sure if it’s from nerves or from… whatever the fuck happened just then.
In any case, they have a concert to deal with right now.
And after that—
After that, who fucking knows.