But knowing doesn't change anything, despite him sorta wanting to change it or fix it or just plain stop it.

"Shishido-san."

Shishido starts, feeling as though Choutarou just speared him through with one of those scud serves of his. That's when he realizes he's still hesitating at the threshold, completely entangled in his own web of thoughts. Choutarou stands doing that polite smile of his, but not quite. Now it is his still polite smile but a different one -the one he uses for Shishido. The violin case and book bag are already neatly lined up at his desk and those long, graceful fingers are working on the buttons of his uniform. 

Down Shishido looks, noting his own uniform, which is in complete disarray: shirt untucked and rumpled, pants rolled up sloppily because he's wearing one of Sho's old ones, his tie dangling loose around his neck and holes in his socks.

Fuck dammit.

With a deft roll of his shoulders, Choutarou takes off his vest and hangs it over the back of his chair. It looks freshly ironed, even after a whole day at school and changing in and out of it during practice. Shishido is pretty sure his own smells funky.

"Do you want something to drink?" Choutarou says, smiling.

"Sure," Shishido nods and plunks hid own backpack to the ground with the resounding thud of too many books and loose pencils.

Going to play host, Shishido is left alone feeling like the biggest idiot in the history of idiots. "Stop it," he tells himself. He's been in Choutarou's room before. Not once or twice, but plenty of times. He's stayed for dinner and slept on a futon right there on the floor. It's not any different now. It isn't.

The only difference there is is that Choutarou's parents aren't home. They got the place all to themselves the whole evening and night.

So what? Shishido asks himself. Nothing is going to happen. 

He knows this. He's known it for a while. But he can't seem to stop it, can't seem to smother these painful squirming sensations. And he feels stifled, almost nauseous and his heart hammers at the back of his throat like this awkward swollen thing and his palms are sweating and there's Choutarou's bed. Where he sleeps.

No.

That's just weird. He's not gonna do that.

But.

NO!

He makes himself turn away look at the rest of the room, but it only serves to remind him that Choutarou is downstairs being a lame dork and fiddling with tea and snacks and stuff like that, because that's the way he is. He'll be a while, trying to get it right.

The room is empty. 

Shishido swallows. Chews his lip. And slowly walks over. Sits down carefully. 

Before he can help himself he's pulling his legs up and lying down, rolling on to his stomach. Pressing his face into Choutarou's pillow. Breathing in. Deeply.

It smells like him.

And then scrambling away from it, unbelieving he dared to do such a thing. Something so pathetic and weird and and… girly and lame. Totally, way lame. He stands there, hugging himself, hating that he's utterly incapable of acting normal and his heart is hammering and his face feels hot and all he can think about is that he smells nice. 

"Act normal," he mutters to himself and forces his arms down to his sides, relaxing.

The sheets are a bit rumpled. Shishido plucks inexpertly at them and then sits down, leaning against the side. Drawing his legs up, he crosses his arms over his knees and rests his chin on them. 

It's going to be a long night.