Doumeki loved the way that Watanuki looked when he put on jeans. He was always going on and on about how jeans were so stiff and uncomfortable, which is why he had only one pair. The pair he did have was formerly his father's, used to the point of being as soft as linen. They were nearly white with age, small tears carefully sewn, and always smelled of vanilla and cinnamon. Doumeki loved the way Watanuki's feet looked, the pants leg falling in a ripple over the arch of his pale foot, toes peeping out from beneath.
Watanuki complained that the pants were too long for him because his father was taller, but Doumeki loved the way they fit over Watanuki's legs, slightly baggy, and the way they sat below Watanuki's hips, the pale strip of exposed skin showing modestly over the top when he reached up to grab things from the cabinets. Watanuki was always at ease in them, draped over his furniture (in a way that was eerily reminiscent of Yuuko – though Watanuki would likely not appreciate the sentiment.) That was why Doumeki loved to see Watanuki in jeans. Because he knew how much Watanuki loved wearing them.
Watanuki loved seeing Doumeki in traditional Japanese clothes. Yukata, hakama, geta. Watanuki loved the way that the sleeves shift back when Doumeki reaches out, to reveal strong hands and muscled arms. Watanuki loved the way that the neckline shifted when Doumeki turned his head, that showed his collarbone. Often it seemed like Doumeki was uncomfortable in modern clothes, though he never said anything to that effect. To be sure, he always looked sharp and unmistakably striking. But when he was in traditional Japanese clothing he had an air of ease and confidence (more than usual in any case); an attribute that very few people – even native Japanese – could brag of. A bearing that perfectly suited him.
Doumeki wore traditional clothes quite often, oftener than most at any rate. He wore them during the ceremonies at the temple, wore them during archery, wore them to festivals. It seemed to Watanuki that he saw Doumeki in more hakama and yukata than he did in shirts and pants. There was always an almost ethereal quality as to how Doumeki dressed, when and where he was dressed the way he was. In the dojo he smelled of polished wood, sun and sweat, concentration pouring from his body. At the temple he smelled of sandal wood, incense and tatami mats, peace and tranquility washing over him. He always smelled of soap and something unmistakably Doumeki, always frustrating and always there. Because that was what mattered the most.