Work Text:
The scent of chocolate and pine and peppermint wafts through the air–warm, inviting. Like blankets fresh out of the dryer, or a nap after a long day. You roll up your sleeves and stir the pot on the stovetop, relishing the heat that wafts up and warms your face. Normally, it’d be too much for you, considering that the oven was running as well, but today there was just the right kind of chill in the air. It wasn’t sweltering, just cozy.
“Hitoshi, it doesn’t take that long to find a box!”
It’d been at least twenty minutes since you’d sent your boyfriend to find the sweater you’d picked out for him. Conveniently, he’d “forgotten” to bring his own. Thankfully, knowing your boyfriend, you’d had the sense to have one prepared. And this one was so much better than anything he’d ever pick out.
When you only hear the sounds of shuffling in the room over, you scoff and call out to him again. This time there’s a groan, then the sound of footsteps tromping down the hallway. Shinso emerges, clutching a green bundle in his fist. He doesn’t say anything, just quirks up an eyebrow at you.
“What?” You ask, trying to sound innocent. “I thought it was cute.” A bald-faced lie.
“Cute.” He repeats back. Then, he flips the sweater in his grip and begins to read the knit lettering. “‘Where my ho’s at.’ You think this–” He fiddles with a strand of lights dangling from the sleeve, “This thing is cute? Christmas was six days ago.”
“Shouldn’t have forgotten yours then. Now stop complaining and put it on.” There’s a whole lot of sighing and eye-rolling that happens as he pulls the monstrosity over his head. You smile a bit, feeling victorious.
“Remember, dear, you were the one that said you didn’t want to go out tonight. This is called a compromise.” The oven beeps at you, and you squat down to check on your cookies. “Be glad I’m busy, or else I’d take pictures.”
Shinso scoffs and struts into the kitchen with his hands in his pockets. He leans back against the counter, watching as you pull out the gingerbread. Even wearing that god-awful sweater, he looked like a friggin model–an unkempt, sleep-deprived model. It wasn’t fair. You drop the tray onto the granite with a tinny clang and turn to face him, holding out your arms expectantly. He smirks, pushing himself up and walking right into your embrace.
You loop your arms around his neck and sigh when he presses his face into your neck. Goosebumps prickle up at the spots where his breath ghosts over your skin. There’s no thinking in that moment, only calm and comfort and him. Were it not for the gentle bubbling of the hot chocolate on the stove, it would’ve been easy to be lost there–utterly hypnotized and content to be so. Steadily, you tighten your grip on Shinso and slip a hand beneath the neck of his sweater, searching.
The lights on it blink to life, accompanied by perhaps the hokiest version of “Here comes Santa Claus” you’ve ever heard. Your boyfriend pulls back, peering down at the flashing lights strewn across his torso, then back up at you, looking positively irked. You pat his chest then hurry over to your pot, stirring it before it can begin to boil.
“Don’t make that face, Toshi. Come over here and taste this.”
However upset he may appear, he doesn’t hesitate to take you up on your offer. He does, however, grab a cookie on the way over, seeming far too amused by the way you roll your eyes, even as he has to juggle it between hands to avoid burning himself. You hold up your ladle and he leans over the pot and takes a tentative sip from it.
“Hot.” He breathes out, holding a hand beneath his chin to catch any drops as they crawl down his chin.
“I know that, genius. How does it taste?”
“Pretty good.” He nods, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “What box did you get this out of?”
“Haha, very funny.” You give his shoulder a light shove and reach over to turn off the heat. “I’ll have you know, I made this myself.”
“Mmmm, not sure I believe that. Not when you’re the one that–”
“I swear if you bring up the soup one more time, I’ll send you back out in the cold.”
He holds his hands to his sides, smiling and backing away slowly. You’re grabbing a set of mugs when you hear the sliding glass door open–feel an icy breeze creep into the kitchen. You turn and Shinso standing there in the dimly-lit yard, each breath visible–a misty puff against the backdrop of night.
What the hell was this man doing?
“You have to admit, takes real talent to make broth lumpy.”
You don’t stop to consider the cold–just drop your ladle and stomp towards him. He takes a few steps back, further into the darkness, but if he thinks that’s enough to discourage you, then he’s dead wrong. You proceed, even as your socks grow heavy from the freezing, wet, slush that covers the ground. Without thinking, you lean over and scoop up a handful of the stuff, paying no heed when the cold seeps into your bare fingers. You lob it, and it misses its mark by a long shot.
You’re about to grab another one when Shinso, in the midst of making his retreat, slips on an icy patch and falls flat on his back. He sits up quickly after, but the pained look that crosses his face is enough to shake you from your playful attack.
“Hitoshi!” You shout, hurrying over to him. “You okay?”
He grunts, leaning back on his hands and rolling his neck. You’re about to insist the two of you hurry inside–that he relax on the couch and try not to move. But then, the bastard has the nerve to shove a pile of slush down the back of your shirt.
“Asshole!” You shout–along with a few other choice words–as your shoulders hunch up to your ears, instinctively trying to ward out the cold.
Your fury is renewed. You shove him down into the snow (it’s already more of a puddle) and you begin your assault anew, practically burying him in one handful after another of watery snowballs. You’re both cackling to the point of breathlessness.
“Hey, hey, hey!” He catches your wrist just as you’re about to smash another one right into his chest. His cheeks are flushed, and you can feel the color in your own as well–a result of the cold and all the laughter. He gestures down to his sweater. “Don’t want me to short-circuit now, do you?”
You uncurl your fingers, letting a fistful of half-melted snow land on his shoulder.
“Oops.” Satisfied with yourself, you push yourself up off him, offering your hand. He takes it and pulls himself onto his feet.
“Thanks. You’re so sweet.”
“You started it.” You retort as you yank off your socks and step into the house, rubbing your arms and trying to soak up whatever heat lingers from the oven and stovetop. “Tell me, was this part of some elaborate ploy to get out of wearing your holiday sweater? Because I spent, like, forever picking that out for you.”
“Damn, that would’ve been a great idea. I should’ve thought of that before.” He shuts the door behind him and peels the soaked wool from his skin. It hits the floor with a plopping sound. You know Shinso is probably making a mental note to “lose” it later.
“You’d have me believe that a genius like yourself didn’t know he’d get his ass handed to him in a snowball fight?”
Shinso shrugs. “You believe what you’d like to. I’m gonna use your shower.” He wrings out his shirt into the kitchen sink, shooting you an accusatory look. More water than you thought possible comes pouring out of the fabric. “It’s only fair, considering you’re the reason I’m about to freeze.”
He starts to leave the kitchen, then stops and turns, leaning a shoulder on the doorframe.
“You know, you’ll never warm up when your clothes are drenched like that.” His eyes never leave you. They drag up the entire length of your frame, making you feel exposed despite the layers upon layers of lumpy clothing covering you. “Getting out of them would be a really good idea.”
He just folds his arms, looking all-too confident. You cock your jaw to the side, trying to conceal the upward turn of your lips.
“I’d just hate for you to get sick is all.”
Thank god for staying home. And snow. And smart-ass boyfriends that hate god-awful sweaters.