Archive of Our Own

Matsukawa Issei, self-proclaimed fashion critic, hates the Aoba Johsai school uniform with a burning passion.

With every fiber of his being, he despises having to wake up in the morning and roll out of bed and tug on that godawful shirt that’s the most sickening, bland shade of blue, those terrible checkered pants, and the nasty cream colored coat and stupid vest that are too tight on his shoulders and ridiculously itchy, respectively.

He tolerates the red tie though. He’s always liked ties and he likes red, too. It’s a solid color.

The rest of the uniform is a goddamn eyesore, though. Design flaws aside, it’s not even in the color palette he’d like it to be. Issei likes monochrome shades with a graphic pop, blacks and the odd neon, nerdy dark themed animated t-shirts and ripped jeans. He’s got his style sense figured out and he’s comfortable in it.

Which all leads up to why the Seijoh uniform, with its pale colors and absurd checkers, pisses him off to no end. It’s irritating. His hatred was only multiplied when a girl in his class straight up bluntly informed him that he looks weird in the uniform.

That had stung, he’ll admit. It was just uncalled for.

Issei had decided pretty early on that no one was getting him into that itchy sweater. Over his dead fucking body, he declared at the dining table in his first year. His mother, also fond of muted shades, had taken one look at the vest and wrinkled her nose, told him that as long as he didn’t catch a cold, she didn’t care.

He’d went without a coat or vest for as long as he could, until November, when the chill really started settling in and even Issei’s naturally furnace-like body heat needed an extra layer. Plus, Takahiro had been getting worried and had told him that there was no excuse for why his hands were fucking freezing all the time, now. He’d been so sweet and demanding, telling Issei firmly, with no room for argument, to start dressing warmer or he’d beat his ass because Takahiro needed his body warmth.

Issei had caved immediately at the implication that Hanamaki Takahiro might possibly need him in any way, shape or form.

He got away with wearing the volleyball uniform jacket as much as he could, but soon enough a teacher informed him that he couldn’t wear a sports jacket with the school uniform. Issei had sighed, and went with wearing an extra layer under his school and undershirts for a while, but then Takahiro had questioned it in the locker room one day and then Issei had been forced to outline the situation, and Takahiro had laughed for a full minute at the ridiculous, petty explanation. He’d agreed, however, with an indulgent smile after he was done laughing at the petulant look on Issei’s face, that the school sweater vest is pretty garbage.

Somehow, Takahiro still manages to look good in it. Soft and pastel colors suit him, and it’s like he’s Issei’s opposite in everything.

But after that incident, he’d been too embarrassed to wear two shirts underneath the school one, and the next day, he had shown up wearing one of his own hoodies over the uniform shirt.

His English teacher who he retains had always disliked him because of how garbage he is at languages, had confronted him immediately, asking him to take it off and hand it over as the school policy was strict on that only the school coats and vests were allowed. He had made his excuses, oh no I’m sorry my sweater is in the wash and it’s so cold today, you understand, right sensei? After a good three minutes he’d sighed and waved him off.

A strict private school like Seijoh wasn’t gonna keep letting it go that easily, though, and soon enough Issei had been in literal detentions for straight up refusing to take off his beloved bomber jacket.

The principal had been called eventually by a particularly overeager teacher, and she had stared at Issei’s expressionless face and told him tiredly to just make it easy on them both and take it off. He had leaned forward and looked her in the eye and said, ‘Are you really going to punish me over a jacket? Like, can you do that with a straight face, sensei?’

The principal, a down to earth woman who was familiar with Issei from the numerous other times he’d been called to her office because of all the pranks Takahiro pulls and blames on him, wasn’t just some stuck-up teacher at a private school, and could understand Issei’s disbelief at the over-dramatization of the issue. She had made a face like, well, you got me there, kid.

She’d let him go and the next day, she’d announced that it was officially acceptable to wear whatever jacket you wanted as long, as it was black or white.

The student body went a little crazy and Takahiro had been impressed at his pure pigheadedness and Issei, with his abundance of black hoodies and leather and aviator jackets, had been delighted.

Issei, seventeen and a bit foolish, had strut into school the very next day with his leather jacket on and had promptly been told by the principal who was walking by, that okay sorry, no , kid, there is a fucking line, no leather, for god’s sake, they’re going to think you’re some yakuza punk and also you look ridiculous.

Takahiro had laughed every time he remembered it’d happened for the next week and Issei had stuck to his hoodies and other jackets from then on.

This revolution of being allowed to wear whatever jacket you want had gotten Issei his long deserved fifteen minutes of fame in the school corridors. Takahiro had told him that he didn’t know about ‘long deserved’ but Issei had replied that he couldn’t hear him over the sound of the three actual high fives he got in the hall.

Third year now, and while he doesn’t have any clout left, he’s slightly less foolish and taller by enough that he can fit properly into every cool jacket his father passed down—and on this particularly cold February morning as the worst of the chill is fading so no one is piling on coats and scarves anymore, Issei wears his favorite well worn bomber jacket into practice.

Oikawa zeroes in on it immediately, eyes widening as he walks towards the volleyball carts. ‘Ooh, Mattsun, that’s a nice jacket!’

Beside him, hands stuffed in his uniform pockets, Takahiro says, ‘See? I knew he’d say those exact words.’

Issei clicks his tongue. ‘Fine, you were right this once.’

‘What are you talking about, I’m always right about everything.’

‘Hm. Okay, sure Hiro.’

‘Yeah, I’m starting to think I’m psychic, actually.’

‘Wow, Hanamaki-san, tell me more about what you see on my palm!’ Issei says, pitching his voice high.

Takahiro plucks Oikawa’s glasses out of his pocket as he passes by, ignoring his hey! to take Issei’s hand and bend his head. He squints at it through the frames. ‘Hmm, let’s see here. Ah, your heartline, and your lifeline are very bold.’

‘Okay. What does that mean?’

‘You’ll live a long prosperous life and have a committed, monogamous relationship,’ Takahiro says easily.

Issei nods, gazing at the way the glasses slip off his nose and praying it’s with him. ‘Of course.’

‘Oh? What’s this!’ Takahiro pulls his palm up close to his eye and peers.

‘What is it, Hanamaki-san?’ Issei asks dutifully.

He gasps, hand coming up to clutch his forehead in fake shock. ‘Your fuckline!’

Issei’s mouth twitches.

‘It says right here—wait a sec.’

He pulls out a marker out of his pocket and scribbles on Issei’s palm and Issei carefully remains blank faced at the feeling of Takahiro holding his hand.

Takahiro pulls the marker back with a flourish and proclaims, ‘Just as I thought. Your palm says your future holds lots and lots of anal sex.’

Issei looks at his palm and as predicted, it says in bold black marker, ‘LOTS AND LOTS OF ANAL SEX.’

He shrugs loosely. ‘Checks out. I am very desirable and also, after all, a gay man.’

‘One of the gayest I know,’ he agrees, ‘don’t cheat on your monogamous partner, dickwang.’

He grasps Takahiro’s fingers and holds them to his chest, deadpanning, ‘OK, boss. Thank you so much for your wise words and advice. Truly, you have the inner eye.’

Takahiro nods several times, taking off Oikawa’s glasses and stuffing them in one of Issei’s jacket pockets. ‘I am gifted beyond belief.’

Issei buttons the pocket, nodding back. ‘So many gifts. God really went overboard when he was making you.’

Takahiro tilts his chin thoughtfully, and Issei’s eyes fall to the cut of his jaw. ‘Y’know, sometimes I start to wonder if I am God.’

Oikawa groans and interrupts before they can go on another tangent, pushing the cart of volleyballs to a stop beside the net and saying, ‘Alright, shut up Makki, if someone on the team was psychic, it wouldn’t be you, it would be me.’

Takahiro laughs out loud, his hand dropping from Issei’s and he instantly feels the loss. ‘Why, though? Like, when have you ever shown psychic tendencies?’

Oikawa crosses his arms and narrows his eyes. ‘What exactly falls under psychic tendencies?’

Issei claps a hand on his back. ‘Well, first of all, you need to have great hair.’

‘Yep, that’s a defo,’ Takahiro agrees, his own hand slapping against Oikawa’s shoulder as they steer him towards the locker room. ‘Along with wonderful fashion sense.’

‘Superior intellect.’

‘An appreciation for all things sketchy.’

‘An appreciation for all things meme.’

‘Someone else’s Netflix password.’

‘A smokin’ bod.’

‘Oh, and great taste in men.’

‘So really, you can see why you’re definitely not psychic,’ Issei explains, pinching his nape.

Oikawa yelps and shakes their hands off, spinning around to glare at them. ‘I have all of those things!’

Takahiro shakes his head sadly. ‘Nope, none of us have all of that except me.’

Issei ruffles Oikawa’s hair as he stares at them, unimpressed. ‘Aw, it’s okay, Tooru-chan. Hiro has his psychic abilities, I have my jacket, I’m sure you’ll find something.’

‘Uhh, my exceptional volleyball skills?’ Oikawa says, raising an eyebrow.

Takahiro purses his lips.

‘My fanclub?’ he tries.

Issei hums non-committedly.

‘Aha! A close relationship with Iwaizumi Hajime!’ he says, because he knows how to make them give in by now, goddammit. Fucking people pleaser. ‘Neither of you could ever have what I have!’

Takahiro pauses, and then shrugs defeatedly. ‘Yeah, damn, no he’s got us there, Issei.’

‘Yeah, for real, he has the in with Iwaizumi. None of us could win at life that much.’

‘What the fuck are you nerds yammering on about?’

They turn around as Iwaizumi steps into the locker room, eyebrow raised.

Oikawa steps behind Takahiro and instantly defends himself, ‘It was them, they were objectifying you, Iwa-chan!’

Takahiro shoves him away, staring. ‘Why did you hide behind me?’

Iwaizumi walks over and squints. ‘Oh. Nice jacket, Matsukawa.’

‘That’s what I said!’ Oikawa says excitedly.

Issei turns his head slowly and smiles, smug and crooked at Takahiro. ‘See? Some people appreciate me.’

Takahiro sighs, because he’s an asshole who’s been playing hard to get all morning. ‘It’s not that cool of a jacket,’ he says irritably.

He’s lying, it’s so obvious.

‘Oh, hey, look at Matsukawa-san’s jacket! It’s so cool!’ Takahiro’s skinny shoulders sag and Issei’s smile widens as the juniors start flooding into the locker room, eyes wide and in awe of Issei’s absolutely fucking dope jacket.

Oikawa’s eyes brighten. ‘Hey, wait, Mattsun, can I try it on?’

Issei shrugs. ‘Sure, go ahead.’ He tugs it off and tosses it at Oikawa who pulls it on eagerly.

He zips it up. ‘How do I look?’ he says delightedly, turning and strutting.

Everyone watches him and Takahiro tilts his head. ‘Huh. It’s too loose on your shoulders, you kinda look like a kid.’

Oikawa makes a face.

He tugs it off and deflects, claiming, ‘It’s not my style, anyways. Oh, Iwa-chan, you should try it on!’

That starts a long chain of everyone trying on Issei’s jacket. It’s too long on Iwaizumi, but fits well around the arms, and Issei snickers at the pinched, torn look on Oikawa’s face. Watari is in awe, saying, ‘I’m gonna get a jacket like this!’ It’s a close fit with Kindaichi, but still sort of loose in places. He grins widely when he gets his turn. Kunimi, on the other hand, is somehow drowning in it when Kindaichi convinces him to try it on. He glowers at him and practically tears it off.

Once everyone’s tried it, Issei turns to Takahiro and raises a brow. He offers it, eyes lidded.

Takahiro scowls. ‘Nope.’

Issei furrows his brows. ‘What? Why not?’ Does it smell or something? he wonders. Should I have not let Iwa try it on?

Takahiro reads the stress in his face instantly somehow and rolls his eyes, saying, ‘No it doesn’t smell, asshole, chill out. I just—it’s not for me, y’know?’

He frowns, paused with the bomber clutched loosely in his hands and everyone else slowly filing out of the locker room. He feels so lost. ‘What?’

‘Y’know,’ he says vaguely, stepping around Issei. Issei turns and stares bewildered at his back, because he’s acting crazy. ‘Like, well, I don’t see the appeal to wearing your jacket, and also, I’ve gotta go do receiving practice. I’ve been getting sloppy.’

Issei’s frown deepens. ‘Aw, hey, no, you’ve been great, what d’you m—’

He tosses a, ‘Yeah, yeah, pass the ball for me?’ over his shoulder, shutting it down.

‘I—sure.’

He wishes he could say he left it at that and stopped pressing the issue. But Issei really wants to see Takahiro in this jacket in particular, because now that he’s seen everyone in it he has a vision in his head and he can be pretty stubborn when he wants to be.

Issei wheedles all day, trying to convince him to put it on. Takahiro is unbelievably firm though. Every time Issei passes by him in between classes, he says, ‘Hey, are you cold? You should wear my jacket.’

Every time, Takahiro responds, ‘No thanks, I’m good.’

It’s frustrating .

At lunch, they sit at their usual spot on the school roof and Takahiro automatically goes to slump and rest his head on Issei’s shoulder but he moves to the side, and tilts his head at him. Takahiro narrows his eyes up at him, upturned nose all cute and scrunched.

‘What?’

‘…Will you wear my jacket?’

‘No!’

‘Then you can’t cuddle.’

‘Are you—are you serious?’

‘Well…’

‘Are you fucking kidding me?’

‘I—fuck.‘ Issei tries to hold his ground but he’s weak and the incredulous, almost hurt look on Takahiro’s pretty face has him drooping and immediately slinging his arm around his shoulders and pulling him in, flushed and mumbling, ‘Yeah, fine, you’re right, I’d never.’

Takahiro huffs and burrows himself into Issei’s side, kicking him sharply and saying, ‘Goddamn right you’d never. Douchebag.’

It’s one of those moments he cherishes, relaxed and warm and just the two of them. He doesn’t bring up the jacket thing throughout their lunch period, and tries not to flush when Takahiro’s hand curls into the fabric of the bomber jacket as he dozes off, dyed pink head soft against Issei’s jaw and shoulder. They fit so well it drives him nuts.

He’s right back to trying his utmost to get him to wear it afterwards, though. Their yearmates bear witness to Issei dropping Takahiro off at his math class and complaining as he leaves, ‘You didn’t even wear a jacket today, come on, Hiro!’

‘No, no, no, you’ll never get me in that fucking jacket!’

‘Fuck off!’

‘Fuck you!’

Issei slumps in his seat in his biology class, sulking and Oikawa, who he shares the period with, drops down next to him and says, ‘So, Mattsun, why do you want him to wear it so bad?’

‘No reason,’ he says.

‘Really, because I was thinking it’s because you have a big fat crush on hi—’

He gives up. ‘Fuck off, asshole, so what.’

‘Oh! So you’re admitting it!’

‘Like I’ve ever hidden it?’ he demands, and immediately regrets it because that’s so fucking gay.

Oikawa’s grin is wide and he ruffles his hair two-handed, cooing, ‘Aw, Issei. That’s so fucking gay—’

‘Fuck off!’

Takahiro doesn’t even budge all day. It’s almost humiliating when Issei trudges into the locker room for evening practice, just him and the first years, and Kunimi shakes his head at him.

‘Still wearing that jacket, huh, Matsukawa-san?’ he jeers.

Issei has to resist the urge to choke the little bastard. He settles for a calm and cool, ‘Shut the fuck up, Kunimi.’

Kunimi laughs quietly as he leaves.

Issei is incredibly bullheaded however, and they walk home together and it’s Friday and Takahiro is staying over for the night, so he still maintains that he has time. In fact, it’ll probably be easier to convince him to put it on when it’s just them. So he doesn’t lose hope.

On the walk home, he purposefully leaves a sliver of space between them so that Takahiro feels colder.

He feels like complete and absolute shit when he sees Takahiro shivering, nose and cheeks flushed pink and looking adorable, but he endeavors.

‘Hm. Kinda cold isn’t it,’ he drawls.

'…Yeah.'

'The kinda chill that makes you wish you were wearing a jacket, huh.'

Takahiro doesn’t respond, staring at the pavement and letting out a resigned sigh.

‘I don’t really feel it, though. And if, say, somebody else were to wear my jacket I’d be fine without it because I personally don’t feel that—’

Issei keeps up a steady rapport of slow, drawn out bullshit throughout the walk home and Takahiro shoots back snide remarks and moves closer and closer to him unconsciously, and he cheers internally every time he inches closer towards pressing his shoulder to Issei’s because that’s a win in his little black book.

They’re at Issei’s street when Takahiro stops walking abruptly and Issei’s eyebrows shoot up and he trails off mid sentence. Has he won? Is this it?

Takahiro looks up at Issei and he swallows and hopes he doesn’t flush too visibly at the sight of the slightly pissed and unfairly hot look in his narrowed gray eyes.

Issei’s throat works and he knits his brows, ignoring how he’s slightly turned on seeing Takahiro staring him down, and he tilts his head at him because he does look quite annoyed, and also a little too sharp for his liking.

'You okay? Sorry, did I piss you off, d’you want me to stop? I’m being pushy, I’m sorry, Hiro.'

And for some reason, that makes his eyes soften, getting heavy lidded and warm and molten silver, those lips parting slightly, then curving into a sweet, pretty smile and Issei’s so in love with him.

'Uh, are you—’

'Issei.'

Issei's mind goes blank. He blinks, then smiles back helplessly. 'Hiro?'

Takahiro looks up at him, still smiling softly.

His next words make Issei go fucking nuts.

'You’re right, I’m cold, can I have your jacket?'

Issei stands a ruined, broken man. 'What the fuck,' he says.

Takahiro laughs, the best sound he’s ever heard in his life.

He scrambles. 'W—wait, goddammit, give me a fucking minute you—shit, Hiro—’

Issei scrubs his hand over his face, shoving it up further to muss up his hair in disbelief.

'Yeah, fuck yes, definitely it’s yours—I mean, like—yeah of course, fuck,' he manages, already shrugging it off and Takahiro beams up at him.

He hesitates a moment, jacket in his hands. Then he exhales and wraps it around Hiro's shoulders, tossing his arm around them for good measure, ducking his head to lean in closer and murmur, 'Better?'

Takahiro smiles up at him, cheek pressed to Issei’s jaw, gorgeous and pink and he nods silently. Issei nods back, lump in his throat, muttering, 'Okay, cool, great, very nice and—cool.' His voice cracks embarrassingly on the last, final shovel of dirt in the coffin called 'cool' and Takahiro doesn’t even bother to stifle his laughter.

He squeezes his shoulders and together, they walk up to Issei’s house, flushed and smiling.

‘So you wanted me to wear it because you’re in love with me, right?’

Issei fucking trips, and Takahiro grabs his bicep and tugs him back so he doesn’t slip and fall and laughs loud and pleased and Issei turns his head to stare at him as he laughs, clutching Issei’s arm so he doesn’t fall. Takahiro wipes a tear and grins, eyes bright and crinkled and looking up at Issei.

Issei stares back, eyes wide. ‘I—’ His mouth opens and closes, speechless.

Takahiro shakes his head, flushed and still grinning.

‘You fucking loser,’ he says sweetly, and leans up and kisses him. 

Issei is frozen and stunned, Takahiro’s soft, slightly chapped lips pressing against his own and when his brain comes back online, Takahiro is bashfully pulling away. Issei makes a low, broken noise at the back of his throat and presses against him, tugging him back up with a hand at his nape and kissing him as sweet as he can, slotting their mouths together, the other hand sliding down to the small of his back to hold them as close together as he can.

Takahiro practically melts into the kiss, hand coming up to thread into his hair, grip tight on his bicep and Issei bends his head down, kissing harder.

He pulls back after a long, perfect moment, and the soft smacking sound of their spit-slick lips splitting apart is loud in the hushed, cold street.

‘Hi,’ Takahiro whispers, voice low and soft.

Issei presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, saliva cooling quickly in the cold air. He knocks their foreheads together gently, his smile growing wide and affectionate and foolish. ‘Hi.’

Takahiro’s face splits into that king-of-the-world, wide and winning smile and Issei’s jacket is falling off his shoulders. His hand comes up to rearrange it firmer around his frame and Takahiro kisses his cheek. ‘Let’s go in, then, dumbass.’

Issei’s grin is ear-to-ear and they walk up the driveway, his hand pressed to his hip and Takahiro looking soft and pleased like every dream he’s ever had, wrapped up in Issei’s favorite jacket.

‘So why didn’t you wanna wear it?’

‘Ugh, it was too embarrassing, I knew it’d be big and warm and smell like you and all that nasty gay stuff.’

‘Aw, did you have a crush on me or something?’

‘I’m gonna throw you out of your own house.’

‘As long as we can make out a bit before that. My fuckline promised me lots of anal.’

‘No sex on the first date.’

‘Goddammit.’