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Snowflakes are pretty.
Oikawa thinks, and almost laughs at his inability to sound like a poet and to spout out a few lines of beautiful verses. Imagine if he could actually describe things. But some things are just too hard to do so. Some things are indescribable, they make words clog up in your throat, making you choke on nothing but the simple beauty reflecting like treasure in his eyes.
You can’t really blame him for being like this, though. There’s no other way to describe it.
Snowflakes are-
Splat.
He feels a freezing sensation chilling down his spine and he instantly shrieks, reaching down into the back of his shirt to feel damp skin. A resounding laugh comes from behind Oikawa and it irritates him. He snarls as he turns, and is greeted by an angel.
Oikawa’s breath leaves him.
Futakuchi is holding another snowball in his bare hand, his glove being held in his left palm as he smiled teasingly at Oikawa. Fuchsia lips curve upwards into a brilliant smirk and rose cheeks hold a single dimple, a dip on moonlit skin on the right of his face. A flake of ice lands on chestnut eyelashes, and as Futakuchi blinks, the snowflake melts away like a kiss from Futakuchi’s hazel irises. A soft hazy glow from the lamppost crowns the boy in a mellow halo, lighting him up like a spotlight of flitting gold.
“Hey.”
“Such a cold welcome,” Oikawa tuts and the brunet in front of him brings his hand up to brush his fringe from his eyes, sweeping to the side and tucking the strands behind his pinkened ear. The older man is enraptured, until he remembers his place.
“Be happy. I could’ve thrown two snowballs. Buy one, get one free?”
“No thank you.”
“Shame.”
Futakuchi purses his lips in an undeniably obvious pout, and it takes all of Oikawa’s willpower to not stare at the enticing lips.
Or so he thinks.
An ivory hand approaches his face and before Oikawa can register what was happening, a face is close up to his, warm puffs of breath mixing with his own and rising into navy sky. A hand tilts his face so that he meets the younger boy’s brown eyes, long lashes lowered seductively and looking up at Oikawa, slightly emphasising that this little sneak had unfairly pretty eyes.
“You’re staring.”
So he knows. God, what a gorgeous voice. Sweet like honey with the right amount of sharpness off his clever tongue.
Oikawa gulps and thinks, the pointed gaze from the younger boy in front of him, still with the amorous look in his eyes not helping his brain function at all. He finally manages to choke out a few words.
“Pretty face. Hard to focus on anything else.”
“Are you flirting with me?” Futakuchi laughs and Oikawa is staring again. He’s trying to force his brain to move, but he is getting sucked into the galaxy of the shorter boy’s eyes, and he shakes his head, trying to clear the mist being poured into his vision.
“Would you believe me if I told you that this is just a ploy so that you would let me go home quickly, preferably in a fully heated room?”
Futakuchi raises a perfect eyebrow at him and it makes Oikawa feel hot under his coat, because honestly, one should not be that attractive. The cheeky expression is alluring and it makes the older man want to gaze at it all day.
“Darling, I can see you lying. You're just being stupidly nervous. If you want to tell me that I look good, talk.”
Arms wrap around Oikawa’s neck, and Futakuchi is even closer, Oikawa could trace those cherry lips with his own if he leaned in just a little more.
“...Let’s go home.”
A wide grin spreads across Futakuchi’s face like melting butter on toast, and those hands slip away, the brunet drops the snowball which had half-melted in his hand anyway.
Oikawa watches the younger boy sashay away as much as he can in the ankle-deep snow, disappearing into the night, and he is about to follow until Futakuchi turns again.
“I’m going to leave you behind, hurry up.”
Futakuchi robs him of words again, simple stunning beauty, ethereal, and all Oikawa can think is,
“Pretty.”
A little noise escapes Futakuchi’s mouth, and it takes a few moments for Oikawa to realise he had spoken out loud. His face flames with embarrassment and he is sure that he could melt away the snow around him with his fierce blush.
He stares down at the ground, hoping to melt away and disappear, when he feels hands on his face again, and when he awkwardly looks up, a pair of coral lips lean in to steal a kiss.
Warm chocolate eyes are shut, serene expression dressed in streetlights like a stylish suit. Eyelashes flutter against Oikawa’s cheek as Futakuchi slowly pulls away, and it pains Oikawa. He wants to push the boy against the icy floor and kiss him again.
“I know I’m very pretty, Tooru.”
“I am too.”
“Nah, I am definitely better looking than you.”
“Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”
Futakuchi rolls his eyes, brushes off a pile of snow from his lover’s scarf and wrapping it more securely around Oikawa’s icy neck, then he walks off again.
Oikawa stares.
There’s no other way to describe it.
Futakuchi Kenji is pretty.
“You’re talking out loud again.”
“What- oh.” Oikawa curses his mouth for not being able to think before he speaks.
Futakuchi laughs.
“Idiot.”