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Kuramochi squints at his closet. It’s one of those dreary, hazy days outside, where the air is heavy with moisture, but the rain has yet to fall and relieve the uncomfortable pressure—all Kuramochi wants is his threadbare green hoodie to protect him from the world. He shoves hangers to and fro, sifting through what he has to admit is a pretty extensive selection of sweaters and hoodies, but doesn’t find it. Though he would like a resolution to this bizarre predicament, his classes aren’t flexible enough to allow for clothing crises, so he grabs a soft grey knit sweater instead and runs out the door.
It’s a busy week of exams and other garbage, and despite wanting to see Miyuki more than anything, they can only carve out a quick half-hour coffee on a blustery Thursday afternoon. Miyuki is bundled up to the eyeballs, which is standard fare in late fall, though Kuramochi can see a familiar pattern of stripes peeking out from his jacket.
The two of them don’t live together, but are over at each other’s places enough that sometimes clothes migrate—to be fair, Kuramochi notices when Miyuki’s traumatizing patterns end up in his laundry basket pretty much immediately. Sometimes he thinks Miyuki does it just to startle him awake.
“Buy a new sweater?” Kuramochi asks casually, as they walk across campus.
“Hm? No, I don’t hoard sweaters like you do. Some of us are content with fewer than thirty.” Miyuki offers what is meant to be a serene smile, but quickly turns hilarious when the hot cup he brings to his face fogs up part of his glasses.
Kuramochi cackles. “Karma.”
The following week, Kuramochi is over at Miyuki’s place under the guise of study time, but they’re mostly just sprawled across Miyuki’s bed, talking. His room is in an unusual state of disarray, probably as a result of their earlier attempts to review material, but that’s a problem for future them. Instead of sparing any more time on thoughts of cleaning, Kuramochi absently draws patterns on Miyuki’s back. Various clumps of failed productivity draw his eyes while his fingers wander, though he spies a familiar black and white sleeve on the seat of Miyuki’s pushed-in chair, cuffs frayed from wear.
That’s where that hoodie went. A familiar warmth curls in his chest and he smiles softly to himself, smoothing a palm down Miyuki’s strong back.
“Less of that, and more of the drawing,” Miyuki commands, a laugh in his voice.
“I thought we were discussing essay topics,” Kuramochi counters, but complies without question.
“I think better this way,” Miyuki says, The way he cuddles into the crook of his own crossed arms and closes his eyes does little to help his argument, but Kuramochi knows that’s not the point.
“Is lying face-down the best way for your two brain cells to rub together to make a thought?”
“It figures you’d know the secret.”
Kuramochi pinches his ass in admonishment. “You dick.”
“Oh, but you love me,” comes back in reply, muffled by the cotton of Miyuki’s shirt.
There’s nothing for Kuramochi to contradict in that statement, so he doesn’t.
It’s freezing out and pouring rain, and as a man very vested in his boyfriend’s continued good health, Kuramochi is waiting for Miyuki’s class to let out so they can walk to their team workout together. Miyuki, in classic form, forgot to check the weather, and without cover, will probably get drenched, then sick, and then not be ready for the start of the season and it would, essentially, be Kuramochi’s fault. Not that anyone else would see it that way, but Kuramochi would like to head off that guilt right at the pass, thanks. It has nothing to do with the fact that Kuramochi just likes doing shit like this for Miyuki, no matter how much he grumbles about it in front of the man in question.
Kuramochi has been aware of the sweater thieving for a while now, but he’s not about to bring it up because then Miyuki might stop doing it, and that’s—well, what would Kuramochi complain about internally, then? Sure, he’s down to his last few sweaters and his team-issued hoodie, and right now, Miyuki is wearing both his team-issued one with what has to be Kuramochi’s maroon cardigan poking out from the bottom. It almost looks deliberately placed, like Miyuki’s baiting Kuramochi to say something about it, but Kuramochi stops short of opening his mouth when Miyuki catches sight of him and gives him a small, soft smile.
“I hope you brought the big umbrella,” Miyuki says, and Kuramochi rolls his eyes, mostly just to play his part in the routine. What he wouldn’t give to press up on his toes and kiss Miyuki out here in the hall.
“Yeah, I brought the big one. You need to get your own fuckin’ umbrella, you know?” Kuramochi says, the most broken of records.
“Uh huh, I will,” Miyuki replies, hand lingering on Kuramochi’s bicep after he pats it condescendingly.
“You’re hopeless, ” Kuramochi reminds him as they descend the stairs.
“And which one of us always brings the umbrella?” Miyuki asks, pushing the door open and holding it so Kuramochi can open the godforsaken umbrella and step out. He holds it up high enough for the sasquatch to fit beneath it and stands, scowling, as his royal highness scoots in and rotates his bag to the other side.
“Our team needs a catcher,” Kuramochi argues, biting back on a content sigh when Miyuki’s warmth presses into his side. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Miyuki looking, hair curling around his ears from the humidity, and Kuramochi casts a sideways glance to acknowledge it. He wills the heat from his cheeks and takes a step forward.
“Come on, we’ll be late to practice.”
“I don’t really want Coach yelling at us again.”
“And whose fault was that?! I was ready on time!” Kuramochi’s voice breaks in the middle of his indignant outburst, and he has to fight to keep the umbrella over them both.
“Oops.” Miyuki just laughs, making sure that their fingers brush when he takes over umbrella-holding duties in subtle apology.
Kuramochi is down to a single fucking sweater. Actually, just his baseball hoodies, and a single, nice sweater. His outfit options are horrible, at this point, and he’s not sure how to approach fixing this without actually addressing Miyuki’s very specific kleptomania.
It all comes to an embarrassing head sometime in February, when they’re at the mall, and Kuramochi’s solution to the problem is...to completely ignore it. Miyuki has wandered off, presumably to find the worst possible combination of patterns in the store, leaving Kuramochi to parse through soft knits in various colours. While shopping with Miyuki is an exercise in frustration and distraction, it works when they split up and reconvene to judge each other’s selections—presently, Kuramochi is thankful for some quiet time wherein he can touch sweaters without fear of judgement.
He’s trying to decide on what neutral colour to buy, seeing as how he may as well be naked for all Miyuki’s thievery seems to care, and spends a good ten minutes mentally debating the virtues of charcoal grey versus black.
Kuramochi peers up during his deliberation, and upon seeing Miyuki’s head happily bobbing among racks of colours not found in nature, smiles to himself, and grabs a charcoal grey sweater just a size bigger than he’d normally buy. Just in case. Well, in case of the inevitable, really.
With a spring in his step, Kuramochi weaves over to where he will experience true visual horror, grinning despite his burning eyes when Miyuki proudly holds up a t-shirt that is so fluorescent that it glows. He drapes it over his arm, eyebrow arched like he’s challenging Kuramochi to say something about it.
“You done?” Kuramochi asks, a step closer than can be passed off as friends, watching Miyuki’s eyes soften.
“I was thinking of grabbing myself a sweater or two. I don’t have enough.” Miyuki does mischievous better than anyone else that Kuramochi knows.
“Oh, yeah?”
“But—“ Miyuki’s eyes dart down to the sweater in Kuramochi’s hands. “—looks like you found one for me.”
“Hell no. This is mine,” Kuramochi says, only partly lying, waiting for Miyuki to call his bluff when he checks the tag and sees the size.
“Pick the wrong size by accident?” he asks, and while the tone he’s aiming for is smug, he misses by a mile, landing in gentle instead.
“Same size as all my sweaters,” Kuramochi replies, not blushing as he ushers the two of them to the cash.
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
Kuramochi kinda can’t wait.