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“It was enough that I’m a third year and I’m still made to play as a host,” Miyaji hisses, doing a pretty accurate impression of an irate cat, “but why the fuck are they here to witness it?!”
“I invited Akashi,” Midorima admits, practically writing his own name down on Miyaji’s mental ‘to kill’ list, “but I didn’t expect he’d bring his entire team along.”
“Apologies, Midorima,” Akashi calls out from the entrance. How the fuck he heard them from there, Miyaji doesn’t even bother to ask, “but they had overheard our conversation and decided to come on their own accord. I allowed it, as I was under the impression that your school was open to outsiders for the duration of the cultural festival.”
Ohtsubo, ever the diplomat, steps in. “You’re right, we’re perfectly okay with you guys being here,” (“No we are not!” Miyaji yells) “the basketball club’s booth is also open to outsiders, so if you’re up for it, feel free.”
Akashi nods at the other captain and eyes the displays on the counter, particularly the row of pictures featuring the different hosts up for grabs. “Please run the concept of this booth by me.”
Ohtsubo waves them over to the inside of the gym, which now looks more like a very fluffed up living room than a space people can play sports in. “You can pick any of our club members to spend an hour with for a price. You can stay here and have a drink or you can tour the school. If you want them to wear a specific outfit, there’s an additional 300 yen. Succeeding hours are also subject to an additional 200 yen.”
Mibuchi is already fluttering his eyelashes at Takao, who tries to subtly hide behind Midorima.
“Of course, everything is subject to our host’s consent. If you try to force them to do something they’re not comfortable with, then they have the right to walk out on you,” Ohtsubo finishes, fixing them all with a stern look.
“Why are some of them way more expensive than the rest?” Hayama points out. Midorima in particular is easily worth more than Takao and Miyaji combined.
Kimura grins and gives them a thumbs-up. “The more they’re asked for, the more expensive they get.”
“I see.” Akashi murmurs, and turns to the rest of his team.
“You are all free to explore wherever you wish. Let’s meet here by the time the festival ends, is that alright with everyone?”
Almost immediately, Nebuya and Mayuzumi nod their assent, then turn tail and walk off, the former heading towards the row of food stalls just outside the gym. Akashi reaches into his pocket and fishes out an expensive-looking leather wallet.
“Midorima, if you please. In a kimono, and I’d like to have him for the rest of the day.” Akashi slides the exact amount for his purchase across the table. Behind him, Kimura peels Midorima's poster from the wall, much to the dismay of some customers still in line.
Miyaji is poised to laugh, but then another hand slams money onto the table, and shouts “Miyaji-san, please! In the Shuutoku girls’ uniform for two hours!”
-
“Why am I not surprised?” Midorima comments dryly, stepping out of the dressing room in an orange kimono and attaching himself to Akashi’s proffered elbow.
“Hush now, Midorima, I just freed you from the confines of slavery. You could do with a more grateful attitude.”
“My hero.” is the sarcastic reply, and Takao and Miyaji are spared their odd flirting when they finally walk far enough to not be heard.
Miyoshi gags when he’s sure Akashi is out of earshot. “Geez, that was enough sexual tension to choke a priest.”
“Meh, let Shin-chan learn his lesson about not sticking his dick in the crazy the hard way.” Takao huffs, fixing the apron of his maid uniform. Miyaji still thinks he lucked out in the outfit department. At least Takao could wear leggings. He frowns sullenly at the slip of pleated fabric the Shuutoku girls’ uniform passes off as a skirt. How do the girls not freeze to death, wearing skirts this short in this weather?
“The way it was looking just now, maybe it’s the crazy that’s gonna stick his dick in hi––”
“Oi, Takao, Miyaji, you done yet?” Kimura calls out just from outside the dressing room and Takao straightens with a deep breath.
“Well, good luck.” he calls out as he steps outside, looking very much like a man walking to his execution. Miyaji sighs and follows suit.
-
Miyaji thinks, with all the practice he’s gotten from Midorima and Takao, that he has a good grasp of Dealing with Annoying Underclassmen 101 but clearly, those two have nothing on one Hayama Kotarou.
Midorima and Takao are annoying, but they’re annoying in the sense that Midorima has a screw loose (Miyaji’s starting to think that “screw loose” is just another requirement to be counted as one of the Generation of Miracles, crazy hair and eye color aside), an ego to match his height (it got better now, thank God), and an obsession with horoscopes and lucky items bordering on fucking ridiculous (Miyaji once thought that this particular trait should’ve been filed under “screw loose” but given that it’s Midorima, it deserved special mention).
Takao, well, Miyaji is just this close to locking them both in the storage room until they got all that unresolved sexual tension out of their system (for the good of next year’s team) because all those pining looks that Takao gave Midorima were really so pitiful it’s nauseating.
Yup, they’re annoying but at least they’re not bubbly or hyperactive or overly-excitable. If they were, he's sure he would've popped a blood vessel by Winter Cup.
Alas, the world seems to think that handling Takao and Midorima for an entire year isn't enough punishment for whatever wrongdoing he may have committed in a past life. That really is Miyaji's only explanation for his current predicament.
“Miyaji-san, how about the goldfish-scooping booth? Or the ring-toss booth? Oh! Oh! I know! We can go for the food stalls first!”
His eyebrow twitches at the tirade of suggestions. “Why are we doing this?”
“I figured you might like this better than sitting around pouring tea for me for two hours. Actually I’m not all that good with sitting still so––”
“I meant,” Miyaji grinds out, “why me?”
Hayama looks up at him with those twinkling eyes. How the fuck even...“Because it’s Miyaji-san!”
“That is not an answer!”
Hayama looks at him like he doesn’t understand the question, but tries to anyway. “Well, I’ve been curious about you since we played your team in the Winter Cup, and I’ve really wanted to talk to you but we never had the chance. How’d you learn to dribble like that?”
“After months and months of practice.” Miyaji hisses, but the animosity just bounces off the other small forward.
“So cool!” Hayama praises, and Miyaji steps back, hoping his happiness isn't contagious.
“If you don't mind me asking,” might as well, since he's dying to know the reason himself, “why did you make me wear our girls uniform?”
Hayama stops and looks at him with a confused expression. “Huh? I thought that putting you in a girl’s outfit was part of it.”
Miyaji really, really has a hard time resisting the urge to call out to Kimura to hand him a pineapple. “No,” he says, somehow managing to draw out the word even though it only had two letters, “it was not. You could’ve just let me wear my normal clothes.”
Hayama seems oblivious to the dark atmosphere that suddenly surrounded them, even when the people around them wisely edge away from the impending bloodbath. “I wasn’t listening! My bad!”
He is going to fucking kill this kid.
-
“Ah!” Hayama stops and stands still, the first time he’s probably done so since this whole thing started, and sniffs at the air. Miyaji jerks an eyebrow at his antics. Is this kid part dog or something?
Hayama suddenly perked up, excitement back full force. “I smell crepes!”
…He probably is. Suddenly, Hayama grabs his wrist and he’s bodily dragged to the crepe stand.
“I’m going to go buy us some crepes. My treat. What flavor d’you want?”
Miyaji scowls and digs his heels into the ground, nearly sending Hayama off-balance. He rips his wrist back and stomps the rest of the way to the booth, wallet at the ready. “You already spent enough money buying my time and putting me in this outfit,” yes, that had to be emphasized, lest Hayama still isn't aware of the gravity of his sin, “at least let me pay for my own freaking food.”
Hayama pouts. “It’s not like I’m gonna starve for the rest of the week if I spend a couple more yen here you know.”
“I don’t care. Remember, if you try to force me to do something I don’t want to, I could walk out on you,” Miyaji huffs, and orders a regular-sized pineapple crepe.
“I can’t decide if Miyaji-san is being mean or nice.”
“I don’t care,” he repeats, chomping into his crepe, feeling his mood lift just a little at the taste.
Hayama sniffs again, eyeing his crepe. “Is it good?”
“It’s pineapple.” Miyaji says, as if it explains everything, which it probably does, in his mind.
Hayama continues to fix his crepe with a curious stare. “I’ve never had pineapple before.”
And just like that, Miyaji’s world implodes. Without thinking, he grabs Hayama by the front of his collar and shoves the crepe in his face. “Eat,” he commands, and his tone is enough for Hayama to open his mouth and take a cautious bite.
He lets the other chew for a few seconds, ready to punch him out if he gives a reaction that is less than positive, but Hayama jumps up, stars in his eyes.
“That’s so good!” he exclaims, and runs toward the crepe stand. “Hey! Another pineapple crepe please!”
He comes back with a large crepe, whipped cream and pineapple filling practically threatening to fall off the top of the cone. “Hey, since I took a bite out of Miyaji-san’s crepe, you should bite into mine to so it’ll be even.”
“What the hell kind of logic is that?” He snarls, but Hayama still has the crepe shoved in his face, and he sighs but bites into it anyway.
-
Miyaji leans over, trying to see over Hayama’s back without actually touching him. Sitting back on his haunches like Hayama and the other players doesn't seem like such a good idea, given what he’s wearing.
He sighs when a tell-tale plop and a whine announces the outcome of Hayama’s latest attempt.
“You suck at this,” Miyaji thinks that probably didn't need saying, as this had already been Hayama’s fifth failure at fishing out a yo-yo balloon, but he feels like saying it anyway.
Hayama makes an even sadder face. Miyaji sighs in exasperation and hands the guy manning the booth enough cash to get another hook.
“Here,” he instructs, kneeling and pressing against Hayama’s back to slip the paper string into his suddenly-limp hand. “See this game requires a delicate touch. You pull too hard, that’s why it breaks.”
Miyaji gently eases his fingers, trying to get him to hold the paper properly. It takes quite a bit of maneuvering on his part, because Hayama naturally has a strong grip and just seems unnaturally stiff for some reason, but he succeeds in the end. Hayama kept aiming for one balloon in particular, so Miyaji leads him to it, closing his hand entirely around Hayama's and dragging it up gently so that the balloon follows without the paper ripping. He doesn't realize he's holding his breath until it escapes in a relieved sigh, when the balloon is finally out of the tub.
He expects the other small forward to jump in glee, so he stands back, but Hayama is frozen in place.
“Hey, what's wrong with you?” Miyaji says, aiming a kick at Hayama's backside, only for him to stand at the last moment, causing the kick to go for his ankles instead. Hayama doesn't even look like he felt the kick, holding out the balloon to him and refusing to meet his eyes.
“I…uhh…here, I was gonna get it for you but since you did most of the work you kinda got it for yourself. Funny, right?” He trails off in a very awkward laugh, scratching the back of his head with his free hand.
Miyaji takes the balloon, and it is only then that he realizes that it's pineapple-printed.
-
Miyaji starts at the sound of the school bell, and checks his watch for good measure. “Hey, you have to get me back there before two hours is up or else they’ll charge you extra for overtime,”
Hayama’s face falls behind the cloud of cotton candy he is nibbling on. Miyaji feels his own teeth ache at the sight. “But Miyaji-saaaan...”
“If you want another hour, then talk to our captain. I don’t make the rules around here,” he snaps, already making his way back to the gym and trying to shake off the feeling that he tries not to pin as disappointment. Why the hell wouldn't he be excited to finally put an end to this torture? He looks back when he doesn’t hear Hayama following, and raises an eyebrow when he finds the other still standing where he’d left him.
He is about to call out when Hayama suddenly crosses the distance between them in three solid leaps.
“I really had fun, and I was wondering if you wanna hang again sometime,” he says, in one breath, and it takes Miyaji five tries just to decipher it. Even then, his ability to respond is dampened by the endless loop of what the fuck that his mind has been reduced to.
“You live all the way in Kyoto,” is the first thing out of his mouth, and wow, Miyaji what the hell kind of an answer is that?
“I'm staying here until Friday for the break, we could keep hanging out till then!”
Miyaji mentally gropes for words, opens, his mouth, then closes it. Dammit, where did his usually trustworthy vocabulary go? He averts his gaze from Hayama's face because those eyes definitely weren't helping.
“O-Okay,” god, did he just fucking stutter?
“Okay...?” And Miyaji's pretty sure this is the first time he's heard Hayama sound hesitant.
He stops himself before he could snappily retort Did I fucking stutter because he fucking did. He looks away, if only to hide the growing blush covering the lower half of his face. “I was beginning to think you weren’t man enough to ask me out properly.”
He’s pretty sure he hears someone choke in the bushes and oh yeah, Yuuya's chaperoning him. Fuck.
All thoughts of his little brother are ripped from his mind when Hayama whoops and grabs his torso in a bear hug. Nope. Nope. Miyaji Kiyoshi does not do cute and cuddly. If Takao or Midorima saw him now, his reputation as scariest upperclassman might as well just turn in its resignation letter. He tries to shake Hayama off but the blond isn't deterred in the least.
“How much time left?” Hayama asks, voice muffled by the soft fabric of Miyaji’s cardigan.
“Five minutes,” Miyaji answers, after a quick glance at his watch. “It takes about two minutes to get to the gym from here.”
“What if we walk reeeeaaaal slowly?”
Miyaji considers it. “Four minutes.”
Hayama finally pulls away, seemingly thinking of something. Miyaji thinks he hears alarm bells ringing. “They said I could do anything as long as you consent to it, right?”
Miyaji eyes him distrustfully. “Yeah, that’s a general rule for any human interaction too, just so you know.”
“Then, can I hold your hand?” Hayama blurts out, extending his hand, and Miyaji wonders not for the first time that day if the kid really is a high-schooler because oversized pre-schooler is becoming more and more plausible. Miyaji scoffs and takes his hand anyway.
“If we’re going to cross this bridge, you might as well stop it with the ‘-san’.”
Hayama’s grip tightens for a moment before he swings their joined hands in unadulterated glee. “Okay, Kiyoshi!”
“I didn't say first name basis, brat!”