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Stretched out under the courtyard tree, Hanamaki reaches for a cream puff, but Matsukawa beats him to it, swiping away the snack before nudging it against his lips, a silent apology. Hanamaki would be charmed, but then Matsukawa flops down on top of him, head to stomach; the proferred cream puff slides just shy of Hanamaki’s mouth to land on the grass beside him instead, a single smudge of cream dusting his cheek for his trouble.
“Whoops,” Matsukawa calls up lazily, thumb reaching out to wipe off the smudge, sucking the cream back off his finger when he’s done. “Hey, Makki, isn’t that just so unfortunate for you?”
He drawls out the so, lips curling into a knowing grin as he does. Then he nuzzles even further against Hanamaki, keeping his eyes on him all the while so Hanamaki knows Matsukawa knows what he’s doing. Smug bastard. But Hanamaki just smirks, reaching for the fallen puff to draw his own line along Matsukawa’s jaw.
His angle’s bad, though, so it comes out kinda clumsy, and noticeably larger. Matsukawa’s grin collapses into a scowl, and Hanamaki traces over that too, relying more on touch than sight for minimal accuracy, maximum satisfaction. “Right? So unfortunate.”
Matsukawa sits up, shoving the cream puff away from Hanamaki’s fingers. Hanamaki lets him, amused, eyes following Matsukawa’s hand as it scrubs over his cheek and jaw, finally settling back where they started, poised before Hanamaki’s mouth.
“Really unfortunate,” Matsukawa says, then adds, “dickhead.”
Hanamaki snorts, grabbing Matsukawa’s wrist to hold his hand away from his face. “Yeah? Then isn’t it good this was just an accident? An unfortunate, unfortunate —,” Matsukawa tries to steer his hand back to Hanamaki’s face and fails, “— accident.”
They must look ridiculous at this point, fingers at each other’s wrists, both trying to grapple the other towards Matsukawa’s cream-infested hand. Voice slightly strained, Hanamaki says, “It’d be nice if you weren’t such a kid about it, ne, Mattsun?”
“Maybe if you weren’t such a kid in the first place. Makki.”
As an afterthought, he adds, “You damn cream puff terror.”
A sigh comes overhead, and they both stop, looking up. It’s Kunimi, nose wrinkled in distaste. Kindaichi stands next to him, looking panicky with his hands stretched towards them, waving a little frantically, like he wants to help them stop but isn’t quite sure how. Kunimi’s the one to speak first, though.
“You two are disgusting.”
Distantly, Hanamaki thinks he hears Oikawa’s voice call out Kunimi-chan, I’m so proud of you! which is quickly silenced by a loud thwack!. If he listens harder, Hanamaki can almost make out the natural continuation to that particular sequence of events (‘Iwa-chan, so mean — no, Iwa-chan, I’m joking, joking!). Outwardly though, he turns back to Kunimi and sighs. “You’re not cute at all, Kunimi-chan.”
Kunimi’s unimpressed.
“Disgusting.”
And then he trails back to whatever he was doing, Kindaichi lagging a few seconds later, shooting glances to Kunimi then them and back again. “Kindaichi’s pretty adorable, though.”
“He is, isn’t he.” Matsukawa pipes in, tone languid and lazy again. Hanamaki frowns, turning back towards the other only to collide head on with Matsukawa’s waiting fingers. Matsukawa looks pleased. “Reckon you’re cuter though, Hanamaki-chan.”
Huh. Hanamaki blinks, absentmindedly swiping cream off his face again. Licking cream back off his fingers (again) he says, mildly, “Well, damn.”
Practice after classes can be a pain, especially now that he’s retired and, technically, doesn’t even have to be around. Which is exactly what he told Irihata-sensei, in an exchange Matsukawa’s announced as Hanamaki-sama, voice of Reason and all round saviour of Seijou, complete with flamboyant, waving hand motions, down on one knee like Hanamaki’s a king or something. Idiot.
Irihata said only, “Well, Hanamaki-kun, nobody’s forcing you to keep helping out with practices.” Behind him, Mizoguchi smacks Matsukawa up the head. Irihata continues. “It’s nice of you to show up, though. All of you.”
Both of their eyes trail after Matsukawa as he walks to where Iwaizumi and Oikawa are helping the rest of the team through spiking drills. And, like he senses he’s being watched, Matsukawa turns. He nods at Irihata, who nods back before turning to consult Mizoguchi over — something or other. Hanamaki’s not sure, because once Irihata’s gone Matsukawa turns to him, familiar half-smirk on his face as he salutes Hanamaki, and, fuck, is he winking? Idiot.
Idiot idiot idiot.
Grumbling, Hanamaki makes his way over to the team. He feels oddly — unsettled. Not light-headed exactly, but. Warm. He feels unsettled and vaguely flustered and warm, rolling slow and sure from the pit of his stomach to the rest of his body. Huh, he thinks, maybe I do need the exercise, after all.
Yahaba’s off to refill water bottles, and he passes Hanamaki just before he reaches the edge of the court. Yahaba shoots him a Look, smiling kindly and patting his shoulder on his way out. Looking back over his shoulder, he says, “You can’t be like that, you know, Hanamaki-san.” Beside him, Kyoutani mutters, “he’s totally whipped.”
Hanamaki freezes. What — whipped, him? He doesn’t even have a girlfriend. And even if he did, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to make your, your, significant other happy, right? Right. “Right,” he echoes to himself, numb. And, damn. Since when did Yahaba act so, so. All-knowing around him? Kyoutani’s rubbing off on him, Hanamaki realises in horror, firmly resolving to have a solid, um, chat with the two of them, discreetly, later. He has a senpai’s best interests, after all. Yes, exactly. That is what he will do.
A hand settles against his back, steady and warm, and Hanamaki fucking jolts, turning.
It’s Matsukawa.
“Whoa,” Hanamaki manages to gasp out, shaky. Matsukawa rests a palm on Hanamaki’s forehead, tutting a little before replacing his palm with his own forehead, knocking them softly together. “You seem fine,” he murmurs, “sort of warm though.” Hanamaki pales. Then he turns red, fierce and very, very quickly. “Um,” he starts. He had a point here somewhere. Matsukawa’s still leaning into him, concerned and — attentive, and. God, he’s so warm.
Hanamaki is definitely overwhelmed right now.
Kyoutani’s voice rings faint alarm bells in his head, and he pushes it aside, filed away for, later contemplation, focusing instead on the warmth on his face and neck and the burning comfort of Matsukawa’s hand as he steadies Hanamaki’s shoulder. Hanamaki fixates all his focus into that hand, the heat seeping into his shirt and breathes.
“Hey, Mattsun?”
“Mm?”
Hanamaki rolls his shoulders a little, meeting Matsukawa’s eyes. His temperature seems to have settled somewhat, and he curls his fingers around Matsukawa’s hand on his shoulder, gentle, before setting it back against Matsukawa’s side. Then he very firmly flicks Matsukawa’s forehead.
“I can’t believe you’re putting us through practice again. Look, I’m feeling heartburn already.”
For good measure, he huffs. “Idiot.”
Matsukawa smiles. He taps two fingers twice against Hanamaki’s forehead, much less forcefully. “You worked hard, huh? Good work.”
With that, he turns back to the drills — they’re doing receives, now — and Hanamaki pauses for a beat. Then he remembers.
“Did you just Uchiha Itachi me?”
Jogging after him, Hanamaki rants on. He even forgets it’s Iwaizumi he normally tries to outdo during practice. “I think someone broke Hanamaki-san,” Kindaichi worries, lips turned down. Watari laughs. “Well, it was gonna happen sooner or later probably.”
Kunimi rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling a little.“Watari-san,” he says gravely, “please don’t encourage them.”
Matsukawa shoots Hanamaki a text later that night.
makki makki let down your hair. and by hair i mean open your window
✓ Received 9.28 PM
like, now. also hurry up if u don't mind
✓ Received 9.28 PM
Hanamaki stares at the messages. He reads them. Then he reads them again. Well, whatever, he thinks, moving to open his window.
Looking down, Matsukawa stands under his window, phone clutched in one hand, an armful of cream puffs in the other. Hanamaki closes his window. Opens it. Matsukawa’s still there.
that’s kinda rude don't u think
✓ Received 9.30 PM
mattsun what the fuck
✓ Delivered 9.30 PM
also is that a cream puff bouquet. u asshole
✓ Delivered 9.30 PM
…where did u even find that
✓ Delivered 9.31 PM
Matsukawa’s reply is almost immediate.
why don't u come down and see ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
✓ Received 9.32 PM
no but srsly its hard to text with one hand get over here
✓ Received 9.33 PM
Hanamaki is tempted to just leave him there and see what happens. But — the cream puffs. And honestly, Hanamaki’s kinda curious what else Matsukawa’s here for. They weren’t sleeping over tonight, after all. Maybe he wanted someone to come with him for a midnight snack again.
Shaking his head, Hanamaki opens the door. Matsukawa offers him the puffs as he approaches, which Hanamaki graciously receives.
“So,” he begins, “to what do I owe this visit today, hmm?”
Sampling a cream puff, Hanamaki discovers they’re quite delicious, if a little chewy. Did he make them himself…?
A smudge of cream gets caught on the tip of his nose and Hanamaki pouts, trying to stretch his tongue high enough to lick it off. Matsukawa sighs, exasperated and fond, wiping it off for him with his thumb. “Here,” he says, offering the thumb back to Hanamaki. Absentmindedly, Hanamaki licks it back off. “Thanks.”
Then he blinks.
“Wait,” he says. “Shit, wait. Was that supposed to be romantic just then?”
“ — Well.” Matsukawa clears his throat. “You tell me, I guess?” He shrugs.
He’s totally lying, Hanamaki seethes, realising belatedly that it’s true. Once upon a time, Hanamaki thinks he remembers looking at Matsukawa without wanting to, to — touch him all the time. Hog his attention. Steal his food. Hanamaki can’t really remember how long ago that was. It’s even harder to remember when Matsukawa started letting Hanamaki have, well, all of that. Oh. Matsukawa looks at him, eyes half-lidded and face blank, the way he does when really he’s probably screaming internally.Not that Hanamaki’s ever heard Matsukawa scream. Briefly, he considers it’s something he might like to hear, under, particular circumstances, maybe. Oh. Oh. He doesn’t even have to hear Yahaba and Kyoutani to realise that, hell, he’s an idiot.
“Shit,” he says. “Um. Was I supposed to buy the snacks tonight?”
Matsukawa groans, and it honestly sounds kind of pained. Smiling a little, Hanamaki decides to give in. He admits he loses this battle, but ultimately, he probably wins the war. Both of them will, together.
Gross. Mattsun’s totally rubbing off on me.
Grabbing a cream puff from his bouquet (there’s even a fucking ribbon wrapped around it, Hanamaki marvels) he pushes it against Matsukawa’s lips. “Open up.” Looking more confused than blank, Matsukawa doesn’t move, so really Hanamaki’s just smushed a perfectly tasty cream puff on his face. Hanamaki sighs. “Damn it.”
Leaning in, Hanamaki licks the cream off, deliberately slow. He also purposely keeps his gaze lowered, batting his lids a bit like how this originally goes down in movies. Matsukawa laughs, nudging Hanamaki away from a minute. “Are you trying to seduce me? I kinda thought that’d feel sexier,” he tells Hanamaki. He shrugs. “Guess the movies are wrong.”
“Piss off,” Hanamaki says. He’s honestly sort of offended. “You’re not my Prince Charming.”
“But what if you’re mine?”
Hanamaki is horrified. And I just gave this closet romantic my first kiss. God. Matsukawa is bad for his health, and his dignity, and, and — his heart, fuck. He’s also maybe, kinda, just a little romantic.
…Only a little, though.
“Piss off,” Hanamaki repeats, helplessly leaning in. He’s trying to kiss Matsukawa but Matsukawa’s still laughing a bit and Hanamaki himself is smiling too hard to do anything but, like, beam into Matsukawa’s mouth, damn. “Finally,” Matsukawa breathes, tilting Hanamaki’s head to kiss him properly. Hanamaki’s too busy to reply.