Work Text:
"Did you get chocolates from Yamada-kun too?"
"Cookies! You got chocolate?"
"I got cake."
"A whole cake?!"
"Mhm! Well, just a little one."
Samatoki practically could have ground his teeth to dust as he stomped past another trio of girls in the hallway, chattering happily about chocolates from Yamada-kun this and cake from Yamada-kun that. It was the fifth or sixth such conversation he'd overheard in the span of a week.
During lunch. In the halls. At the vending machines.
It was inescapable.
Just what the fuck was Ichiro trying to do?
Samatoki had never taken him for a womanizer. They were third-years in high school now, and had known each other since they met and became fast friends at their middle school entrance ceremony. In all that time, Samatoki had never heard Ichiro talk about girls.
And now he was giving chocolates, cookies, and cakes out to everything in a skirt that moved?
What the fuck.
On some level, a rational level, Samatoki knew he could have just asked Ichiro about it. Kicked the leg of his chair in class, got his attention, and asked. But on a much stronger level, he didn't want to hear it.
If Ichiro really was trying to get a girlfriend, or like a fucking hundred girlfriends? Samatoki didn't want to know. He didn't want to stop walking home with Ichiro after baseball practice every day, didn't want to stop meeting up with Ichiro over the weekends, didn't want to stop dropping by Ichiro's part-time job during slow periods to chat and maybe flirt a bit.
Nothing would change, as long as he didn't hear it. Right?
Of course, that was a moot point anyway, because Samatoki couldn't go anywhere without fucking hearing about it.
And Ichiro was a perceptive guy. It was only a matter of time before he noticed Samatoki's sulk.
"Alright, enough," Ichiro said, when he came up to Samatoki's room for an emergency Sunday study session. Nemu had had to let him in; Samatoki had been pitching too much of a fit to even answer the front door. "What the hell is up with you, Samatoki? You've been in a bad mood all week."
Samatoki nearly grimaced. He'd only started sulking at the start of the week. Ichiro must have noticed right away and decided to give him time, space, just the way he knew Samatoki usually liked.
Sensitive, thoughtful bastard.
"Did I do something?" Ichiro asked. His voice was softened by worry now, and a little fuzzy with nerves, as if he thought Samatoki's bad mood really was his fault.
Which, for once, it was.
Samatoki glowered down at the notebook he had open on the low table in his room. "You sure the fuck are trying."
"Huh?"
"To do something," Samatoki continued at a low mutter. "Or someone."
"Huh?!"
When Samatoki finally lifted his head, just to flicker a glance at Ichiro, he found Ichiro sitting across from him with the most genuinely baffled expression imaginable. Like he really didn't know what Samatoki was getting at. Like… Samatoki might really have gotten the wrong idea.
Samatoki gave a slow, cautious blink. "…the chocolates, dipshit."
Ah. There it was. A widening of Ichiro's eyes, a tensing of his shoulders. A guilty little twitch of his lips. Samatoki knew all his tells; he'd hit on something after all.
"The cookies, the cakes." Samatoki spat out each word, unable to stop now that he'd started. "I mean, it's whatever. You can do what you want, who you want. Never took you for the playboy type is all."
Just like that, the utter bafflement was back. Ichiro blinked once, then again, and again.
"Pardon?" he asked, in the end. "Who's a playboy?"
"Oh, I don't fucking know, Ichi. Maybe the 'Yamada-kun' who's been giving sweets to every girl who breathes?"
"Jiro?"
"What?"
"Jiro," Ichiro repeated. "He's been bringing a lot of sweets to school lately. He must be sharing with his friends."
For a solid minute, Samatoki was able to do nothing besides his best impression of a dying fish.
There was… more than one Yamada-kun at their school. More than a hundred, in fact. It had just never once occurred to Samatoki that the sweets could have come from anyone but Ichiro. All the girls who'd gotten them looked so excited to have them, after all. And what would get them so excited, besides getting sweets from the most gorgeous Yamada-kun alive?
Samatoki was, admittedly, a bit biased on that count.
And Jiro was fairly popular too.
"I may be stupid," Samatoki whispered.
Ichiro arched his brows, visibly amused. "Yeah?"
"But what the hell has Jiro got so many sweets for?!"
There it was again. That little twitch of Ichiro's lips.
He was still hiding something.
"I've… um…" Ichiro thunked his elbows onto the table between them and half-hid his face in his hands. "I want to… give Valentine's Day chocolates to someone this year. So I've been trying out all sorts of recipes. We can't eat that many sweets, though, so Jiro's been helping by taking some to his friends."
Oh.
Oh.
To Samatoki's credit, he got it this time. He got the right idea right away. He caught the pink flush that rose in Ichiro's cheeks, peeking out from behind his fingers. He caught the nervous dart of Ichiro's eyes, towards him, as though to check his reaction.
Samatoki didn't—couldn't, really—hide the grin that had unfurled across his face. And he didn't even try to resist the urge to tease, "That so? Why haven't I been getting any extras, then?"
"Are you really going to make me…" Ichiro gave an exasperated sigh before dropping his hands, a helpless smile on his own lips. Like he knew he was busted now, and like he didn't really mind. "Well, if you must know."
"I must."
"It would… defeat the purpose of practicing, to give the test batches… to the person I'm trying to perfect them for."
There was still a month left until Valentine's Day, and Ichiro was already working so hard on chocolates. On making something perfect. For Samatoki.
He really was a sensitive, thoughtful bastard.
Cute, too.
Cute as hell.
"The person you're trying to perfect them for is going to kiss you now."
"The person I'm trying to perfect them for got a 31 on his last science quiz. He is not getting anywhere near me until he finishes these worksheets I brought."
Yeah, no. Fuck that.
Samatoki curled his fingers over the too-long sleeves of his sweater and lifted one hand to his lips, giving Ichiro a downright coquettish look over the tops of his knuckles.
Ichiro blinked, groaned, and gave in.