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Every winter, Samatoki got sick. It was never too serious, just a three-day cold, but it always left him miserable and, frankly speaking, bitchy. In a cute way, of course.
This had been going on for as long as Ichiro could remember. When they were little, Ichiro would usually catch Samatoki's cold too. He couldn't be dissuaded from sticking to Samatoki like glue, even when Samatoki was all sniffly and snotty.
Ichiro was much more mindful of germs these days, if only because he couldn't very well take care of a sick Samatoki if he got sick too.
But he was also determined to see a year when Samatoki simply didn't get sick.
"This is going to be the year," Ichiro muttered, mostly to himself, as he wrapped an extra thick and cozy scarf around Samatoki's neck. "You are not getting sick this year."
It was their last year of high school, their last year as neighbors before college tore them… well, no, college wouldn't tear them apart at all. They were planning to go to the same university, and to live together once there.
But it was still the last winter of their adolescence, and Ichiro was going to make damn sure Samatoki made it through without so much as a sniffle.
He'd gotten up bright and early on the first day of the first cold snap of the year, hurrying next door with a scarf, a coat, a thermos of honey lemon ginger tea. The cold wasn't going to get anywhere near Samatoki this year, if Ichiro had anything to say about it.
"You know just being cold isn't what makes you catch a cold, yeah?" Samatoki complained. He was standing in the middle of his bedroom, where Ichiro had caught him and started dressing him practically as soon as he rolled out of bed.
"Can't hurt to stay warm," Ichiro insisted, zipping the puffy down jacket he'd brought all the way up to Samatoki's chin, under the scarf. "Okay. Hands."
"I am not wearing any fucking mittens."
They'd had this argument last year. Samatoki's hands got cold way too easily, but he was too much of a cool guy, or whatever, for the awesome Badtz-Maru mittens Ichiro had gotten him.
Ichiro had figured Samatoki wouldn't change his mind; he'd come prepared.
"Hands," he repeated, holding out one of his own. "You'll like these, I promise."
Samatoki eyed him warily, but did eventually offer up one of his own hands.
Ichiro reached into the pocket of his own coat and fished out the gloves he'd brought. Brand new, soft and supple. They'd cost him a whole month's pay from his part-time job, but he'd caught Samatoki eying them at the shop one afternoon, which was more than enough to make the price tag worth it.
"Ichi, what…" Samatoki's eyes widened a notch, with clear recognition, as Ichiro slid the first glove on. "…you remembered."
Ichiro ducked his head, letting his own scarf come up to hide the flush that threatened to rise in his cheeks. "Other hand."
Samatoki obliged without pause this time, letting Ichiro put the other glove on him. They were a good fit, but Samatoki—Samatoki's gorgeous hands—looked good in anything.
Ichiro found himself holding on to Samatoki's hand for a second too long once the glove was on, absently smoothing his fingers over Samatoki's knuckles, before clearing his throat and moving to let go.
But Samatoki curled his fingers just then, just before Ichiro could drop his own hands away, and held him back.
"You're gonna make someone a great wife one day," Samatoki murmured.
Ichiro breathed a laugh, his scarf catching his breath and washing it over his cheeks, making them burn even hotter. "Mm. And is 'someone' in the room with us right now?"
He'd meant for it to sound a lot more like a joke than it did. Sure, he and Samatoki acted like they were half-married already; Ichiro wasn't oblivious to that. But he'd still never found the nerve to actually ask Samatoki out, to actually take that step to make things official between them. It was scary, to think there was a chance—any chance, however minuscule—that that step could break what they had.
But one day, one of them would need to be brave.
And maybe this was that day, sneaking up to them with no fanfare, just the quiet inevitability of something meant to be.
"Yeah." Samatoki squeezed Ichiro's hand a little harder, meeting Ichiro's gaze with a fond, warm smile—unshakable, unbreakable in its adoration—when Ichiro finally lifted his head. "Yeah, Ichi. Someone is."