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On the backyard porch of his home, Hanamaki hands him a can of coffee, sly smile and twinkling eyes when he says in the most casual of ways, “Happy Birthday, Matsukawa.”
He takes the damn 100 yen can, the aluminum warm in his hands. “I know I said not to make a big deal out of my birthday,” he starts, shaking it idly. “But really? Coffee? I hope you didn’t give Yahaba the same thing.”
“Nah, I treated him to lunch.”
“And not me?” Matsukawa hits him on the arm with the can. “Best friend of the year. Ten out of ten.”
Hanamaki heaves a dramatic sigh. “So finicky, in your old age.”
“Still younger than you,” he reminds.
“Crusty, cranky, ancient man.” Hanamaki reaches behind him from where he sits, and slides out a white box between them. “A cake,” he announces, “for your bitter, old soul.”
Matsukawa nods solemnly. “So you’re going to kill me on my birthday. Good to know.”
“My dad helped me this time, it’s not gonna kill you,” he assures, taking the cake out of the box with the utmost care. It looks appetizing at least, very innocent in its white frosting and strawberry topping. It could almost pass for bakery made, with the exception of his name written in Hanamaki’s nearly unreadable icing scrawl.
“How many tries did it take to get it to look this good?”
Hanamaki shrugs as he dumps out the rest of the contents from the box, candles and matches. “I messed up the batter a couple of times so we had to make another trip to the store.”
He trains his gaze onto Hanamaki while he’s distracted with lighting the cake. Hanamaki is rambling on about something, about batter disasters and flour clouds, the way he does when he’s excited, words blurring together across ends and beginnings. The late sunlight streams through the gaps of tree branches, scatters across the ground in golden mosaics.
Hanamaki glances up at him and beams, firefly glow of the candles flickering across his face, stray sunlit patches in his hair and Matsukawa doesn’t know where to keep his eyes, torn between staring and breaking away.
Fortunately, Hanamaki makes the decision for him, fingers brushing over his rough knuckles.
“This is the part where you make a wish and blow.”
“Now, let’s not get too hasty—“
“I meant the candles you bastard.”
He doesn’t make a retort for once, closes his eyes instead. The wishing is always the most difficult part; he never finds himself wanting for much. He’s got a roof over his head, food, a good family, supportive friends—
Friends like his dumb, hardworking team. Like Oikawa and Iwaizumi and the biggest nerd on the face of the earth. Like familiar slender fingers and cropped, dyed hair, sharp grey eyes and terrible, snorting laughter that’s cute no matter how much he denies it. What a disaster , Matsukawa notes to himself, as he leans down and blows out the flames with nothing specific in his mind but the remnants of gold and peach behind his eyelids. An absolute disaster , he adds, when he opens his eyes to Hanamaki clapping, all affection in his gaze.
“You sure took your time.”
“Just wishing with all my heart that this cake won’t kill me.”
Hanamaki fakes a punch to his chest. “You asshole.”
“Pisslord.”
“Dickwad.”
“Soggy cereal.”
“Leftover pizza crust.”
“Wet gum under the bus seat.”
“Sweaty sock pile.”
“Tooru’s dinner special.”
“You’re terrible ,” Hanamaki stutters out between peals of laughter, trying to muffle it with the back of his hand before the awful snorting starts. A futile attempt. “Iwaizumi got food poisoning from that,” he gasps and Matsukawa stares at his shaking shoulders and blotchy cheeks, reddened from his giggling fit.
The hands resting in his lap reach up to smooth over Hanamaki’s jaw line.
“…Matsukawa?”
What a horrible, apocalyptic disaster.
“Hey, Matsu—“
“I love you,” Matsukawa says, too carefree, too caught up in the golden lights and the gentle cadence of their banter. In his hands, Hanamaki stills. The remnants of his laughter die down, smile replaced by a slack jaw, the barest of pinks dusting across his face, his ears. It takes a few moments, silence punctuated by nothing but the rustle of trees and the quickening pound of his heartbeat in his ears. Whatever comfortable pace they had set starts crumbling in him, and he jerks his palms away, mouth open and ready to recant— as a friend of course —but Hanamaki cuts him off.
“Close your eyes.”
He blinks back in surprise. “Taka-"
“Issei ,” Hanamaki says with the slightest of wavers in his voice. “Close them.”
His breath leaves him just as the last of the syllables of his name trails off in the air. Maybe he’s losing all important vital functions. It’s not normal for lungs to suddenly collapse, or heartbeat to be on the verge of cardiac arrest. Dying, probably. He really can’t tell. Isn’t this what you do when you’re about to kiss someone? Matsukawa lets himself hope, as he complies, anticipation coiling in his chest like a metal spring.
One second, two, five passes and something nudges at his lips, and he realizes belatedly that it’s a fork and takes a bite, trying to swallow his bitter disappointment. The cake is overly sweet on his tongue, like Hanamaki quadrupled the sugar amount in whatever recipe he used. It almost sticks in his throat. He thinks of Hanamaki in his father’s apron, flour stained and burned fingers, mixing up salt and sugar because he’s too impatient and Matsukawa decides that it’s the best cake he’s ever eaten.
Then there are hands gripping his shoulder, a weight leaning on his chest, and something warm against his mouth. Hanamaki coaxes him closer and Matsukawa can’t help but get caught up in the motion, palms settling on Hanamaki’s hip and the small of his back like its home. He doesn’t dare open his eyes because fantasies and birthday wishes are so short-lived. He savors, instead, the smell of Hanamaki’s cotton polo and the pads of his fingers skating across his neck, the shaved hairs on his nape.
Hanamaki is first to pull away, pressing his nose to Matsukawa’s cheek. Matsukawa allows himself to see his friend, eyes fluttering open. Hanamaki is a solid weight underneath his palms, skin warm and tips of ears hot enough to match his hair.
“You had frosting on your lip,” Hanamaki whispers in his ear.
Matsukawa roughly musses up his hair.
Letting something out between a shout and a squeal, Hanamaki recoils, arms up in a call for mercy. Matsukawa pitches forward and their weights send them down, Hanamaki’s back to the floor, Matsukawa laying heavily, ungracefully on top of him. He chances a glance from where his head is on Hanamaki’s chest. Stray pink hairs stick up in all directions like little antennas, and he can’t help the fond tug on his lips as he reaches up, tries to smooth one down.
“You’re terrible.” Hanamaki swats at his hand. He’s pouting, of course he is. Matsukawa huffs a small laugh, buries his face in the crook of his neck.
“I can feel your smug grin. Stop that. You’re terrible.”
“Did you really feed me cake just so you could use that line, try to be smooth—“
“Shut up, you’re terrible .”
He props himself up on his elbows, stares down at Hanamaki, at his flushed cheeks, the furrow of his eyebrows, the downward pull of his lips. The view does nothing to alleviate his racing heart.
“Why?” he asks, the burning question of the moment because it seems a little too good to be true, too well timed to be real, the habit of squashing his own hopes before they hurt him more too familiar to ignore. Hanamaki frowns back up at him, the split second of it nearly makes Matsukawa jerk away but a smile quickly replaces it. His eyes soften when he reaches up to flick Matsukawa on the forehead.
“Because ,” he begins like it’s an undeniable truth of the world, “I love you too. You asshole.” He stacks on the last bit for good measure. Romance was never really their thing anyway.
Matsukawa returns his smile. “Bastard.”
“Asswipe.”
“Douche canoe.”
“Dipshit.”
“A gigantic disaster,” he adds in the most casual of ways.
Hanamaki nods like there’s nothing he could agree with more.
“Guess I’m your disaster now.”