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The sunlight is much gentler in the winter than it is in the summer. This, of course, is a result of the Earth’s 23.5° tilt on its axis, and Japan, being an island nation in the Northern hemisphere, is subject to bitter winds and sheets of snow and a less concentrated glow of sunlight from the months of December to March.
Even so, and even with a few months of living in big bustling Tokyo under his belt, a memory floats to the forefront of Motoharu’s mind: Summer. Cicadas. The remnants of his grape popsicle running down his fingers, sticky and sweet. He must have been six, must have just decided that he was getting bored of watching obaa-chan water the lush greenery in their backyard. Must have wondered if they even needed water, anyway, since they looked healthy enough already. And then realized that the guts of his popsicle were dotting purple into the dry clumps of dirt at his feet.
It didn’t take long for the ants to come rushing in, nearly piling atop each other in their mad dash for the sugar. Motoharu remembers watching the hordes of them swarming the juice; remembers placing his popsicle stick down, too, for a little extra dessert for them. Ants everywhere, clamoring for space all around Motoharu. Not so different from the citizens of Tokyo, rushing, clamoring, searching for opportunity.
Motoharu readjusts his umbrella to his left hand. He forgot his gloves at home this morning. His hands have been taking turns in the warm solace of his pockets. Unfortunate. If only it wasn’t snowing.
He’s following the curve of a bridge when he spots them. He’s a little distracted watching the five lanes of traffic below, curving through the intersection. The white dotted lines on the asphalt are replaced by lines of snow where the vehicles’ paths hadn’t quite melted it. About a story and a half above the roads is this bridge, wide and cobblestoned. The snow here has settled into the cracks between the stone squares. Even nature bends to the structure and discipline of Tokyo’s might. Motoharu is glad to have found a home in a city like this.
The two of them— Takayuki and Hayate— are leaning against the railing of the bridge as they talk. Motoharu’s gaze follows the path of a delivery truck carefully making its way through the intersection. Takayuki and Hayate’s eyes follow it, too, until it disappears below them. Then Hayate startles at something Takayuki says.
“Eh? You didn’t like it, Mima-san?”
Motoharu deftly side-steps a family of four and tries to get the attention of the two men. It’s a fruitless endeavor, though by now Motoharu has cottoned onto this fact. Takayuki is hard to distract when he’s rigid with focus. Hayate is prone to drowning in his thoughts. Put them together and it’s near impossible to break into their brick-walled sanctuary.
“The trailers gave a really different image of what it ended up being,” Takayuki muses. “I suppose that’s not a bad marketing gimmick, but it’s rather frustrating for audiences who came in expecting an action film and left with—”
Motoharu steps in before poor Hayate’s disappointment gives way to tears. He claps a hand across Takayuki’s shoulders. “Hi, you two. What’s going on?”
Hayate immediately goes pink, frozen in Motoharu’s headlights. “Igarashi-san! Good evening!”
The two of them had met up for dinner and a movie, Motoharu learns. Takayuki’s idea? Or Hayate’s? He can’t quite parse an answer through their recount of their Definitely-Not-A-Date, and like hell he’s going to ask so frankly. Not yet, anyway. Although maybe he can try— “What movie was it?”
He doesn’t get an answer to this question, because Hayate seems to catch onto something of more importance than Takayuki’s face: Motoharu’s umbrella. “Igarashi-san,” he says cautiously. “It stopped snowing fifteen minutes ago.”
“…Ah.”
✒️
Several lifetimes ago, Takayuki was Motoharu’s first protagonist. Recently, Motoharu has found himself penning Takayuki back into that role, and Motoharu wants to throttle him. And then maybe himself.
Several lifetimes ago, Motoharu had noted: Sleepy-looking eyes, a brooding aura, and a love for books. A cool but awkward protagonist ready to face whatever challenge was thrown their way. Not much has changed since then. He’s taller now. Wears glasses when he doesn’t have time in the morning to put in his contacts. Still blocks out the world when he’s laser-focused on something. Today it’s wiping clean a shallow but nasty gash on the outside of Hayate’s wrist. Motoharu isn’t even sure how it happened. One moment he was licking his fingers clean of pie; the next, one of Takayuki’s mason jars was shattering open on the kitchen counter. Then followed a pained gasp, and a cry: “Mima-san— I’m so sorry—”
Shun immediately went sickly-pale at the first sight of blood. Motoharu and Souma had to hastily shove him into the living room before he went into some kind of a fear-induced-coma. Motoharu tried patting some life back into Shun’s face, but it turned out that some recent promo pictures for ONIZERO’s latest album was enough to straighten out the dizzy spirals in his eyes. Thank god for small blessings— or just Souma.
Motoharu had quickly taken it upon himself to sweep all the glass away, making sure the floor was clean as Takayuki pushed Hayate’s arm under the spray of the kitchen faucet. “Keep it there until the bleeding stops,” he instructed firmly. “I’ll go grab the bandages.”
There was only so much sweeping and re-sweeping Motoharu could do without looking suspicious, and even when he rejoins Shun and Souma on the couch, he watches as surreptitiously as he can. Hayate’s leaning against the kitchen counter with his back to the sink. He’s shrinking in on himself, shoulders bowed, elbows tucked into his sides. Only his left wrist is extended because it has to be, upright in Takayuki’s firm grasp. Hayate’s brows are pinched together and his mouth is set in a wrinkled frown. Motoharu can’t tell if it’s because of the pain or mortification, although if he had to make an estimated guess, it’s a mix of both.
Motoharu watches his protagonist soothe a bandage against Hayate’s wrist. “Hayate-kun,” he says— it’s half-lip-reading on Motoharu’s end, because Shun and Souma won’t shut up about ONIZERO and, like, how Dolby Atmos surround sound is the best way to listen to their music because certain music streaming platforms totally compress the mixes, and, well, Motoharu actually agrees with all those points, but it’s ultimately an unwelcome distraction from the romance trope unfolding in the kitchen; and he has enough tact to know that he can’t get up and eavesdrop so blatantly— “Does it hurt a lot? I have some painkillers if you need them.”
“No, no.” Hayate shakes his head, looking everywhere but into Takayuki’s eyes. He stammers a bit before finally getting his words out properly. “I really am very sorry about the inconvenience, Mima-san.”
“Nothing to worry about.” Takayuki shakes his head kindly. “I have my first-aid kit stocked for emergencies just like this.”
Stupid! Stupid Takayuki! He’s ruining the mood! A scene quickly scribbles itself into 3D in Motoharu’s mind:
HAYATE:
I really am very sorry about the inconvenience, Mima-san.
TAKAYUKI places a hand on HAYATE’s cheek and leans in close, his voice a whisper. His other hand is still curled around HAYATE’s bandaged wrist, gentle and caring.
TAKAYUKI: Don’t be silly, Hayate-kun.(No, that’s out of character.)
TAKAYUKI:
You have nothing to apologize for, Hayate-kun. I’m just glad that you’re safe and sound.
HAYATE:
But— your glassware— And the mess—
TAKAYUKI:
Your well-being is the only thing that matters. You’re the most important person in the world to me.
HAYATE looks up into TAKAYUKI’s eyes. A blush rises to his cheeks. His lips tremble. His free hand reaches up and tugs at the fabric of TAKAYUKI’s shirt, pulling him closer. TAKAYUKI’s eyes glisten with understanding, and then flutter shut as he leans in to close the gap between their mouths—
Yeah, as if. Takayuki is retreating from the kitchen to go put the first aid kit back in his linen closet or bathroom or wherever the hell it came from, as far from a Feelings Realization Scene as the ocean floor is from the snow-tipped summit of Mount Fuji. Hayate’s still in the kitchen, looking absolutely miserable. Motoharu— well, he may not be able to puppeteer his protagonist exactly how he wants to, but he can still help the story along somehow.
He bounds up to meet Hayate as he emerges from the kitchen. “Hayate,” he says. He tries to inject a little extra cheer into his voice. “Can I let you in on a secret?”
Hayate blinks away a little bit of his misery in exchange for curiosity. “A secret?”
Motoharu ducks their heads together and lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You wouldn’t believe how many of those mason jars Takayuki breaks every month.”
“W-What? Really?”
“Oh, yeah. He sterilizes them in hot water to make pickles and the like, you know? And then he never remembers to wait for them to cool down enough. And then, of course, they shatter.” The furrow between Hayate’s brows starts to clear. “Not to mention,” Motoharu continues, “the casualties while dish-washing. Glass is deceptively slippery! Wouldn’t you agree, Takayuki?”
Takayuki startles at the sudden question. “What was that?”
“I was just telling Hayate about how you single-handedly keep the mason jar industry afloat!” Motoharu laughs. “And that he doesn’t need to feel too bad about breaking just one, haha!”
“Ah.” Takayuki’s eyebrows jolt upwards in surprise. “Were you feeling bad about that, Hayate-kun?”
Hayate shrugs non-commitally and mumbles out some kind of an answer. Motoharu feels a little bad about putting him on the spot, but, counterpoint: he needs to nudge his two precious protagonists together somehow.
“No need.” Takayuki shakes his head, then leans forward— what, a kiss?!— no, to pat the back of Hayate’s head reassuringly. “Everyone has slip-ups from time to time. Even adults.”
Motoharu is a little too busy calming his racing heart at first to notice. For a moment there, it really did look like Takayuki was leaning in for something intimate, but that’s likely just Motoharu’s own overactive imagination warping reality. But he finally takes a peek at Hayate, and when he does, he’s met with a great sign: Hayate’s face is bright, bright pink, and his mouth is stretched into a bashful smile.
✒️
“Do you spend a lot of time with Hayate-kun?”
Motoharu nearly shatters his spine with how quickly he turns to look at Takayuki. He gets a crick in his neck anyway, which is probably worse. “What do you mean?”
This cafe is a more recent find. Motoharu’s fairly proud of this discovery, a little place tucked away beneath a canopy of oaks, easy to miss if you’re even a hair too absentminded. The way he discovered it was nothing short of humiliating— a patron opened the door to leave and Motoharu, a little too preoccupied with something on his phone screen, marched on forward right into the glass with a horrible, resounding shudder. The pride came later, when he opted to leave out the exact details of this discovery and brought Souma along when he complained about his favorite cafe getting too busy to get work done effectively. Souma was instantly captivated, and so was Shun, and so was Hayate, and so was Takayuki.
It’s rather fun to work side by side with Takayuki again, what, twenty years out from first becoming acquainted with each other. Although, Motoharu has effectively put a firm stop to any progress on his new outline now, what with Takayuki’s question and all.
“Well, you and Hayate-kun are neighbors, aren’t you?” Takayuki’s taken his glasses off to tilt his head back and put in his dry-eye eyedrops. He blinks a few times to let them settle and slides his glasses back on. When he looks at Motoharu, his face betrays nothing but simple curiosity. “I’d imagine you two meet up quite frequently.”
Motoharu is reminded of an incident that happened just last weekend, when he really, really, really couldn’t get a jar of honey-lemon preserve open and showed up at Hayate’s door in his slippers and asked if he could take a crack at it. He couldn’t, not for a while. It took several minutes of tapping and a brief prayer before the lid finally hissed loose. Motoharu glances at Takayuki’s forearms as casually as he can— and they’re covered in dark blue wool. Right. It’s winter. He guesses Takayuki is pretty strong anyway, tall and lean and well-toned. Disciplined enough to work out regularly, to eat regular balanced meals. Motoharu and Hayate have had almost too many impromptu rendezvouses at the conbini picking up pre-packaged meals and cup ramen, though Hayate’s hauls are typically larger than Motoharu’s.
“Very often, yeah,” Motoharu admits. Then a lightbulb blinks to life above his head. He catches it in his fist. “You know, that kid’s diet is 50% microwave meals.”
“Is that so?”
“Oh, definitely. He’d really benefit from some cooking lessons.”
Cooking lessons! Oh, Motoharu, you genius. He can picture it now: A domestic scene. The nervous jitters of a young man, inviting the man he admires into his heart and his home. Shoulders brushing side by side in their small kitchen. Fingers touching— on purpose! shouts a voice in Motoharu’s head that sounds very much like Shun.
“Cooking lessons,” Takayuki muses. He readjusts his glasses. “Aren’t those a bit pricey for a student?”
Motoharu— seriously, holy shit— barely contains himself. In a parallel universe Takayuki would now be dead on the floor and Motoharu would promptly be arrested. The headlines would be everywhere: FAMOUS YOUNG AUTHOR THROTTLES CHILDHOOD BEST FRIEND WHEN CUPID-RELATED SCHEMES GO AWRY.
“No, dude,” Motoharu sighs. He wishes Shun really was here, so he could kick Takayuki’s ass for him. “Cooking lessons from you.”
✒️
Motoharu sets aside the entirety of the next weekend to outline and plan his next novel, and by Sunday evening he’s going completely stir-crazy. There are only so many conversations he can have with Uni before he feels like his brain is melting out through his ears, so he puts on a nicer pair of pants and jogs over to Hayate’s apartment.
The plan is to keep Hayate company while he vacuums, or maybe distract Hayate from his homework long enough that he’s chased out before dinner. Not much of a plan at all, really, but: see above.
Hayate’s wearing an apron. This in and of itself is not a red flag. Hayate really doesn’t cook much, but aprons are great for catching stray splatters of oil when your fried egg decides to spontaneously combust in its pan for no reason. The red flag, or flags, plural, really, are as follows:
- The apron is streaked with flour and bits of wet batter. Is he deep-frying something? Doesn’t he need parental supervision for that?
- After a moment, Motoharu catches a whiff of dashi— not the store-bought kind; the one made from scratch, with kombu and bonito flakes, though Motoharu didn’t know Hayate had ever cooked with store-bought dashi, either.
- Hayate’s face is bright pink and distressed in that very particular way it gets when he’s around Takayuki.
The confirmation comes almost immediately. Takayuki himself emerges from behind Hayate with a pleasant smile on his face. “Motoharu, hi,” he says. “I’ve been helping Hayate-kun meal-prep. Are you coming in?”
ABSOLUTELY NOT, Motoharu’s brain screams.
PLEASE SAVE ME, Hayate’s face shrieks.
“Um,” Motoharu says faintly. He’s a terrible Cupid. He should’ve known— somehow, telepathically— that these two were alone together! What kind of an author loses track of their protagonists so easily?
“Um,” he repeats. “Actually, I’m in the middle of something myself, so I need to head out now.”
“What? You’re the one who came here, Motoharu—”
“Mima-san,” Hayate cuts in politely. “Could you make sure the chicken doesn’t overcook?”
The moment Takayuki disappears into the kitchen, Hayate’s face twists into an expression of such visceral dread that Motoharu would be impressed if that exact same emotion wasn’t stabbing him through his ribcage. “Igarashi-san,” he hisses desperately. “Please stay for dinner.”
The human part of Motoharu wants to take pity on this poor young man who’s clearly in over his head and completely overwhelmed by the presence of Takayuki— gentle but firm, watchful but forgiving, kind and handsome and lovely Takayuki, yeah that’s good, what a captivating leading man, what an absolute heartthrob— in his home and is finding it difficult to breathe around the incessant pitter-patter of his heart. The writerly part of Motoharu has already taken the reins and has decided that these two lovebirds do not, no, all caps, DO NOT! need a third wheel to shatter the romantic tension.
Motoharu gestures for Hayate to come in closer, and cups a hand around his mouth as he whispers. “If you need me to stay because you find Takayuki so irresistibly handsome that your heart is beating out of your chest, blink twice.”
Hayate is frozen for a moment, surprised by Motoharu’s genius insight. Then he firmly blinks twice.
There is only one thing left for Igarashi Motoharu-sensei to do. He turns on his heel and immediately leaves Hayate’s apartment.
✒️
Me
hayate are you still breathing? www
Ichikura Hayate
stop teasing me
Me
ok ok sorry~~
Ichikura Hayate
[8734.mp4]
✒️
[Video Description: It is a four-second-long clip that opens on Hayate eyeing the camera curiously. “Why are you taking a picture of me?” he asks.
“I figured Motoharu would ask,” comes the voice of Takayuki behind the camera. Hayate is putting Tupperware containers filled to the brim with food away. Then the camera pans to the small dining table, where two freshly-cooked meals are plated and ready to eat. Terrible framing. It’s abundantly clear that Takayuki didn’t realize he was recording a video. “I hope you’ll enjoy several days’ worth of this, Hayate-kun.”
Hayate’s laugh is further from the camera now, a little warped, and here Motoharu has to raise the volume on his phone to the max to catch his words: “I would never get sick of your cooking, Mima-san.”]
✒️
There’s a student gallery showing at Souma’s vocational school opening on Thursday that Souma invites them all to, so of course they go. The displays start in one room and then bleed out into the adjacent hallway. They all had one full semester to work on this project, Souma tells them, and the last week and a half has been a mess of installation and frantic printing and reprinting when the colors turned out a shade too off between their screens and the printers.
Souma even has business cards printed, and Motoharu admires the glossy sheen of it under the bright studio lights in the gallery before tucking it into his wallet.
Shun bolts to the snack table first. He piles his plate high with food and tucks a small bottle of water into his pocket. Hayate opts to fill two small paper cups with tea and gives one of them to Takayuki— then remembers to ask if anyone else wants tea. Motoharu hides a snicker behind his fist.
Souma’s graphic design department hosts a range of characters, and by the time they leave, Motoharu’s wallet is bursting at the seams with everyone’s business cards. There’s Mina, who is dressed from head to toe in all-black, and all the same shade and sheen of blue-black, too, very impressive. Her project is some kind of abstract, psychological thing that reminds Motoharu of The Matrix. There’s a boy called Taki who’s even shorter than Souma, with even wider and prettier eyes than Souma, who has made a project that is essentially a love letter to the horror genre. Hinako, a girl dressed in the most tightly pressed business suit that Motoharu’s ever seen, who’s made a project about the history of the gyaru subculture. There’s not a spot of makeup on her face.
Souma stays behind afterwards to chat with his classmates and professors, and Shun has an exam coming up that he has to study for, so it’s just Motoharu third-wheeling again. Actually third-wheeling this time, not just bolting the moment he realizes he’s walked into something tender. Although there’s more space to breathe here as the three of them make their way through the bitterly-cold night, more space for something more casual that Motoharu can fit himself into without being too much of an intrusion. (But he is an intrusion. That, he’s well aware of as Hayate avoids Takayuki’s eyes with dusting of pink on his cheeks (Or is that because of the cold? The fun comes from the answer being unknown, anyway.) but his incessantly curious brain is starving, dying to know how these two act around each other in such an intimate setting when there’s an audience present.)
They’re seated at a table in the corner. Motoharu asks if they want to drink. Shun shrugs and agrees because he has no morning classes the next day. Takayuki, meanwhile, politely declines. Morning meeting or not, drinking on a weeknight isn’t worth the risk. Motoharu orders two draft beers and is grateful for his wonderfully flexible work schedule.
“You like karaage, right, Hayate-kun?” Takayuki asks, eyes scanning the menu. Almost— almost practiced, purposeful, deliberately avoiding looking at Hayate, if Motoharu lets the wheels of his mind spin, and spin they do.
Hayate startles. His fingers go lax against the cardstock of the menu. “What? How do you know that?”
Takayuki finally lifts his eyes to meet Hayate’s perplexed gaze. Oh, here it comes—
“I listen when you talk, you know.”
BANG! CRITICAL HIT!
Motoharu can see Cupid’s bow pull back, string taut, before shooting it straight into Hayate’s heart. Hayate’s face glows a pretty pleased pink. His fingers tremble and the whole menu trembles with it. God, maybe Takayuki’s not as simple-minded in the field of romance as Motoharu once thought. Although— is this a fluke? A good author should have a handle on his characters’ motivations, but Motoharu can’t just expose Hayate’s raw, beating heart to Takayuki like that. All he can do for the time being is sit back and watch.
“You’re very observant, Mima-san.”
✒️
Hayate gets drunk.
Not so drunk that he’s falling over, but drunk enough that his words are slurring into each other. Just drunk enough that he wants to keep drinking because he doesn’t realize how drunk he is, and both Motoharu and Takayuki have to grab his arms and tell him to stop three separate times before he finally pouts and leans back in his chair.
Takayuki insists on walking him home, even though Motoharu could easily handle him. He quickly realizes just how wrong he’d been when Hayate starts unzipping his jacket and peeling it off.
“Hayate,” Motoharu says, baffled. “What are you doing?”
“I’m so hot,” Hayate groans. He’s completely red in the face, and neck, and probably all over. “And I’m all sweaty!”
“The weather is in the negatives right now,” Takayuki tries, but it’s no use. Hayate’s a very stubborn and very strong drunk. In the end it takes both of their combined strength to wrestle his jacket back onto him. Takayuki even shrugs off his own scarf and tucks it firmly around Hayate’s neck, leaning into him. They’re standing so, so close. If Hayate was even a shade more sober, he’d be a starry-eyed, stuttering mess. Takayuki, meanwhile, worriedly smooths the scarf down Hayate’s chest. So sweet. Wholly unnecessary. This! Is! Romance!
“I know you’re furious with me right now,” Takayuki says oh-so-sweetly as Hayate glares at him with the force of all the suns in the galaxy, but his eyes are pretty glazed over, so it’s more like the force of a portable reading light, “but you’ll be thanking me later.”
“No, I won’t,” Hayate grumbles into Takayuki’s scarf. “Meanie Mima-san.”
✒️
(When they reach their apartment building, Hayate has sobered up a decent amount. He shuffles shyly from foot to foot and is still staring at his sneakers when he mumbles, so quietly that it’s almost imperceptible: “Thank you for taking care of me tonight.”)
✒️
Motoharu and Takayuki spend their Saturday morning at Mawarimichi Cafe. Motoharu has a draft he has to send in, so he brings his laptop with him, along with a paperback novel or two that Takayuki might enjoy. They take a seat at a table near the front counter. Hayate pauses in his path towards them to point out some mistake on Shun’s homework (“You’ve gotta be kidding me, I thought I got that one right!” “You forgot to factor in the negative.” “GAH!”) and greets them with a pleasant smile.
Takayuki orders his usual. Motoharu scans the menu and asks for a lemon cream tea. “Is that one good, Hayate?”
“...I would imagine so. Everything here is good.”
“Haha! Asami-san must be so glad she hired you!”
Their order comes quickly. Asami-san is a fast worker. Motoharu is rereading a passage from his draft for the fifth time and wondering if it flows well or if he should just delete all one hundred words of it when Hayate slides his tea in front of him. “Enjoy.”
Motoharu gladly takes the distraction. He lifts the paper spout of the cup open and takes a careful sip of the steaming tea. “Ah, Hayate, you were right. This really hits the spot.” Then he lifts the drink towards Hayate. “Here, try it!”
Hayate starts in surprise, then shakes his head. “Eh? No, I couldn’t possibly take a sip of a customer’s order—”
“Oh, come on, we’re friends,” Motoharu insists. Hayate hesitates for another moment but ultimately relents, picking up the cup and bringing his mouth to it.
Out of the corner of Motoharu’s eye, Takayuki’s fingers make a sharp, aborted movement against the wooden grain of the table. Motoharu looks over curiously. There’s a strange, unreadable expression on Takayuki’s face as he watches Hayate take a sip from the cup— oh, Motoharu’s cup—
An indirect kiss! A Jealousy Arc! How wonderful! Motoharu is hit with such a spectacular wave of excitement that he nearly falls out of his chair. Oh, just imagine all the possibilities—
TAKAYUKI reaches up to take HAYATE’s free hand in his own. HAYATE puts MOTOHARU’s tea down and looks at him curiously. TAKAYUKI looks a little angry. When he speaks, his voice is a touch cold.
TAKAYUKI:
Hayate-kun. If you don’t mind me being a little frank, I… I don’t like seeing you give kisses to other men, even if they are indirect.
HAYATE:
Oh! Sorry…
TAKAYUKI intertwines their fingers together tightly. HAYATE blushes and hides his face with his free hand.
(Would Takayuki even be that honest? In public? Motoharu really has no idea what level of PDA Takayuki is comfortable with. Maybe he’ll try to bring it up sometime, casually. Like, hey, Takayuki, did you ever accidentally embarrass any of your high school exes in public? Or were you more of a behind-closed-doors kind of guy? Or—?)
TAKAYUKI looks a little angry as HAYATE drinks from MOTOHARU’s cup. But then his face clears and his voice takes on a terribly stiff and obviously fake-casual tone as he lifts his drink towards HAYATE.
TAKAYUKI:
Would you like to try some of my drink as well, Hayate-kun?
HAYATE:
Hot chocolate? I know what hot chocolate tastes like, Mima-san.
(FAILURE! Terrible idea, Motoharu…)
TAKAYUKI slowly stands up. He waits for HAYATE to put down MOTOHARU’s cup, then carefully places a hand on HAYATE’s elbow.
TAKAYUKI:
I’d like to ask a favor of you. Can we step out for a quick moment?
HAYATE:
Right now?
TAKAYUKI:
I’m sure Asami-san won’t mind. It’ll only take a minute.
TAKAYUKI leads HAYATE out the front door and off to the side, a short distance away from MAWARIMICHI CAFE. They pause for a moment, then TAKAYUKI gently pulls HAYATE closer. He brings his hand up and thumbs at the corner of HAYATE’s mouth. HAYATE is visibly affected by this display of intimacy, but lets TAKAYUKI continue. The breeze picks up. Sakura petals drift through the air(What, in the middle of winter? Be serious, Motoharu.) Crystalline snowflakes drift through the air and glitter in the late morning sunlight all around them. TAKAYUKI leans in further and presses their foreheads together. They stare deeply into each other’s eyes. When TAKAYUKI speaks, his voice is husky with want.
TAKAYUKI:
Hayate-kun… Would it be unreasonable to ask that your lips belong only to me?
HAYATE’s breath hitches. His eyes dart between TAKAYUKI’s. It takes him several moments to be able to answer.
HAYATE:
N-No. I want to be yours and yours only, Mima-san.
In the distance, MOTOHARU peers through the window of the cafe, desperately wanting to know what’s going on between the two—
What happens in reality is much, much more mundane than anything Motoharu dreams up. Hayate takes a sip and agrees that the tea is very good, and then leaves with literally zero fanfare. Motoharu takes another sip from his own cup and looks over to see Takayuki’s reaction to this second indirect kiss and, yeah, he definitely steals a glance at Motoharu’s mouth. His own mouth quirks downward into a frown. He takes a sip from his hot chocolate. Then he takes his glasses off, shuts his eyes, and lets out a long, deep sigh.
✒️
On nights when Hayate is struggling to focus on his homework but is reluctant to bundle up and step outside, he’ll show up at Motoharu’s place. Motoharu has come to appreciate this routine. It’s a great way for him to remember to stretch his legs, and his back, too, while he’s at it, and definitely his wrists, too, ouch—
Tonight is just like any other night. Motoharu is working in his office and Hayate is working in the living room. Motoharu cracks his neck once, twice, then steps out into the living room to get some water from the kitchen. When he drinks his fill and turns back around, Hayate is rolling his pen in between his fingers restlessly. He takes in a breath like he’s about to say something and then says nothing at all. Motoharu really hopes he doesn’t need any help with his homework, because he hasn’t done a lick of mathematics in years.
“Igarashi-san,” Hayate says finally. His voice is quiet, unsure. He looks like a sopping wet kitten. Motoharu can nearly hear all of his thoughts from here, a dull buzz of static radiating from his head. Whatever’s plaguing him is bigger than a couple of math problems, and Motoharu is getting an idea of what it might be when Hayate finally speaks.
“I don’t know if I want to confess my feelings to Mima-san.”
Motoharu sits down next to Hayate and braces his chin in his hand. “Okay. Why not?”
The pen bounces out of Hayate’s fingers and rolls across the table. He stares forlornly at it. “I’m scared that I’ll ruin a good thing. I’ll ruin our friendship with my— my feelings, and then I won’t be able to have him at all.”
Motoharu starts to say something, but Hayate isn’t done.
“And let’s say he actually does reciprocate my feelings, and we start—” Hayate worries his fingers into knots. “And then it doesn’t pan out? It doesn’t last? Mima-san’s so experienced, and I’ve never been in a relationship, and I’ll just be a little blip in his life, some silly boytoy, and—”
“Okay, whoa, Hayate.” Motoharu pries Hayate’s hands apart, tries to catch his eyes. “Hey. Look at me.”
Hayate takes in a deep, shaky breath, then slowly meets Motoharu’s gaze.
“Firstly, you’re being rather mean to yourself. Both you and I know that Takayuki would never call someone he cares about a boytoy. Secondly,” Motoharu takes in a breath, “what if it doesn’t last forever? Would that be so bad? Life doesn’t need to be a string of forevers in order to be worthwhile. Connections with people are the best catalyst for growth, no matter how banal or brief they may seem. Plus, Takayuki is the best first anyone could have.” And then, stupidly, so, so stupidly, without thinking about the obvious contextual implications, adds: “I would know.”
Hayate immediately goes ghostly white, then looks nauseous, then looks like he’s about to cry. “You— and Mima-san—?”
“Oh—” Motoharu shakes his head, frantic and panicked. This isn’t supposed to be a Miscommunications Arc! “No, Hayate, that’s not what I meant, not at all—”
✒️
“Oh, your first novel. Not—”
“Yes. Not that.”
✒️
Takayuki is pet-sitting his neighbor’s cat. He only thinks to mention it when he has all of them over for a movie night, only thinks to mention it the moment he’s opening his door, and the four men go still in the doorway when a cat comes pattering into the genkan: a calico, with a beautiful pattern of orange, black and white splattered across her coat. Her eyes are a piercing light green. She seems a little wary of Motoharu, though. Maybe she can smell Uni on him.
“What’s her name?”
“Orange Juice.”
“Haha, what?”
“She doesn’t respond to Orange. Or Juice. You have to say Orange Juice.”
“Miss Orange Juice,” Hayate whispers, eyes bright. He immediately falls into a crouch, extending a hand towards her. She sniffs his knuckles, then without hesitation, nuzzles her face into his palm. “Ah, she likes me!”
Takayuki laughs under his breath. “Of course she does,” he murmurs. “Anyone would.”
Motoharu’s seriously going to put himself in the hospital if he keeps twisting himself around so sharply. He jolts and looks around to see if anyone else heard that, but— Hayate’s still completely and utterly entranced by Orange Juice, and Shun and Souma are, for some reason, talking about how the whole vacuum-sealed six-pack look is actually super unhealthy and causes severe body image issues for men, which, yes, all true and very important, but Takayuki is— what, crushing?? on Hayate??? And Motoharu is the only person with any sense of awareness of this very pressing matter—
They put on Bullet Train, the new Hollywood one, because Shun says Aaron Taylor-Johnson is an ideal man, though this prompts some confusion from Souma. (“Isn’t his name Anya Taylor-Joy?” “No, stupid, that’s a woman!”) Hayate has brought some microwave popcorn, which he puts himself in charge of getting ready and depositing in bowls. Takayuki sets some blankets and some throw pillows down, brings out some soda and a Sapporo on Motoharu’s request.
Souma’s nose wrinkles. “Beer with popcorn?”
“You’ll get it when you’re an adult.”
“I’m an adult and I don’t get it, Motoharu.”
“Be quiet, Takayuki.”
Motoharu hasn’t watched an action movie in a while. It’s definitely a welcome thrill, though Shun groans at the bloody fights and ducks his head into Souma’s shoulder. Orange Juice hops between their laps. Motoharu has to swat her away from licking a stray drop of beer that’s rolled down the side of the can, and she mewls angrily at him and firmly deposits herself in Hayate’s lap. Hayate’s attention is immediately drawn away from the screen and into the purring little cat in his arms.
He coos at her, pets her, lets her crawl all over his shoulders and lick his hair. Motoharu’s really trying to pay attention to the movie, but it’s difficult when the boy next to him is having the time of his life with his current Enemy Number 1.
“She’s so cute,” Hayate says to— to Takayuki, who has seemingly now decided that the movie is of zero interest compared to the two cuties in front of him.
“She’s very fond of you,” Takayuki whispers back. Motoharu strains his ears to listen. God, the TV’s way too loud.
Hayate hums and continues petting Orange Juice. Then, as Motoharu tries very hard not to flagrantly stick his nose in their business, Takayuki leans in and nestles himself against the curve of Hayate’s body.
Both Motoharu and Hayate stop breathing at the same time. Motoharu manages to reach forward to grab his beer and steal a glance at them and wow, holy shit. Takayuki’s got Hayate in a backhug, basically. His chin is resting on Hayate’s shoulder. His arm is covering Hayate’s, fingers placed lightly on the back of Hayate’s forearm as he pets Orange Juice, though he’s not really petting Orange Juice anymore, on account of all the heart-stopping, blush-inducing skinship, and Orange Juice promptly leaps away.
Takayuki doesn’t, though. He moves his hand to cover the back of Hayate’s hand, or something; that’s what Motoharu has to guess from his terrible angle. Takayuki moves in closer, whispers something even more quietly into Hayate’s ear. Hayate makes a small, flustered noise in the back of his throat, and then, so bravely, turns his head towards Takayuki.
Motoharu nearly explodes, nearly crushes his beer into a crumpled mess of aluminum in his fist. Are they kissing? With their friends next to them? Oh my god, Takayuki really is a big PDA guy, and who knows how many times he kissed his exes in public back in high school and giggled as they hid their faces in his chest, but, like, that’s not important right now. Hayate and Takayuki are absolutely, definitely, so totally kissing, and the dramatic BGM and explosions on the TV are covering for them. Is Motoharu the only one who can see what’s going on? He looks over to Shun and Souma, but they’re whisper-arguing over whether Sanada Hiroyuki is sexy or not. Shun says no, because supposedly Sanada Hiroyuki is too old to be considered sexy, but Shun is literally only eighteen years old, so what the hell does he know.
Motoharu probably, like, actually has an aneurysm when Hayate puts his arms around Takayuki’s shoulders, because, oh my god, they need way more privacy if they’re going to go this far. Motoharu slams his beer down and grabs a handful of popcorn, chews noisily. Maybe that will bring them back down to earth—? But then Takayuki is slowly pulling away, stepping up and away, disappearing down the hallway. Distantly, Motoharu hears the bathroom door lock shut.
He breathes out a sigh of relief. Beside him, Hayate presses his sleeve to his mouth and tries very, very hard to slow his breathing. Thank god Shun asked to dim the lights to “get that movie-theater-feel.” Under the cover of darkness, Hayate’s face doesn’t even look discolored, though Motoharu will easily bet all his life savings that Hayate is the color of a plum.
Motoharu is dying to know. He clamps a hand onto Hayate’s shoulder. “Hayate,” he breathes. “Did you two—?”
Hayate buries his face in his hands. (Yes.)
✒️
Takayuki doesn’t mention it at all, and it’s driving Motoharu insane. Not a single mention of any kiss or anything about Hayate. Even that night, there was hardly any difference in his behavior. Hayate was a touch more pink than usual for the rest of the night. Takayuki was just as cool and composed as he would be on a typical morning commute, except for one singular, shining moment:
At the end of the night, everyone was heading home. Shun jammed his feet into his sneakers and left, soon followed by Souma. Motoharu had been crouched over in the genkan, sliding his shoes back on. He was still on high alert, of course, ears pricked up high to catch something, anything of note. Hayate was still a few steps behind him, socked feet shuffling across the hardwood. Then the footsteps paused. The wood creaked with shifting weight. Motoharu caught— the rustling of fabric, a soft exhale, and the familiar click of Takayuki’s nails against the frames of his glasses as he readjusted them. (On second thought, could it have been Hayate’s hands readjusting Takayuki’s glasses?!) By the time Motoharu finished tying his shoelaces and looked back, Hayate’s and Takayuki’s hands were just breaking apart in mid-air.
If Motoharu had been careful about it, more mindful, more observant, he might’ve caught whatever was written on Hayate’s face. But in the moment, all he could look at was Takayuki— the golden glow on his face, the sparkles behind his lenses, as if every single star in the universe came down from the sky in that moment to settle right into his eyes, shimmering and beautiful, as he looked at Hayate.
(Motoharu couldn’t have written anything better if he tried.)
Anyway, Takayuki isn’t bringing any of it up at all, so Motoharu decides he needs to swing a hammer at the whole thing and crack it wide open, himself.
The department store they’re at is huge. Racks of clothes as far as the eye can see. This is where Takayuki shops when he wants to splurge, apparently, and, actually, Motoharu has to rescind his previous statement. Takayuki may not be bringing anything up, but everything he's doing is forming a shape around what happened that night. Shopping for fancy clothes (to impress Hayate), unable to keep a smile off his face (because of Hayate), checking his phone between every single blink for a new notification (from Hayate).
Still, though, Motoharu’s muscles are aching for movement. He brings the hammer down with a bang.
“Hey, Takayuki. Are you and Hayate dating?”
Takayuki pauses, fingers freezing where he’s rifling through some flannel shirts. He considers the question. “I guess that’s one word for it.”
It. It? Like, kissing, and hand-holding, and baring your heart and soul to one another?
Motoharu chews on his bottom lip. “Give me another word for it.”
Takayuki smiles as he picks up a dark brown shirt. “I don’t know that I have one yet. It’s hard to put a name to something like that.”
“Like—” Motoharu is being so annoying right now. “— what?”
Takayuki finally lifts his eyes to meet Motoharu’s. “Aren’t you working on a romance novel? Come on, Motoharu, you know what I mean.”
✒️
Motoharu does know what Takayuki means, and fine, so maybe dating isn’t entirely the right word for whatever raw, beating thing is unfolding between Takayuki and Hayate. It’s the word everyone else will still use though, for simplicity’s sake.
“They’re dating, right?” Shun asks Souma, pointing his pencil at the two of them.
“It would be weird if they weren’t.”
It would be so weird if they weren’t. Motoharu’s up at the front counter to ask Asami-san— something, though he’s long forgotten what his question was anymore. Hayate goes over to Takayuki’s table to give him his order. Takayuki accepts it, then pulls Hayate in with nothing but his eyes. They’re like two magnets being held just far enough apart that they’re not slamming into each other, but all it would take is one small nudge in either direction for a collision to occur. Push, pull. Pull, push. Hayate’s holding onto the tray like it’s his last lifeline, a brutal white-knuckled grip against the thin wood. Takayuki reaches up— to loosen his grip, to hold his hand, Motoharu thinks, but— he slides his fingers across the back of Hayate’s hand, slides them up and under Hayate’s sleeve and lets them linger there, tracing patterns against his wrist.
Motoharu’s brain explodes behind his eyes. This is worse than if he was watching them kiss open-mouthed, tongue and heavy petting and all. This is the worst thing he’s ever seen. He shouldn’t even be seeing this, shouldn’t be watching, shouldn’t be—
“Shun.” Motoharu flicks the boy on the temple, laughing when he hisses. “Stop staring at them.”
“I’m not,” Shun lies, and goes back to doing his homework.
✒️
An hour later, Hayate takes a break. Motoharu and Takayuki both try to corner him, but Motoharu’s faster. He loops his arm around Hayate’s and does not for a single second miss the way Takayuki’s eyes hone in on their points of contact and narrow, just a little bit. It’s almost imperceptive; Motoharu only spots it because he’s looking for it, and laughs right in his face.
“I need to steal him for a bit, okay, Takayuki?”
The corner of Takayuki’s mouth twists, slightly sour. “Only for a bit. I want him back.”
The possessiveness! The drama! Hayate goes bubblegum-pink, ducking his head to hide his million-watt grin as Motoharu drags him outside.
“You two,” Motoharu says once they’re a decent-enough distance from the cafe, “are insufferable. Tell me everything.”
“Oh, he’s lovely,” Hayate immediately blurts, and continues. Takayuki calls him handsome and clever and buys him books he thinks he’ll like and wants to unspool all of Hayate’s thoughts and cling to every word. “He wants to know so much about me,” Hayate says, and his voice is filled with all the awe and wonder in the world. “He— It’s so—”
“Yeah,” Motoharu agrees. Young love. “I get it.”
“Oh, and,” Hayate adds. His voice breaks over nothing but blinding shyness. “He asked if I wanted to call him—” He goes even redder, somehow. “Takayuki.”
Motoharu nearly falls over himself at this development. “What did you say?”
“I didn’t say anything.” Hayate shakes his head. “I pretended I was asleep.”
Jaw. Drop. “You were staying the night?”
“Please don’t jump to conclusions, Igarashi-san, we were literally just sleeping, I swear.”
“Still!”
✒️
It’s not the first snow of the season, not by several weeks, but it is the heaviest.
Motoharu tucks his hair into his scarf as a light breeze starts to pick up. It’s dark out now. The snow is night-blue, starting to pile up high on the sides of the path but tamped down into slush in between everyone’s footsteps. The storefronts cast squares of light into the street, silhouetting the passersby in pale yellow. The sky is getting darker, still. It’s darker than it was before Motoharu spotted a stunning cashmere sweater in a window display and asked about it, only to realize it would drain half his bank account. To save face in front of the employees he left with a pair of wool socks (still expensive) and a gold-plated hairclip (even more expensive, but it really was very, very pretty, and he already knows which fancy parties he’ll be able to wear them to).
His arms are starting to get tired from holding all his shopping bags, so he pauses to rest on a nearby bench. He definitely needs to start working out more often. Souma probably has a good desk-workout routine, what with needing to be in front of a computer all the time for his design work. Though, if he really wants to push himself he should just ask Shun if he can join him on his runs— and, what, absolutely embarrass himself in front of a high school athlete with as much energy as the sun? Yeah, no thanks. He’d be better off having Uni get used to a leash and start taking her out for runs to keep himself accountable.
He stands up, picks his bags back up, and immediately finds himself face to face with Takayuki and Hayate. He startles violently and falls back down onto the bench. He stares up at them. “How long have you two been standing there?”
“Uh, barely half a second.”
“Sorry for startling you, Igarashi-san.”
Motoharu stands back up for the second time, dignity mostly intact. “Are you two out shopping too?”
“Window-shopping, mostly,” Takayuki says. He holds up a small bag. “I bought Hayate some cologne.”
It’s said that smell is the only fully-developed sense that fetuses have in the womb. It’s said that scents and emotions are intertwined and stored as one memory, as inseparable from each other as clouds from water vapor. Take a human and strip them down to nothing but their sense of smell and you get a lifetime of memories, of sorrows and joys and everything in between, all bundled together in a neat little bulb. Take a person and hand-pick out a scent for them, attach it to their collar and wrists with a deliberate hand. Add a sprinkling of love into the mix, and it’s game over.
It’s game over! Cologne! Motoharu just about blacks out. He tries to keep a straight face, but a smile cracks it wide open. “Well,” he says. “Isn’t that romantic?”
“Yes,” Takayuki says. He trains his eyes on Hayate, who’s glowing brighter than the streetlamp above them. “I would hope so.”
“We’re going to figure out dinner plans soon,” Hayate says, in a sudden, flustered moment, and in that split-second before he continues speaking Motoharu already knows what his question will be. Silly boy. Doesn’t he know that two’s a party, and three’s a crowd? Then he says it: “Would you like to join us?”
Takayuki looks a little bit like he wants to die, face sagging so fast that Motoharu wonders if he'd actually pulled a muscle. He pinches the bridge of his nose tightly, squeezes his eyes shut, then gives Motoharu the most desperate look he’s ever seen on him. Oh, love!
“I’ll pass,” Motoharu says pleasantly. “I’ve got some delicious leftover pasta at home that’s calling my name.”
“Oh, alright,” Hayate says. He seems to have noticed the expression on Takayuki’s face, though he had also probably figured out his own blunder as it was already spilling out of his mouth, because he sounds absolutely relieved that Motoharu has turned him down. “I guess— we’ll see you later, Igarashi-san?”
“Yes, enjoy your meal!”
As they turn away, Takayuki gives him a grim look: Thank you.
Motoharu gives him a look back: I’m not stupid.
✒️
Motoharu spots Takayuki and Hayate one more time before he leaves the shopping district, as he’s on his way back from making sure that that cashmere sweater was actually well and truly out of his budget— but he leaves with a bracelet that he hadn’t noticed during the first visit, so it’s definitely out of his budget now.
There they are, at the corner of a shop lit up with all sorts of candles and decor, standing face to face. Takayuki is adjusting something on Hayate’s jacket, fixing his earmuffs, his hair. Snow falls around them, silhouetting them in white, blanketing them in silence. Their words are for their ears and their ears only. Heads bowed together, hands touching, encased in each other’s space. Then Hayate steps in closer, and their faces meet in a kiss.
And, whatever, couples kiss in public all the time. It’s nothing Motoharu hasn’t seen before. But suddenly there’s a rush of urgency within him demanding that he look away. An endlessly loud voice in between his ears telling him to turn around and leave. Motoharu knows what this feeling is. It’s the same feeling he gets when he sends in a final draft and feels all the breath in his lungs empty out, feels a weight lifted off his shoulders. Watches wings affix themselves to something that Motoharu had cradled in his arms and watched over and polished to a spit-shine.
Put down the pen, close this chapter, shelve the book away, Motoharu. This isn’t yours anymore. It’s theirs.
✒️