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The first time he hears Matsukawa singing, it’s in the shower, post-practice, when Matsukawa is likely positive no one’s around to hear it. Takahiro doesn’t even know what to think at first; Matsukawa sings just as he talks, voice a low timbre, barely changing pitch as it navigates through some melody that is so familiar yet unreachable in Takahiro’s mind. It’s English, too, so Takahiro wouldn’t understand it anyways, but that’s beside the point.
The point is that the locker room suddenly feels ten times hotter and Takahiro feels like he might melt into a puddle of very gay and very confused sludge.
He leaves in silence, pointedly not making his presence known to Matsukawa.
The next time he addresses his small issue (dubbed the “Sexy Manly Singing” issue, a part of the many volumes of “Gay For Your Best Friend,” a guide written by Takahiro himself), it’s in the most pitiful form he can imagine: asking Oikawa for advice.
The pleasure is apparent on Oikawa’s face as he sips his drink (the bastard), coyly twisting his mouth to the side as he seems to mull over Takahiro’s problem.
“So what you’re saying is, Mattsun’s voice is super manly and Makki Junior likes to make an appearance when he sings?”
Takahiro narrows his eyes, and Oikawa holds up his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright, calm down.” He chews on his straw, eyeing Takahiro carefully. “Random thought: have you tried asking him to sing?”
“That sounds like a horrible idea,” Takahiro says.
Oikawa shrugs. “It’s what I’d do. Actually, well—it’s what I’ve done, before, with Iwa-chan. I’ll have you know Iwa-chan is likely just as marvelous a singer as Mattsun, even if he’ll only sing for me in the shower.”
With that, Oikawa winks, and Takahiro evacuates with a shockingly limited amount of gagging noises (three, because he’s being mature).
He doesn’t do what Oikawa says at first, because, well, he’s a little bit of a coward. Matsukawa has never considered him weird before, which is part of the reason why the get along so well, and maybe Takahiro’s a little bit scared to risk that. (And maybe Oikawa had hit the nail on the head with that snide Makki Junior comment.) But he still thinks about it—too often, if you ask him, but he’s always thinking about Matsukawa, so it’s not anything new. He thinks about a crescendo during math lessons, imagines a slight vibrato during dinner with his mom, and can’t get the sound of a low baritone of out his head during lunch.
“Hey, ‘Hiro,” Matsukawa starts, nudging his shoulder with a chopstick, and Takahiro suddenly regrets the decision to let Matsukawa use his given name. Oikawa and Iwaizumi exchange looks.
“Yeah, Issei?” he tries.
Matsukawa’s eyes scan over him quickly, calculating. “Something bothering you? You’ve got your head all sorts of places recently.”
Oikawa disguises his laugh with a cough; Takahiro glares at him briefly, before lifting his shoulders in a listless shrug. “Nah, I’m okay. Just tired.”
Perhaps it’s the fact that Matsukawa’s a trusting person, or that the two of them are best friends, but Matsukawa lets the subject drop after that. Takahiro is grateful, because he’s a terrible liar. Now he’s free to live his pitiful life in peace (or so he tells himself—wallowing is just another form of misery).
But then Takahiro makes the mistake of being a good person, offering to clean up after Friday practice so that Oikawa and Iwaizumi can have plenty of time on their date (“It’s not a date,” Iwaizumi says, to which Oikawa snorts and grabs his hand). He’s wheeling away the last of the volleyball carts and locking the supply closet when he hears something that sounds like a tap running.
He creeps into the locker room, and sure enough, there’s his problem exactly: standing behind a shower curtain, blissfully ignorant—voice singing something slower, deeper.
Takahiro’s breath leaves him in a pathetic whoosh.
The shower shuts off. “Hello?”
Takahiro briefly considers running—or jumping out the window, maybe—but Matsukawa would know it was him on clean-up duty soon enough, and besides, what reason would he have to hide? Under normal circumstances, this is normal. Completely normal. Guys, y’know, being dudes, showering with each other (near each other, he corrects himself) and hiding a semi behind their volleyball bags…
“You trying to scare me, ‘Hiro?”
Takahiro sighs, and forces out a guilty laugh. “Yeah,” he breathes, nodding at the shower curtain. “Yeah, exactly. But you’re too clever for your own good, Issei.”
He watches Matsukawa’s hand reach out from the curtain, grabbing a towel and pulling it in with him. His laugh is distracting—especially now that it reminds Takahiro exactly of his singing. Takahiro swallows.
“I, uh. I’m gonna head out, got Mamamaki waiting for me, y’know. Can you lock up for me on the way out?” Takahiro places the keys on one of the benches, grabbing his bag and backpedalling as he speaks.
The smile is evident in Matsukawa’s voice as he murmurs, “Sure.”
The next time Matsukawa sees him (which is Monday, granted, so not terribly long after), he hums.
He hums when their walking, and when they’re talking, and when they’re eating, and whenever it seems he has enough air in his longs. When Takahiro works up the nerve to comment on it, all he gets is a raised eyebrow and something along the lines of, “Does it bother you?” with one of the goddam coyest smiles he’s ever seen.
Matsukawa’s late to lunch another time, and when he does appear, it’s with a whistled tune three inches from the back of Takahiro’s neck. Takahiro squeezes his jukebox a bit too tightly, causing Oikawa to erupt in shrieks because of some expensive shoes getting wet, or whatever. He doesn’t hear it. He’s too busy watching Matsukawa’s unwavering grin.
“Do you know what’s up with the humming?” Iwaizumi asks him one day after class, because—of course—Takahiro is basically the Everything Matsukawa Encyclopedia to the entire team.
Takahiro makes a pained face. “No, but it’s killing me.”
Iwaizumi nods thoughtfully. “Oh, I get it now.” He notes Takahiro’s curious expression (curious might be embellishing it a little; he probably looks like he’ll die without the information) and then sighs. “Tooru said I can’t tell you, sorry.”
Takahiro groans. “You’re so whipped, Iwaizumi. No help to me, with the clutches of Satan on you.”
Iwaizumi raises an eyebrow. “Are you done?” Takahiro sighs, nodding. “Just talk to him about the whole thing, you might learn more than you think.”
Takahiro heads home in a hell of a bad mood, whining to his mom and his cat and maybe the bird sitting outside his window (just for good measure). He’s sick, really, of his cryptic friends and Matsukawa’s infuriatingly good-looking face and deep-as-hell singing voice. Is it too much to ask for some peace?
“Just leave me be in my small gay bubble, thanks,” he groans into his pillow when his mom knocks on his door.
Matsukawa laughs, like music to Takahiro’s ears. “Rough day?”
Takahiro’s head snaps up at break-neck speed, cheeks turning red. He watches Matsukawa heft some bags of takeout in the air, cheeks stretching wide into a grin. “From one gay to another, I humbly request permission to join thy bubble.”
Takahiro grins despite himself. He scoots over on the bed, patting a place beside him. “Your throne awaits.”
“Oh, wow,” Matsukawa says, spreading the takeout out on the bed like one would assemble a feast. (And it is, really, he hasn’t eaten in hours.) “Am I King Gay?”
“Depends. How many hours a day do you spend on your hair?”
“Oh, definitely five.”
Takahiro clicks his tongue, taking the plate that Matsukawa hands him. “Well, unfortunately, I’ve got you beat there. I spend five and a half hours on my hair, so. Looks like we all know who the real king is.”
“Damn.” Matsukawa pours a hefty amount of some dish on his plate, face an artful arrangement of amusement. “Guess I’ll just be your queen, then.”
Takahiro chokes, and coughs, reaching for one of the sodas. He drinks until it’s quiet, and until he thinks he can open his mouth without saying something stupid.
But silence is worse, even, so he turns on the TV. With the droning vocals of some annoying teen comedy playing in the background, Takahiro tells himself he—they—can finally eat in peace. But then Matsukawa starts humming. Granted, it’s just to a jingle in a commercial at first, and then along to the background music in the movie, but then it’s nothing more than songs that are completely unrelated to the show.
Takahiro thinks he might scream.
He waits until the next commercial break. “So, uh.” Matsukawa glances over. “What’s with the humming, all of a sudden? You’re not gonna quit the volleyball club and join chorus or something, are you?”
Matsukawa laughs, deep and throaty. “If doing that is how to get rid of Oikawa, then I should’ve done it ages ago.” After a beat, his grin shrinks into something softer, a bit more personal. “There’s no reason, really.”
Takahiro blinks, devastated in the simplicity of the answer. “Oh.” But what did he expect? “Oh, yeah.”
“I mean,” Matsukawa pipes up after a moment. “I like singing, y’know? Oikawa told me it bothered him, though.”
“Fuck Oikawa,” Takahiro says immediately.
Matsukawa’s grin widens, but he keeps his eyes on the TV. “Iwaizumi said it could be annoying at times.”
“Well, a questionable opinion at best.”
“I think I might stop.”
“Don’t.”
Matsukawa takes a bite from the takeout, chewing ever-so-slowly as if to torture Takahiro. Takahiro watches his throat bob as he swallows, and then two dark eyes are fixed on him.
“I mean, on the other hand, I could continue.” He pauses, chewing his lip. “If you want.”
A second passes. Another ticks by. And then it clicks—the weeks of frustration, the nagging sensation that Iwaizumi and Oikawa weren’t telling him things, the knowing grins… “Oh my god,” he murmurs. “You knew.”
Matsukawa raises his eyebrows, grinning. “I knew,” he repeats.
“You knew the whole time, about the singing. You knew what you were doing the entire time, you complete dick, you smug bastard.” Takahiro puts down his soda to instead clutch at his head. “Oh my god, I’m gonna have an aneurysm. Did Oikawa tell you? How did you know?”
Matsukawa hums softly, taking a bite of his food and chewing softly. “I managed to put two-and-two together,” he says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world and Takahiro isn’t currently thinking about the highest building in his neighborhood that he could jump from. “I thought you were being weird that one night in the locker room, and so I tried, and well. You got really pink each time. It was kind of cute.”
Takahiro buries his face in his hands and groans.
“‘Hiro, do you want me to sing for you?”
And because Takahiro has looked Death in the face (a face that looked surprisingly like Matsukawa), has put up with weeks of shit for this, and figures he has nothing left to lose at this point, he manages to nod.
So sing he does. It starts of slow, and simple, melody familiar enough that it nags at Takahiro’s memory. Takahiro doesn’t understand English, and can’t pretend to for the love of him, but the feeling behind the song makes him feel warm. He chews his lip and just listens, picturing himself somewhere other than his bed with takeout surrounding the two of them; if he’s generous in his delusions, he can almost picture them on a date.
It’s romantic, and soft.
Takahiro realizes it’s a love song. He also realizes it’s the song Matsukawa was singing when he first caught him in the shower. And the song he was humming when they walked together, and ate together, and earlier, when they were watching the movie together.
Slowly, he looks up, and finds Matsukawa watching him.
The song’s reaching it’s ending notes, and Matsukawa’s brows are furrowed as if he’s trying to get some message across, so Takahiro tries really hard to listen—to understand.
“…can’t help falling in love with you.”
He takes a breath. (Though what’s the point, really, he might as well be dead. This is it. Matsukawa’s done it. He’s killed him. He’s going to write that on his tombstone, so everyone knows: Death By Ridiculously Attractive Man.)
“There,” Matsukawa breathes. “I sang for you.”
Takahiro acts on instinct alone. He takes another breath and leans forward, kissing Matsukawa with everything he’s got. It’s for a lot of things, really—most of them frustration, at his friends, at Matsukawa, and the entire situation, at everything. And when Matsukawa doesn’t pull away, instead wrapping his arm around Takahiro’s waist to pull him closer, he’s mostly frustrated at himself, for not having done this sooner.
Matsukawa laughs into the kiss, soothing a bite that he’d left on Takahiro’s lip with his tongue. Before Takahiro knows it, he’s laughing too.
“You idiot,” he hisses, shaking his head and feeling the tickle of Matsukawa’s hair on his forehead. “Do you realize how long I’ve been too scared to do this?”
Matsukawa kisses him again, and again. “Do you realize how many months I’ve been singing that song, hoping you’ll hear it?”
“We’re idiots.”
“Damn idiots.”
“Complete idiots. Total buffoonery.”
“I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
Takahiro pulls back, grinning. “Issei, I’ve gotta say something.” Matsukawa nods, oddly serious, and Takahiro releases the hand in his hair (when had that even gotten there?), sliding it down until it lays over Matsukawa’s heart. “I really, really like you.”
Matsukawa blinks, furrowing his brows. “Okay?”
“No, I—“ Takahiro shakes his head. “Like, I’m really gay for you. I’m King Gay and you’re Queen Gay, and together, we’re really gay. That kind of like.”
“I—I know? ‘Hiro, I think we already established this—“
Takahiro lets out his breath. “Yeah, yeah, but god, I just had to say it. I’ve been wanting to say that forever.”
Matsukawa grins, leaning forward to brush his fingers against Takahiro’s cheeks. Takahiro thinks he might combust, because that’s really, really gay. “Well, if you want me to say I like you too, then I will. Shout it from the rooftops, even. Sing it from the hills.”
“Would you really?” Takahiro bites his lip, ducking forward to kiss him again because he can (and god, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to that feeling). “Singing, I mean.”
Matsukawa hums, and this time, Takahiro can feel his grin rather than see it. “I’ll sing for you as many times as you like.”
“Even if I want you to sing for forever?” (Because he really does, if he had the option.)
“That’s a high demand, definitely one suiting a king.” Matsukawa looks at him, pretending to mull over it. His face is a hundred different types of happy, and—okay, Takahiro will admit it, maybe he’s a little bit in love.
“Yeah,” he concludes at last. “I think I can manage forever.”