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It’s just a holiday party–one they throw every year, one Futakuchi dreads every year.
It was always a crowd: the old Date Tech team plus the old Karasuno team, plus Koganegawa inevitably dragging along Kyoutani–he says the frogs are part of his family now, whatever that means–who in turn brings Yahaba, and then there are always friends from Tokyo who show up with bags of snacks and questionable alcohol. It’s a lot.
He loves his friends, he really does, but god does seeing Narita–he still isn’t used to calling the guy Kazuhito–and Mai together make him burn with envy. They're a picture-perfect recently married couple. So naturally in sync, it hurts to watch.
And he’s still single. Hopelessly single. Not for lack of trying. He’s gone on dates, downloaded apps, done the whole exhausting cycle of small talk and first impressions and polite goodbyes. But no one ever quite fits. Conversations stall. Connections fizzle.
No one looks at him the way Mai looks at Narita or the way Narita looks back.
Well... Maybe...
His thoughts drift, uninvited, to Aone. To the quiet presence at his side most days. To shared car rides in comfortable silence, to glances exchanged over coffee, to the way Aone always seems to notice when Futakuchi’s had a long day, even when he hasn’t said a word. To the steadiness of him, the way being around Aone makes everything else feel less loud. –
Futakuchi swallows and exhales slowly.
He doesn’t let himself look too closely at that thought. Doesn’t poke at it, doesn’t name it. Because once he does, once he admits it’s more than just comfort or habit or convenience, he’s not sure he can put it back where it belongs.
He's been staring at himself in the mirror for twenty minutes. His hair won’t sit right. It never sits right, but tonight it’s doing something extra stupid, sticking up in places that make him look like he rolled around in a leaf pile. He wets his hands, smooths it down, messes it up again, then smooths it down worse.
He tells himself–again–that it’s just a party.
Eventually, he just stares at his reflection and mutters, “Why do I even care? It’s a party. Everyone’ll be drunk by nine.”
He steps back from the mirror and squints at his outfit. He’s tried on three different sweaters–the cable-knit cream one (too cozy, too… date-ish), the navy one (too formal), and the wine-red one he’s wearing now, he even considered the terribly ugly one Onagawa got for him two years ago. He adjusts the cuffs, smooths the front, pulls the hem down once more, as if repeating the motions will magically make him look less like he’s trying too hard.
He moves to the counter where his “host gift” sits waiting. It started as a simple bottle of whiskey. Nice, mid-range, something Narita would appreciate. But then he saw the fancy holiday chocolate boxes at the grocery store, and then the small pine-scented candle that reminded him of Mai, and somehow his quick token gift turned into a whole thing.
And beside that bag… another small gift.
Wrapped in neat silver paper. Slightly hidden under his scarf as if that makes the whole thing less real.
For Aone.
He pretends he didn’t spend three separate afternoons trying to find it. Pretends he didn’t stop at a small stationery shop because they had these handcrafted wooden bookmarks he thought Aone might like for his reading.
He tucks it carefully into his coat pocket. It fits snugly there, secret and yet impossibly present against his side. He tells himself it’s nothing. A small gesture. A polite gift between friends.
He takes the long way to Narita's apartment.
Not because he’s lost, or because the streets are especially scenic–though the string lights strung across balconies and the glow from shop windows don’t hurt–but because he needs the time. The extra minutes feel like a buffer between the quiet of his apartment and the noise he knows is waiting for him.
The cold helps. It keeps him grounded, keeps him from spiraling into the usual pre-party panic of God, what am I even doing, and why do I always feel twelve again walking into these things?
He shoves his free hand deeper into his coat pocket, fingers brushing the wrapped gift hidden there.
He imagines Sasaya spotting him the second he walks in, launching into a rapid-fire update about his kids– how the little one is walking now, how his daughter found the volleyball he stole when he graduated. Futakuchi likes those stories, he really does, but sometimes they make him feel like he’s standing on the wrong side of a window, watching someone else’s life unfold.
It makes him feel a little boring.
Like electrical engineer is nothing to be impressed with, even though he knows that isn’t fair. He likes his job. He’s good at it and understands systems most people don’t even think about.
And then there's the professional players. The ones who made the dream a reality, Olympians even. Sure, he plays on the municipal team, still gets that familiar rush when the ball connects just right, still loves the game in his bones. But standing in the same room as people who reached the peak makes the gap feel wider than he ever wants to admit.
He exhales slowly, stuffing his hands deeper into his coat pockets.
He tells himself–firmly–that this isn’t a competition. That everyone’s life moves at its own pace, in its own direction. That he doesn’t need a medal or a classic happy family or some grand manga-worthy narrative.
His life is good.
He repeats that as he walks, letting the words settle with each step. His life is good. Maybe not flashy. Maybe not loud. But solid. Steady. And that has to be enough.
By the time Narita’s building comes into view, his shoulders have loosened just a bit. He takes one last deep breath, braces himself, and keeps walking forward.
The door swings open almost immediately after he knocks, and the warmth hits him before he even notices the crowd inside. Narita is there, wearing a green apron dusted with flour, glasses slightly askew, holding a wine glass in one hand and gesturing him inside with the other. His smile is wide, easy, familiar–like home, if home were a chaotic, overcrowded apartment.
“Futakuchi! You made it!” Narita says, voice carrying over the clatter of voices and laughter. “Perfect timing, actually, we were just getting the last bits of food out of the oven. If you’d been fifteen minutes earlier, Mai would’ve put you to work.”
Futakuchi is always a little overwhelmed by their apartment; he knows they're both successful, that Narita knows how to find the best places, but damn it's fancy. Narita’s impeccable taste is evident in every corner: the polished counters, the almost professional coffee setup, the subtle touches of greenery that make the place feel alive. And Mai’s holiday decorations–ridiculous as they are–somehow blend perfectly, turning the space into a mix of cozy and extravagant, chaotic and precise.
He sets the gift bag down on the counter, taking in the scene around him. Their dining table is full of snacks. Ennoshita, Yahaba, and Daichi stand nearby talking quietly, their conversation punctuated with occasional laughter, subtle but warm.
“Kenji! About time!” Mai leans over the counter, bright and teasing as ever. Her hair is pulled back with a few stray strands framing her face, and her hands rest on the counter as she watches him like a hawk, "fashionably late as always."
"Can't seem too eager, Mrs.Narita," Futakuchi says, tacking the formality on at the end. He knows exactly what’s coming next. Sure enough, her hand shoots out, smacking the back of his arm sharply, playful but with enough force to make him jerk slightly.
“You’re just jealous,” she shoots back without missing a beat.
“Of what, exactly? The apron?” he gestures vaguely at Narita.
Narita laughs, lifting his wine glass in a faux toast, silently cheering on the absurdity.
Futakuchi rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself, the tension of the evening melting just a fraction in the warmth of their banter. He nudges the gift bag toward Mai. “For you two. Just… a small thing.”
Narita peers inside, eyebrows lifting. “A small thing, he says. Kenji, this is a haul.”
Mai leans over immediately, rummaging through the bag with no shame. “Ooh, chocolates. Good ones, too.” She grins at Futakuchi. “You remembered the kind Kazuhito likes.”
“I have a functioning memory,” he says dryly.
“And a pine candle?” she adds, holding it up. “You thought about this?"
He nods, suddenly very interested in a spot on the counter. “Figured it fit. Your place always smells good… I don’t know, like… cozy.”
Narita nudges Futakuchi’s shoulder as he reaches for the glasses nearby. “Seriously, though, thank you. You didn’t have to bring anything.”
Futakuchi shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck. “You two host this mess, I’ve gotta do something to earn my spot.” he mutters, half-joking, half-trying to explain away the careful thought he’d put into the gift.
Mai grins. “You earn your spot by existing."
Narita sidesteps around Mai, the movement fluid and practiced, offering him a glass of something that smells strong but sweet. “Here, you need something to drink before you get swallowed by this circus.”
Futakuchi exhales, taking a cautious sip. Warmth blooms in his chest almost immediately; he's sure Mai mixed this one.
“…Yeah,” he says quietly. “Good call.”
Narita’s smile softens, "Make yourself at home," he says, squeezing Futakuchi’s shoulder once before turning back toward the kitchen, returning to a conversation with the Tanakas.
Onagawa is perched on the back of the couch like gravity is more of a suggestion than a rule, long legs dangling as he talks animatedly with someone Futakuchi doesn’t recognize. The man has sharp features and a catlike stillness to him, head tilted as he listens, his eyes bright with amusement. Onagawa’s hands move constantly, painting the air as he talks, and the stranger laughs at exactly the right moments.
Koganegawa has most of the current professional players, and that streamer guy whose face Futakuchi has seen in passing on social media but never bothered to learn the name of, gathered around his phone, watching a video with barely contained excitement.
“No, no, watch this part again!” he insists, nearly vibrating. Futakuchi shakes his head, smiling despite himself.
Koganegawa’s excitement is impossible to resist. It fills the room like static, bright and loud and utterly sincere. Futakuchi takes another small sip, letting himself enjoy the chaos instead of bracing against it.
Futakuchi takes another sip, slower this time, letting the noise wash over him.
That’s when he sees Aone.
He’s standing in one of the quieter corners of the room, talking with Karasuno’s former ace and Sakunami. The conversation looks relaxed– Aone listening more than he speaks, nodding occasionally, hands folded loosely around his glass. But Futakuchi notices the way his posture shifts when Futakuchi’s gaze lands on him. Just a subtle straightening, a slight turn of his shoulders. Like he’s orienting himself without even thinking about it.
Aone's eyes settle on him, the corner of his mouth quirks upward in that tiny, almost imperceptible smile that Futakuchi knows too well.
It hasn’t even been that long since they were last together. They carpool nearly every day, for god’s sake. Futakuchi has seen him half-awake with coffee in hand, seen him exhausted after long shifts, seen him laugh quietly at stupid jokes that shouldn’t be funny.
But seeing him like this is different.
No dusty coveralls. No worn work shirts with grease stains that never quite come out. Instead, Aone’s wearing a well-fitted flannel, dark and soft-looking, sleeves rolled up to his forearms.
Aone glances away briefly as Sakunami says something, then looks back again, eyes lingering just a second longer this time.
Futakuchi’s grip tightens around his glass before he realizes it.
“Hey–Futakuchi!”
The voice cuts clean through the spiral.
He startles just enough to be embarrassed by it, turning to find Kinoshita standing far too close, a drink in hand and an expression that’s already halfway into a grin.
“There you are,” Kinoshita says, like he’s been searching the room specifically for him. "You're always one of the last people here!"
“I’ve been here for, like, five minutes,” Futakuchi replies, recovering quickly, defaulting to dry irritation. "If I show up too early to things those two host, they make me help set up."
Kinoshita laughs and bumps his shoulder lightly with his own. “C’mon. I need backup. When I left them, I think Enno and Yahaba were about to start arguing."
Futakuchi casts one last, involuntary glance toward the corner.
Aone’s attention is back on Sakunami now, head inclined slightly as he listens. He doesn’t look back this time.
“Yeah, sure,” Futakuchi says, letting himself be pulled away.
Kinoshita steers him toward the dining table, chatting away.
As they approach, Yahaba is in full swing, gesturing animatedly with his drink in hand. "He gets back from practice, and I walk out, half-dressed, mind you, just to see those two towering behind him. And they've got bags of hair stuff like they’re opening a salon in my kitchen."
Ennoshita laughs, shaking his head. “I cannot imagine Tsukishima actually going along with that."
"He said," Yahaba continues, undeterred, "if I don't help, then kogane will give him uneven stripes like Kyoutani would let either of them actually have control of his hair."
Futakuchi can’t help but grin, taking a careful sip of his drink, joining the conversation easily, “But he still chooses to look like a tennis ball?"
Yahaba shrugs, "Hey, I let him do what he wants, it's better than Koganegawa's-" He holds three fingers to his forehead, mimicking Koganegawa's rather unique hairstyle. "Honestly, I'm just glad Ken wrangled them enough not to ruin my good towels. You'd think two guys who've been bleaching their own hair since high school would be cleaner about it, but nope, every time, it’s a disaster waiting to happen.”
Daichi laughs beside them, “I’d pay to see that."
"It's like watching a cat try to interact with two dogs," Yahaba says, "and they're always doing these things at my apartment!"
Futakuchi chuckles, shaking his head. “Kyoutani just lets it happen?”
“Depends on his mood,” Yahaba says, rolling his eyes, taking another careful sip of his drink. “I really don't know how you dealt with Koganegawa as teenager”
Futakuchi laughs, the sound slipping out more freely than he expected. “pure luck, and he was worried about impressing Moniwa”
The conversation is easy, effortless, and even though he hasn’t seen many of these guys in months, it feels natural, familiar–like slipping back into a rhythm he didn’t realize he’d missed. The stories, the laughter, the teasing; it all threads together, weaving him into the room, and for the first time since he arrived, he lets himself relax.
Futakuchi leans back against the hallway wall, letting his weight settle as he takes a deliberate pause from the whirlwind of conversations, laughter, and card games he’d been roped into.
The party swirls around him—a cacophony of clinking glasses, muted shouts from the living room, the occasional bark of laughter from Koganegawa—but here, pressed against the cool wall, it all fades into a softer hum. He’s had his fair share to drink, the warmth spreading lazily through his chest, loosening the tension he’d been carrying all evening.
A shadow falls over him, and he blinks, trying to focus.
"Here"
Water. Clear, cold, almost painfully refreshing in its simplicity. Aone takes the wine glass Futakuchi had been nursing, setting it aside with a quiet efficiency, and replaces it with the cup of water. The condensation beads against the surface, cool to the touch, and Futakuchi wraps his fingers around it instinctively, drawing the sensation in like a lifeline.
He takes a slow, deliberate sip, letting the chill run down his throat, steadying the fluttering in his chest. It’s grounding, comforting, and for a brief moment, the noise of the party feels distant, manageable.
“You’re a lifesaver,” he mutters quietly, unsure if he’s referring to the drink or the steady presence of Aone himself. His words are muffled, private, meant only for the quiet bubble around them.
"mhm." Aone shrugs lightly, that faint, almost imperceptible motion that somehow carries more reassurance than words ever could
Futakuchi tries not to read into it, but the urge is almost impossible to resist. Small gestures like this—handing over a glass, a silent check-in, the way Aone always notices the subtle signs of exhaustion or stress—are commonplace in their everyday routines. Morning coffees, long drives after sleepless nights, quiet reassurances after grueling shifts—these small, unspoken acts of care have been piling up for years, unnoticed in their own steady rhythm.
“I… uh…” Futakuchi starts, the words tripping over each other as he shifts his weight. His fingers curl tighter around the small, wrapped object in his pocket, the edges pressing into his palm like a reminder he can’t ignore anymore. He exhales, then pulls it out slowly, almost ceremoniously, and holds it out toward Aone. “This… is for you.”
Aone takes it carefully, like it’s something fragile, something important. His fingers brush Futakuchi’s for just a second as he accepts it, and he gives him that same faint, knowing smile—small, restrained, but unmistakably warm.
Futakuchi swallows, his chest tightening. “It’s… uh… a bookmark. For reading,” he adds, voice low, then winces at how obvious that sounds. “I saw it and thought–well, I thought you might like it.”
Aone unwraps it slowly, unhurried, the silver paper giving way to smooth, polished wood. The subtle engravings catch the soft glow of the overhead lights, delicate patterns revealed in gentle contrast. He turns it slightly between his fingers, thumb tracing the edge as if committing it to memory, holding it with a reverence that makes Futakuchi’s breath hitch.
"Kenji" Aone’s voice is soft, quiet enough that Futakuchi leans in without realizing it, afraid to miss even a single syllable. The way his name sounds in Aone’s mouth—familiar, warm, unguarded—sends a pulse of something through his chest that he doesn’t quite have words for.
Futakuchi swallows again, heart thumping. “Yeah?”
Aone lifts his gaze, meeting Futakuchi’s eyes with that same calm, steady look that has grounded him a thousand times before. “Thank you.”
That’s it. Just two words. No embellishment. It’s brief, quiet, and it hits him harder than any toast or speech could. Futakuchi shifts slightly, unsure what to do with the sudden stillness around them, the way everything else seems to blur at the edges.
He clears his throat lightly and manages a small, half-smile. “I’m… glad you like it.”
Aone’s smile deepens just slightly. “I do,” he says simply. And in that simplicity, Futakuchi feels an entire conversation, an entire understanding, settle between them, quiet and steady, grounding him far more than any party ever could.
Mai leans against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed tight over her chest, weight settled into one hip. To anyone else it might look casual, but Narita knows better. In reality, she’s been watching Futakuchi and Aone for the past several minutes with the intensity of someone trying to solve a very personal puzzle. Her eyes are narrowed in deliberate calculation, tracking movement beyond the doorway as if she’s running plays in her head. She’s been “checking on the oven” for the past five minutes—opening it, closing it, peering inside like the roast might suddenly start misbehaving—but her attention never actually leaves the hallway.
Narita watches her watch them, amused.
“Ugh,” she mutters under her breath, a soft huff of frustration. “I put up mistletoe, Kazuhito!"
She gestures vaguely towards down the hall where the two men are talking quietly. Narita, standing beside her with a wine glass in hand, raises an eyebrow, watching her rather than the party.
“They’re talking,” he says, voice calm, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"They're so close! It's right there," Mai groans.
Narita chuckles, shifting closer and snaking his free arm around her waist. His hand settles at her hip, thumb rubbing a slow, grounding circle there, the way he does when she’s wound up. "You put this much thought into their interactions?”
“Of course I do!" Mai snaps, though there’s no real bite in her words. She pouts slightly, arms tightening across her chest. "I like making my friends happy! Kenji and Takanobu have been floating around this since high school; they need to just do something already!"
Narita laughs softly, the sound low and warm, and presses a gentle kiss to her temple. “And you think mistletoe is going to solve all of that?”
“It could!” Mai insists, rolling her eyes. “I strategically placed it, Kazuhito. Perfectly. They shouldn't be able to miss, they're way too tall.”
He smiles at that, a knowing, indulgent expression that’s reserved just for her. Narita pulls her closer, letting her lean into his chest, his chin resting lightly atop her head. “Mai… let them handle it, you don't have to manage everyone."
She huffs, not entirely convinced, but the pressure of his arm around her relaxes her shoulders slightly. “But look at them! Kenji’s fidgeting with that glass, and Takanobu… Takanobu’s just smiling at him. It’s ridiculous!”
Narita follows her gaze this time, watching the quiet bubble the two men have somehow carved out in the middle of the chaos. Futakuchi’s posture is half-guarded, half-open. Aone stands steady, close without crowding. There’s care there. Obvious, once you know how to look.
“They’re figuring it out,” Narita says gently. “In their own way.”
Mai hums, still clearly itching to interfere, but she relaxes into him anyway. “I just want them to be happy,” she says, quieter now.
Narita turns slightly, careful and deliberate, and sets his glass aside on the counter behind them. The noise of the party swells and fades in the background–laughter, clinking dishes, someone calling out over a card game–but in the kitchen doorway, the moment narrows. He lifts his hands and cups Mai’s face gently, thumbs brushing over her cheeks in a familiar, grounding motion. It stills her immediately.
"And that,” he says, voice warm and certain, “is exactly why I married you.”
Mai’s mouth opens, already forming a retort–something quick and absolutely unconvincing–but she never gets it out. Narita leans in first, closing the distance without hesitation. The kiss is unhurried, affectionate in that easy, lived-in way that only comes from years of choosing each other. It’s not showy or dramatic, just solid and warm and real, completely disregarding the crowd still in their apartment.
Mai melts into it immediately, like she always does. Her hands slide up to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as if anchoring herself there. Whatever lingering frustration she’d been carrying drains out of her shoulders, replaced by a soft contentment that hums through her instead. She lets out a quiet sound against his lips—pleased, settled—and Narita smiles into the kiss, the corners of his mouth lifting just slightly.
When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t go far. Their foreheads rest together, his thumbs still tracing gentle, absent-minded paths along her cheekbones. Mai exhales slowly, the breath warm between them, her eyes still half-lidded.
“…Okay,” she admits, glancing up at the mistletoe in the hall. “But if they don’t kiss by the end of the night, I’m doing something about it.”
Narita chuckles, the sound low and intimate, brushing his thumb once more along her cheek before leaning in to press a quick, playful kiss to her lips—brief, teasing, and completely indulgent.
"I figured"
Futakuchi’s attention drifts back into the room as the noise swells again around them. Someone laughs too loudly near the couch, Koganegawa whoops in victory over something on his phone, and a ripple of applause breaks out near the card table. The party feels alive, chaotic in a way that’s strangely reassuring, a familiar soundtrack to the holidays he’s spent with this group over the years.
He takes another sip of water, slower this time, letting the cool liquid settle in his chest.
Aone stands close, just beside him, close enough that the heat radiating from his body brushes against Futakuchi’s without a single word being exchanged. The proximity is subtle but undeniable—a presence that fills the space without needing to. The silence between them isn’t empty; it’s easy, patient, almost protective. Futakuchi can feel the steady rhythm of Aone’s breathing, the slight shift in weight as he leans just a fraction toward him, and it’s a grounding sensation he hadn’t realized he was craving.
Futakuchi’s gaze slides past Aone’s shoulder and snags on sudden commotion near the hallway.
“…Oh,” he murmurs, "Nobu– look."
Aone follows his line of sight, eyes narrowing slightly in focus. He leans just a touch closer, an instinctive motion that doesn’t go unnoticed by Futakuchi.
Ahead, Yahaba has frozen mid-step, one hand still gripping Kyoutani’s sleeve like he’d been trying to pull him away from something—probably a card game that escalated a little too far. Kyoutani, for his part, looks like the universe personally owes him an apology. His eyebrows are furrowed, jaw tight, eyes glaring skyward. Directly above their heads: mistletoe. Bright, green, and impossible to miss.
Yahaba tilts his head up slowly, then back down at Kyoutani, like he’s bracing for impact.
Kyoutani looks up, scowls, then immediately snaps, “No.”
Yahaba sputters, incredulous. “What do you mean, no–you walked me into it!”
“I did not,” Kyoutani argues, jabbing a finger vaguely behind him. “You stopped!”
“I stopped because you were about to run into the table!” Yahaba retorts, throwing his hands up in exasperation, the very picture of someone balancing caution and frustration.
"Maybe I wanted to run into it, shithead."
Futakuchi snorts before he can stop himself, covering it with a cough that does absolutely nothing to hide it. He tilts his head toward the scene, eyes gleaming. “Wow. Mai really doesn’t miss; she even got Kogane's guys."
Kyoutani, clearly determined not to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing him flustered, makes a sudden, desperate move to duck out from under the mistletoe. Yahaba tightens his grip on Kyoutani’s sleeve automatically, pure reflex, and suddenly they collide shoulders. Both stumble, feet shuffling on the floor as they try to regain balance, only to end up pressed closer together—more squarely beneath the mistletoe than either of them had intended.
Someone–probably Koganegawa–yells, “KISS! KISS! KISS!”
“I swear to god, Ken,” Yahaba mutters, “if you start a fight at a fucking party–”
“I’m not–” Kyoutani cuts himself off, jaw tightening. He glances up again at the mistletoe, scowling as if the greenery personally insulted him, then back at Yahaba. “This is stupid.”
Futakuchi leans slightly closer to Aone, lowering his voice. “You think Mai’s watching right now?”
Aone doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes flick briefly toward the kitchen doorway, then back. “Yes.”
As if on cue, Mai’s voice carries over the room: “Rules are rules~”
They stand there for a beat too long. Everyone seems frozen, aware that something’s about to happen, though no one can say exactly what.
Finally, with an exasperated sigh, Yahaba reaches out and grabs Kyoutani by the collar, tugging him closer. The motion is abrupt, almost aggressive, like he’s daring Kyoutani to resist. And then—quick, sharp, impatient—Yahaba presses his lips to Kyoutani’s.
Kyoutani freezes, caught completely off guard, his body stiffening like a coiled spring. Then something shifts, after a fraction of a second of hesitation. He tilts his head slightly, like he's remembered that he is, in fact, dating Yahaba.
When they finally pull apart, Kyoutani stands frozen for a moment, cheeks flushing a rare, unguarded red. His lips part as if to speak, but no words come immediately. Yahaba’s expression is still slightly irritated.
“…Happy?” Yahaba asks, voice clipped but quieter now, less confrontation, more an acknowledgment of relief.
Kyoutani clears his throat, cheeks red. “Shut up.”
There’s no mistaking the way his body still leans slightly into the other, how his fingers flex as though still holding onto the warmth of the kiss.
From the kitchen, Mai pumps a victorious fist. The noise fades back into the party’s general chaos.
Futakuchi glances sideways at Aone, catching him already looking at him this time. There’s something steady there. Patient.
Aone’s gaze flicks upward–just slightly–toward the mistletoe still hanging down the hall, the one Futakuchi hasn't noticed.
Futakuchi doesn’t follow Aone’s glance.
Instead, he exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head as the room slowly reabsorbs the spectacle. Someone claps Kyoutani on the back hard enough to jostle him forward. Yahaba immediately snaps at whoever it is.
Moniwa and Daichi look just as exhausted as they did when dealing with these people as teenagers. The same thousand-yard stare, the same polite smiles stretched thin by years of chaos management. The only difference now is the drinks in their hands and the faint resignation of men who know resistance is futile.
“Unbelievable,” Futakuchi mutters, taking another sip of water, “I mean, you invite people over, you feed them, you trap them under a plant..."
He pauses, squinting thoughtfully at the mistletoe in the living room. “Did you know those things are invasive?”
Aone hums beside him, the sound low and amused. He’s learned by now that this is one of Futakuchi’s tells–the drinking threshold where his brain starts pulling out half-remembered facts and tossing them into conversation like confetti.
“They spread aggressively,” Futakuchi continues, encouraged. “Birds eat the berries, and seeds get everywhere. Real menace.”
“Either way, it’s psychological warfare,” Futakuchi goes on, warming to the idea. “Next year, she’s gonna install pressure plates. Tripwires. Motion sensors.” He snorts, shaking his head.
“She could. Who knows what she’s got access to in that robotics lab of hers.”
Aone exhales through his nose, something dangerously close to a laugh for him.
“She’s like,” Futakuchi says, gesturing vaguely with his cup, nearly spilling again, “if you put a sci-fi villain in a rom-com. All smiles and baked goods, and then–bam."
He laughs at his own joke, the sound easy and loose. Futakuchi shifts his weight, shoulder brushing Aone’s arm this time. He doesn’t pull away.
Across the room, Mai laughs with Yachi and Kiyoko, completely unaware of the accusations being leveled against her.
“I bet she’s furious she didn’t get Kinoshita, too,” Futakuchi adds, lowering his voice like he’s sharing a secret. “I think she’s been trying to set him up with someone since before the wedding. Poor guy."
Aone glances over, eyes tracking to where Kinoshita is laughing with someone near the kitchen, blissfully unaware of how close he’s come to being collateral damage. The new price of being Narita's best friend.
“Maybe,” Aone says quietly.
Futakuchi follows his gaze, watching Kinoshita for a moment before snorting. “Give it time. Mai plays the long game.”
The chaos swells again around them–someone shouting from the kitchen, someone else starting a chant that immediately gets shut down–but their little pocket of quiet holds.
Time stretches. Laughter fades into the background hum. One by one, guests start filtering out, coats pulled on, goodbyes shouted over shoulders, until only the closer-knit group remains–the ones too comfortable, too stubborn, or too emotionally invested to leave just yet.
Futakuchi squints down at his glass of water like it’s personally betrayed him, lips pursed in deep suspicion. He gives it a small tilt, watches the ice clink uselessly against the sides, then flicks his gaze up to Aone. Without breaking eye contact, he quickly gulps down most of what’s left, throat bobbing as he swallows.
“Think I can have another one of Narita’s concoctions now?” he asks, hopeful in the way that suggests he already knows the answer.
“No.” He reaches out smoothly and takes the nearly empty cup from Futakuchi’s hand before he can argue, his grip firm but gentle. “Just water.”
Futakuchi lets out an exaggerated scoff, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. “Wow. Tyranny. Absolute oppression.” There’s no real bite to it, though–just the familiar cadence of a complaint he doesn’t actually mean. He slumps slightly against the wall, arms folding loosely as if resigned to his fate.
Aone hums, clearly unimpressed, and turns away without another word.
He returns with a fresh cup a moment later, setting it into Futakuchi’s hand with quiet certainty. Their fingers brush briefly in the exchange.
Futakuchi takes another obedient sip of water, grimacing theatrically. “You know,” he says, lowering his voice, "we're kinda like how zoos give baby cheetahs a puppy to hang out with, to keep them from going too crazy."
Aone’s brow creases faintly. "I'm a puppy?"
Futakuchi considers him for a second, tilting his head. “Unless you want to be the cheetah. But I feel like that’s more on brand for me. High-strung. Loud. Questionable decision-making.”
Aone hums, the sound low and amused, but there’s a softness there that makes Futakuchi’s chest tighten. He watches Aone’s fingers curl lightly around his own cup, the subtle movement oddly grounding.
“I mean,” Futakuchi continues, because once he’s started, stopping feels impossible. He gestures vaguely between them, “I’ll be spiraling about something stupid– like whether I said the wrong thing three hours ago–and you’ll just stand there like, ‘It’s fine.’ And somehow it just is.”
He pauses, taking another sip of water, then exhales slowly.
"You're kinda like my rock..." he says, quieter now. He lets himself relax into the words instead of deflecting with humor.
Aone doesn’t answer immediately. He just shifts his weight slightly, letting their shoulders sit against each other, letting the quiet stretch out between words.
“I don’t mind,” Aone says quietly.
The living room continues to erupt in sporadic shouts and laughter, even with far fewer people. Koganegawa’s arguing over card game rules, and Mai’s laughing rings high above it all. Futakuchi’s voice drops again, quieter, more honest, carrying just enough weight to feel like a confession.
He glances up, meets Aone’s eyes. “I don’t say it enough. I… really appreciate it. You.”
Aone’s gaze flicks upward again.
This time, Futakuchi follows it.
His eyes track the line of Aone’s sight, up past the edge of the hallway light, to the sprig of mistletoe hanging directly above them. Green leaves. Red berries. Completely unavoidable once you see it.
He freezes.
“Oh,” He swallows, suddenly very aware of the closeness of Aone.
Aone goes very still beside him, like he's been caught. His lips twitch slightly, that faint, familiar smile that has always disarmed him. No words, just a stillness that says, if you want this, it’s yours, all yours.
Futakuchi’s heart hammers in a slow, deliberate rhythm, loud enough to drown out the muffled party noise drifting in from the living room–the laughter, the clink of glasses, Mai’s voice rising over everyone else’s. None of it reaches him now. There is only Aone, standing right in front of him, close and patient, offering him the choice without demanding anything in return.
Run, a traitorous part of his brain suggests. Retreat further down the hall. Lock yourself in Mai’s guest bedroom. Disintegrate quietly and with dignity.
He almost does it. Almost.
Instead, he glances upward once more at the mistletoe, at the ridiculous, predictable setup of it, then back at Aone’s face. There is no teasing there, no expectation–just calm, steady openness. And Futakuchi realizes, with a sudden clarity that makes his chest ache, that there is no more space for hesitation.
When he finally leans in, it's careful and deliberate, yet trembling with every millimeter of the distance closed. Aone doesn’t flinch. He simply tilts his head just enough, letting them meet where the mistletoe sways gently above.
The first brush of their lips is soft, tentative, a feather-light contact that tests boundaries and sparks. It’s like the world narrows to a single, suspended moment, a quiet acknowledgment of everything they’ve never said out loud. Futakuchi’s breath catches, warm and shallow, mingling with Aone’s as the kiss deepens. There’s a teasing pull, subtle, a brush of teeth against lip, a gentle pressure that says stay, stay here with me.
Futakuchi barely has time to process it before Aone’s hand rises, palm warm, resting lightly against Futakuchi’s cheek. It’s grounding, steady, yet intimate, deliberate without being rushed. Encouraged, Futakuchi leans in further, tilting his head, letting the kiss grow in both softness and intensity.
The second time they meet, the kiss is more confident, slower, searching. Aone tilts his head further, allowing the angle to match Futakuchi’s hesitation, matching it with patience and quiet insistence, desperate to learn this rhythm. Every press of lips feels intentional, as though each touch is a word in a language they’ve always understood but never spoken. The kiss is deliberate, grounding, a contrast to the fluttering panic in Futakuchi's chest. The initial hesitation dissolves, replaced by a soft certainty that this is right, that this is them.
Aone’s hand moves gently, fingers tracing along the side of Futakuchi’s jaw, thumb brushing lightly over his cheekbone. It’s careful, patient, as if he’s memorizing every line of him, every curve. The kiss stretches out, a quiet surrender to feeling neither acknowledged, a declaration without words, a promise carved into the space between them.
When they finally part, it’s only slightly, enough for their foreheads to rest against each other. Futakuchi’s eyes flutter open, and Aone is looking at him like this moment is fragile and precious and real. That faint smile still tugs at the corner of his lips, softer now, warmer.
"Kenji," Aone says quietly, like the name itself is something precious. His thumb brushes across Futakuchi’s cheek once more, slow and deliberate, tracing a small line as if to seal the moment in place. The motion is intimate without being possessive, grounding without pushing, and Futakuchi leans into it instinctively, his heart hammering.
“Is this… real?” Futakuchi whispers, voice rough with disbelief and awe, as if asking will make the magic dissipate.
Aone’s smile widens, still faint but certain. “Yes"
Futakuchi’s hand drifts upward, brushing along the side of Aone’s neck, tentative at first, then more assured as he feels the warmth of his skin beneath his fingers. Aone leans into the touch, tilting his head slightly, the simple gesture amplifying the connection between them. The ease, the quiet naturalness of it, almost makes Futakuchi ache with relief, as though every moment of doubt and hesitation is dissolving in the space between them.
Aone’s free hand rises, fingers threading lightly through Futakuchi’s hair at the nape of his neck, anchoring them together.
"I was waiting for you," Aone admits, his voice softer now, almost sheepish despite his size, despite the quiet confidence he carries. Futakuchi’s lips curve into a small, incredulous smile.
“God, Takanobu,” he laughs softly, shaking his head, “I’m kind of an idiot.”
Aone leans in again, brushing a short, playful kiss against Futakuchi’s lips, light and teasing, but deliberate.
Futakuchi responds instinctively, tilting his head, pressing closer, letting the kiss deepen in gentle increments. It’s no longer just a playful gesture; it’s an exploration, a mutual conversation of lips and hands, a slow weaving together of years of unspoken closeness finally allowed to surface. The warmth lingers, a quiet affirmation that whatever doubts existed before are gone, at least for this moment.
They stay there, pressed together, the faint sway of the mistletoe above a quiet witness to everything
Then—crash.
The sound of shattering glass cuts through the soft cocoon of warmth they’ve created. Futakuchi jerks back slightly, startled, the spell broken, and his eyes widen as he takes in the scene.
"Oh my god," Mai stands stunned, a wine glass shattered at her feet, "I missed it."
Narita is right behind her, hands raised, face caught somewhere between exasperation and amusement. “Mai, please be careful–”
"Kazuhito..." She turns around, burying her face in Narita's chest, gesturing behind her, "...I missed it, I spent so long trying to get them to figure their crap out, and I missed it!"
"Honey, I think you've had a bit too much." Narita sighs softly, running a hand through her hair, the kind of gentle, grounding motion that somehow tethers her frantic energy. He looks up at the two of them, his eyes catching the faint light on Aone and Futakuchi, and says carefully, "I'm really sorry, guys."
Futakuchi blinks at the scene, a small laugh slipping from him despite the startled jump.
“It’s fine… really,” he says, still pressed close to Aone. His hands linger near Aone’s sides, fingers brushing against the warm fabric of his shirt.
Aone tilts his head, faint amusement tugging at his lips as he glances down at Futakuchi.
"She’s… invested,” he observes quietly.
Mai grumbles, still clinging to her husband like a small storm of disappointment and exhilaration. “I… I just… I wanted them to see each other, you know? For once, stop dancing around like idiots!”
Narita pulls her away from the mess of broken glass, one careful arm around her waist, steering her toward the couch despite her half-hearted protests.
“I didn’t mean to–” Mai starts, then groans, dropping her face into her hands.
“I know, let me clean up that mess,” he says calmly, already crouching to gather the scattered shards, practiced and steady even as Mai continues to vibrate with emotion.
Mai exhales dramatically and flops back against the cushions, arms thrown wide. “I had a plan, Kazuhito.”
Narita hums in acknowledgment, sweeping the last of the glass into a dustpan. “You always do.”
Futakuchi watches the exchange with something like fond disbelief, the scene settling into his bones alongside the lingering warmth of Aone at his side. He glances up at him, a grin tugging at his lips despite the residual heat in his cheeks.
The whole thing–Mai’s dramatic despair, Narita’s quiet competence, the party's faded buzz around them–feels unreal in the best way. He glances up at Aone, who meets his eyes with that quiet, almost imperceptible smile that speaks volumes. Despite the lingering heat in his own cheeks, Futakuchi can’t help but grin, the disbelief in his expression softening into something more tender.
He tilts his head, resting it lightly against Aone’s shoulder, letting himself absorb the steady warmth there, the solidity that has always been his anchor even when he didn’t fully admit it to himself. Aone doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to. The closeness alone is affirmation enough, a quiet promise that this moment, messy and chaotic as it is, belongs entirely to them.
“Worth it,” he whispers, the words almost lost to the soft hum of voices and distant music.
Aone doesn’t reply with words. He doesn’t need to. He just lifts a hand to Futakuchi's side, holding him close in a way that finally feels allowed.
Futakuchi lets himself take it in fully—the lingering warmth, the faint scent of Aone’s cologne, the residual thrill of the kiss still tingling on his lips, the quiet chaos of the apartment around them.
Somehow, despite the mess, the chaos, the broken glass, it feels exactly like the kind of holiday magic Mai always promised–messy, loud, unpredictable, and entirely, wonderfully theirs.
Futakuchi lets out a soft, incredulous laugh at the thought.
And then–
"YOU TWO ARE STAYING THE NIGHT HERE!" Mai’s voice cuts through everything like a fire alarm.
Futakuchi jolts, lifting his head, eyes widening. “What?”
Mai has already bolted upright on the couch, pointing at them with alarming conviction. “No arguments. None."
Narita straightens from where he’s set the dustpan aside, sighing softly as he wipes his glasses on his shirt. “Mai…”
“They are staying,” she insists, nodding to herself like she’s settled international policy.
"I feel fine! I can walk ho-" Futakuchi starts, instinctively bristling.
Aone gives a small nod, cutting in over Futakuchi's protest. “We’ll stay.”
Futakuchi turns to stare at him, mouth opening and closing once before he manages, "Huh?"
Aone nods, expression steady but soft around the edges. “It’s late." His gaze flicks briefly to Mai, who’s watching them like a hawk. “It’ll make her happy.”
Futakuchi splutters, a retort forming and dissolving all at once. He looks between Mai–clearly prepared to fight this to the death–and Narita, who is already giving him an apologetic look that says there is no winning this. The protest drains out of him as Aone’s hand settles, reassuringly, at his side.
“…Fine,” he mutters.
Mai gasps triumphantly, clapping her hands once. “Yes! The guest room has fresh sheets. Kazu, get the extra blankets."
Narita sighs, shaking his head with fond resignation.
Futakuchi glances up at Aone again, something warm and incredulous curling in his chest.
“…Guess we’re staying,” he murmurs.
Aone nods once, calm as ever. “Looks like it.”
And for the first time all night, Futakuchi doesn’t feel the urge to argue.