Work Text:
“We don't need a whole carton of ice cream, y’know,” Ichimatsu mumbles; in fact, you can barely hear him with your head plunged in one of the grocery store freezers. “We could've just gotten some from the convenience store. Or the ice cream shop.” Admittedly, he had a point—you were only craving ice cream right now, not tomorrow or the rest of the week. But it was still worth the walk, and he’d still agreed to come with you.
“It’s cheaper this way,” you reason with him, straining to reach one of the cartons in the back. You’d come to learn that farther behind they were, the colder they’d be—and the less likely they’d be to melt on the walk back home. “And it’s fun to make our own anyway. Besides…” You resurface, tub in hand, and nod toward the line of registers at the front of the store. “Self-checkout means we don't have to talk to anybody.”
Ichimatsu, ever the silent helper, holds out the shopping basket for you, and his eyes seem to widen at your remark—maybe in surprise, maybe in relief. His shoulders slacken, but his muscles are tense with the added weight. He has a habit of conceding by just barely changing the subject, and this time, he chews his lip and looks off to the side. “Let’s get sprinkles, too,” he says, rummaging through the front pocket of his sweater. “And sugar cones.”
Your reply is nothing but a soft smile and a bump of your shoulders before you shuffle down the aisle together, and there's a strange comfort in hearing the drag of Ichimatsu’s sandals in time with the pop punk blasting over the speakers. He tags along behind you with few words to spare, even as you check out, but he makes it a point to tug at your sleeve and drop a few coins into your palm.
“Just take it,” he says in spite of your protests, his fist already closed and back in his pocket, and you shove the change into your wallet, but not without a pointed look.
You're used to walking with him in silence; you figure that if neither of you has to say anything, then small talk is moot. You've never had to carry conversation when you wander through the city together, ducking into alleyways to feed and keep company with stray cats, or when you recline on floors or couches to watch viral cat videos on your smartphone. You say plenty now with the subtle way you lean into him as you walk. And he talks back with how he matches his steps to yours and coaxes the shopping bag from your grip into his when the handle digs too deeply into your fingers. With how he waits at a patient, respectful distance while you unlock the door to your apartment, even though he pretends not to care one way or the other.
Your cat greets you with a long string of purrs, weaving in and out of your legs. Ichimatsu is sure to kneel down and delicately scratch under her chin while you stumble into the kitchen, shopping bag back in your hands. He is kind of cute like that, asking about her day under his breath, and he’s certainly put in the effort over the months of your friendship to get on her good side. To be fair, it didn't take long, with his almost terrifyingly natural affinity for cats, but it's still more than you can say about most people.
“C’mon,” you call from the kitchen, leaning against the counter. You hope, in the moments after Ichimatsu meets your eyes, that the look on your face isn't too adoring. “We’ll make them together.”
He looks like he wants to protest, like a child who want to watch just one more show before bed, but he gives in, getting to his feet and joining you in the kitchen. He hangs back at first, only observing you from the doorway as you pry the lid off the ice cream carton, but as the seconds pass, he comes to stand beside you and work at un boxing the sugar cones.
“We don't usually do this,” he murmurs; the thing about his usual silence is that the times he does talk betrays his comfort around you. “We just go to the shop. Or make shaved ice at home.”
“First time for everything,” you say in return, and then, “I’ve never had shaved iced before.”
Ichimatsu shrugs. “‘S good with syrup. Or fruit and red bean paste. That’s how they make it in South Korea, I think.”
“Yeah? Have you ever been?”
“Nah.” He makes slow work of the bag, like he’s afraid to admit something. He’s always afraid to admit something. “Never left the country before.”
This time you're the one to shrug before you reach for the ice cream scoop. “Staying around home is comfortable, too, isn't it?”
Ichimatsu chews his lip. “It’s fine,” he says in that tone that means he really doesn't want to talk about it anymore, and takes out a single cone. You eye it skeptically, then him, and he looks away with a tug of his hood over his head.
“Do you want to share one?” you ask.
He answers by cinching his hood shut and insisting that he doesn't want a lot, anyway. You add an extra scoop, just in case, and try to convince yourself that there’s nothing weird about the whole thing. It’s not like you've never let him finish your leftover food before, or the other way around.
Still, there’s something endearing about he dunks the ice cream cone directly into the tub of rainbow sprinkles, and how he hands off the cone to you while he finishes cleaning up. He joins you on the couch soon after, curled up against the armrest with his hood back down, and you pass the cone back and forth amid idly scrolling through social media apps and thumbing through the books on your coffee table.
And it’s comfortable like this. To know that this is all the two of you need to be satisfied. To stave off the pressure of having to be exciting all the time in favor of being absorbed in your own worlds. To be secure in having each other close by all the same. To know that you're both thinking that this is what people would call an “indirect kiss” and fuss over, and that you're both too far gone to care. Friendship in mint chocolate chip is a little more important than staged intimacy, or so you'd like to think.
“I have to go grocery shopping in a few days,” you mention offhand long moments into the mutual silence. You don't bother to look up from your phone.
Which is just as well, because Ichimatsu’s distracted with flicking the dog-eared pages of an old paperback. “And?” he says, but you can hear the wry smile in his voice. He takes the first bite into the sugar cone, then hands it off to you.
“And you should come with me,” you tell him with a nudge to his ankle. “It’s more fun that way.”
He pauses for a moment. Scoffs under his breath. “That's a pretty weird way to ask someone on a date, huh.”
You blink. “You want it to be a date?”
Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Ichimatsu stiffen, pages creasing in his grip. “Never mind,” he mumbles through gritted teeth, so it sounds more like a growl. And you're back to scrolling, to flipping, to biting the cone down to a nub, until you fidget in your seat. Had it been a mistake? Had he meant it in a romantic way, or just a friend way? How long had he thought about it, anyway? Was he thinking about it as much as you were?
“It can be a date,” you say after a while, more to your phone screen than to him. “If you want, I mean.”
Ichimatsu quirks his lips, puts the book aside when your cat leaps up into his lap. “You don't have to say that just ‘cause you pity me for saying something dumb.”
“I mean it,” you insist, because truth be told, you wouldn't mind it. It’s not like you could see yourself going on a date with anyone else. Like anyone else made you that comfortable to begin with. Or like these things have to be huge fusses like in the movies. Sometimes all it is is food and a pet and an accident and a moment of quiet genuineness.
You stuff your phone into your pocket and turn to face him, the half-eaten base of the ice cream cone between thumb and forefinger. “We can go on a date to the grocery store.”
He’s still petting your cat while his eyes dart between your hand and your face. Like he’s weighing the options in his head before he makes any sudden movements. Like you caught him with his pants down (and you suppose you did, proverbially) and he’s mentally flipping through every excuse in the book. Until finally, he slumps back against the couch. Takes the rest of the cone from your hand. Pops it into his mouth and chews slowly, probably to buy himself a little more time.
“Suit yourself,” he says, tugging his hood back up. “It’s your funeral.”
He doesn't change the subject.