Work Text:
Matsukawa wraps his arms around himself to beat away the cold, and resists the urge to yell every foul word under the sun.
… Or the moon. Or even the clouds.
Given that it’s two in the goddamn morning.
Sure, he grumbles, this will be something to laugh about in years to come. He’ll retell this story after a long day at his dream job, belly full of something other than instant coffee and ramen. Friends will guffaw at this magnificent tale, his brain won’t be buzzing with caffeine, he’ll have paid off every vicious college debt: all will be well with the world. Chuck a few rainbow unicorns in there for the hell of it. Why not?
Another fire engine skids past him, splashing him with dirty water from the gutter. There goes that fantasy.
Attempting to distract himself from the rainwater squelching in his shoes, he casts his eyes around the front of his apartment building, meeting the vacant gazes of many a sodden classmate. Either studying or the rain has numbed their consciousness. Matsukawa can’t really blame them – he’s going to have to go to a therapist himself, after all the stress caused by his psychology course – and it’s not the first night this week he’s been up until the small hours of the morning. It’s not the first time he’s been in this situation, either, but at least they previously got to stay in the foyer.
Matsukawa has a test tomorrow. A test he really needs to pass. And he’s out here with his feet freezing to the pavement, because some god damn idiot tripped the fire alarm.
Ear-splitting sirens start up again and he almost whines, realising that he’s likely going to be stuck out here until this stupid building with a distinct lack of flames or smoke is cleared. Hours on end, with no access to the notes that hold the key to passing his exams. Or, to be exact, the only exam that will ever matter ever again: the end-of-course one, the end-of-four-years-of-hell one, the one that determines if he graduates or not. And despite all looks and appearances, Matsukawa really wants to graduate. He’s had enough of 6am classes and cup ramen, thank you very much.
Vehicles whirl in and out of the parking lot – he wonders which neighbour was actually stupid enough to call the fire brigade, as if this situation wasn’t ridiculous enough – and Matsukawa hops from toe to toe, wondering if dropping out and living in a box somewhere would really be that bad.
(It’s all very well telling stupid stories at the future dinner table, he decides, if you have enough money to pay for one in the first place.)
‘Third time this week,” a voice from behind him gripes, doing a fantastic job of voicing Matsukawa’s thoughts. “Someone has to own up to this, or else I’m going to commit homicide – or at least move the fuck out of here, anything’s better than this, even Oikawa, maybe he’ll take me in –“
The voice is haggard, monotonous, and maybe it’s the signs of a kindred spirit that prompt Matsukawa to turn around. Or perhaps it’s the flatness, the absolute lack of intonation that lets him know that he is not alone. At least one other person is as done with this as he is.
But anyway, Matsukawa looks round. And – heaven help him – he’s greeted with the guy from a couple of apartments down, the guy who dyes his hair to look like a strawberry for reasons unbeknownst, looking so disgruntled, so bedraggled, so akin to a drowning cat, that it almost makes him laugh out loud.
The guy is barefoot, wearing only a towel. And the look on his face might turn Matsukawa to stone.
(It does not help that he is the hot neighbour in all the rom-coms Matsukawa definitely does not watch. The neighbour of well-timed jokes at dinner parties; creampuffs for Friday classes, awful renditions of Musical songs and an aura of such mysteriousness that Matsukawa has never drummed up the nerve to talk to him.
Or just an aura of having nice legs, as Iwaizumi puts it when Matsukawa gets a little too gay after drinks at 3am.
The point is, Matsukawa has had a crush on this neighbour since he moved in – approximately three whole months ago – and he’s never spoken to him since.)
And so, faced with this hot, inexplicably be-towelled goddess (because who is someone with strawberry-pink hair if not a goddess?) and threatened with the vicious jaws of first impressions, Matsukawa does what Matsukawa does best.
Makes a complete and utter fool of himself.
“So,” he begins, immediately wanting to crawl into a hole and die. “I noticed you’re kind of naked. Was that intentional, or…?”
If he thought the Medusa glare before was bad, he knows he hasn’t seen anything yet.
***
Half an hour later, against all Matsukawa’s hopes and dreams, they are still standing outside. It is still raining. And because the universe seems to particularly hate him today, he is still making a fool of himself in front of aforementioned hot neighbour.
Thankfully, hot neighbour – Hanamaki, as Matsukawa now knows him – has quite the penchant for stupid conversation. Any sense of self-reservation he may have harboured is leaking away with the shampoo still adorning his head – not a glimpse of the creampuffs-on-Fridays angel remains, replaced with nothing but pure sarcasm and hatred, a good match for Matsukawa’s constant state of being. Given that this is two in the morning and common sense has evacuated alongside the residents, there’s no awkwardness between them: no sense of hi-I’m-the-guy-who’s-never-spoken-to-you-and-has-a-massive-crush-on-you-anyway, for which he is eternally glad. Even in a bath towel and goosebumps littering his skin, Hanamaki looks good; so in a desperate effort to stay sane, Matsukawa makes conversation the only way he knows how.
Roasting.
“What happened to your hair, Hanamaki? It looks like a creampuff melted on your head.”
“You wound me. May as well stop fiddling with yours, anyway: it looks stupid. You look stupid.”
“Witty. At least I’m not the one standing outside in a bath towel.”
“I was taking. a fucking. shower.”
But Hanamaki has no concept of danger (or maybe the rain has just washed it away), and is therefore unafraid to take the piss out of Matsukawa for just about any reason he can find. This immediately demotes him from ‘unattainable fantasy’ to ‘prey for the taking’, and oh god, Matsukawa is not going to let him off easy.
(It is also, Matsukawa discovers, a great way to get to know each other.)
“Don’t do that thing,” Hanamaki mutters, shivering beneath his towel.
“What thing?” Matsukawa queries, wiggling his eyebrows just to see the reaction. He knows he may be lacking in many areas of life, but eyebrows are not one of them: they are magnificent, quite the contrast to Hanamaki’s apparent brow deficiency. Having discovered that this is a topic of extreme sensitivity, Matsukawa is not willing to let it slide. He wiggles them again.
“That,” Hanamaki replies instantly, voice a reflection of his dying inner self. Matsukawa does it a third time, and he closes his eyes, feigning an expression of utter disgust. “I feel like I’m being assaulted.”
“Come on, I know you’re just jealous because you don’t have any.”
"At least they don't look like they've got something living in them."
Mattsun arches an offending brow in reply, and Hanamaki groans.
“I thought we’d moved past this. I thought we were friends." He runs his hands through soapy hair, bubbles dripping from his nose. "Best bros, developing a bond that only slights on my facial hair could break. And then you go and stab me in the back like this. Goddammit, Mattsun, I thought I could trust you.” He opens one eye to unleash the Medusa glare, then closes it again. Matsukawa snorts. “I can’t deal with this anymore. It’s too late – early? – for this shit. Begone.”
But ‘Mattsun’, as he has now been dubbed, is still talking. “Maybe it’s because you’re so attracted to my eyebrows. You feel obliged to hide your feelings under such a thick coat of cutting remarks.”
Hanamaki wiggles his toes, now adorned in Mattsun’s orange socks – which is not weird, he tells himself, it’s just because I don’t have any shoes; thank god it’s June and not December. He shivers again. “Oh, a thick coat. That sounds really good right about now.”
Matsukawa smirks and tugs at the strings of his volleyball hoodie. “You mean like this one?”
“Fuck you, Mattsun.”
“Makki-chan, so tsundere.”
“Take your damn eyebrows into the burning building and see if I care.”
Matsukawa gasps, slapping a hand to his chest in mock offence.
“Now that, Hanamaki, was going too far.”
But it doesn’t stop him laughing at Hanamaki’s pleased smirk, nor does it stop him shedding the hoodie in order to save the other boy’s ‘appendages’, as he calls them, from dropping off. The expression on Hanamaki’s face immediately turns from internal death to immense gratitude, and he tugs it on over his head and sighs. “I may be a towel-wearing idiot,” he deadpans, struggling to keep the towel around his waist.Don’t look at his ass, Matsukawa. Don't look at it. “But now I’m a towel-wearing idiot with a pullover.”
What the fuck, Mattsun thinks eloquently. He’s wearing my hoodie. And I’m freezing, but holy hell does he look cute.
Hanamaki looks up from the wonder of warm pockets to flash a beautiful smile (or a shit-eating grin, but hey, someone’s in love) and Matsukawa thinks he’s going to swoon. He can feel the tips of his ears turning red. “Thanks, Mattsun. What a gentleman you are.”
If Makki says one more cute thing, Matsukawa might explode. It’s time to take action.
“You don’t have any eyebrows. I had to take pity.”
“Son of a b-”
Did Matsukawa say action? He’s pretty sure he meant revenge.
Makki throws the hoodie back, face twisting into a look of such disgust that Mattsun bursts out laughing. And he doesn’t stop, until a fireman comes round with armfuls of blankets, smiles and apologies, and gives the last one to Hanamaki – leaving Mattsun out in the cold.
Needless to say, he is not the one laughing now.
(Though, once Makki’s done wheezing, he invites him under the blanket as well. And although there’s plenty of groaning about the loss of study time, plenty of elbowing in the ribs – “Ugh, you cannot seriously be singing Christmas songs in June,” “Just Let it Go, dude,” – and plenty of slights on both parties’ eyebrows, Mattsun’s never been happier to be stuck outside at 3am.
He’s uncomfortably close to a pair of attractive and very naked legs. It’s still absolutely freezing, despite the fact it’s the middle of summer. The warmth of Hanamaki next to him as they laugh over nonsense might be a little too much for his gay heart to handle.
But when the all-clear finally sounds and the cheers go up around the parking lot, Matsukawa can’t stop a bubble of disappointment swelling in his chest – and something tells him Hanamaki can’t quite either.)
***
The pause in front of his apartment door is probably what does it.
“I suppose I should give you your jumper back,” Makki says, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot and looking anywhere but Matsukawa’s face. The easy insults and jokes of earlier have vanished, replaced with gappy conversation: an unspoken agreement that neither of them want to say goodbye just yet, but can’t quite figure out what else to say.
“Urgh, no, it’s got your shower germs on it. Take it away,” Matsukawa sniffs, maturity levels dropping to those of a grade schooler's. Hanamaki huffs exasperatedly, holding out the offending garment, still clad in a towel and luminescent orange socks.
“Dude. You literally stood under the same blanket as me for an hour, insulting my eyebrows to within an inch of their lives, while I wore nothing but a towel and this damn pullover. It is now three o’clock in the morning. I’m sure you can deal with a damp hoodie.” Matsukawa blinks at this outburst, registering the hilarious likeness between Makki and an angry cat. The feline continues. “Judging by how much groaning you did about this psychology exam, I’m sure you have better things to worry about.”
Hanamaki’s voice is as flat as his ridiculous strawberry hair, tinged with something that seems like disappointment, and Matsukawa sighs before reaching for the sweatshirt. “Fine,” he says, and he's just about to take it, when that grin, that beautiful shit-eating grin spreads all over Makki’s face and he sprints off ridiculously, towel and orange socks flapping, yelling ‘too late!’ at the top of his lungs.
Talk about a dramatic exit.
Matsukawa looks after him, laughing despite himself at the hot neighbour-come-massive dork-come-owner of the world’s most non-existent pair of eyebrows, who’s made him realise that maybe a tripped fire alarm isn’t the worst thing to ever happen after all. And after he’s done yelling (and after the superintendent has informed him that if he doesn’t stop making a racket he will be spending the rest of the night outside regardless of whether there’s a fire or not), he enters his apartment with the inexplicable notion that, somehow, he’s not going to get much revision done after all.
***
(He’s right.)
At approximately 3:30 am, with the dreaded exam looming less than six hours away, Matsukawa finally sits down to study. But when the knocking on his door reaches his ears, he can’t stop the grin from plastering itself all over his face.
Goddammit Makki. Are you trying to make me fail?
(“Forgot my key,” hot neighbour says tersely when Mattsun comes to the door, despite the fact that he’s now – regrettably, as Mattsun’s brain supplies – fully dressed, and his hair no longer resembles a drowned rat.
“Sure you did,” Matsukawa replies as he lets him in, pointedly ignoring the glint of metal in the other boy’s back pocket because no, he is definitely not staring at his ass, and maybe living in a box doesn’t sound so bad if he can live in it with a Hanamaki too.)
Hanamaki quirks an eyebrow. Or rather, the patch of skin where an eyebrow should be. But Matsukawa only grins, because he’s run out of ways to insult them; and after three months of pining (orstalking, as Iwaizumi deadpans in his mind) he’s finally, finally spoken to his hot neighbour crush. And spent the night with him too.
What do you know? It only took a fire alarm to get him to do it.
“Damn, Mattsun, I thought you were smart. Maybe you do need to study.”
At some point during this disaster of a night, Matsukawa has thrown caution to the wind. Maybe it was when he’d nearly fallen over trying to get his socks off of wet toes. Maybe it was the insults, traded at an hour far too late for interaction. Or perhaps it was even before that, when he’d first turned round and saw a kindred spirit in the rain, expression akin to a dying cat and dressed only in a dripping bath towel.
Common sense has gone out the window tonight. And so, apparently, has Mattsun’s brain.
“The only thing I’m studying right now is that fine ass of yours, my friend.”
(Judging by the look on Hanamaki’s face, he’ll have a lot of time to think of new insults, anyway.)