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Izuna got up early, already way too energetic. Too much energy, too early, too many bad ideas. He pulled on a T-shirt, some sneakers, and decided to go running in the park — worst plan of the year.
The sun was barely starting to show. The air was still cool. Izuna was running like a happy idiot, until a guy with a god-tier ass, straight down from heaven, appeared right in front of him.
The guy’s shoulders looked like they could carry tons with both arms. A pair of shorts that hugged his round, firm ass pretty well, and thighs that had clearly known something other than the couch. His long brown hair, a little messy, was tied in a high, undone ponytail. It swung against his back with every stride.
Izuna followed close behind because… it was weird, a little stalker-ish even, but the view was so beautiful.
His brain dropped everything else. No more path. No more trees. No more poles. Just those shorts, that lower back, and that gait that rolled his hips, muscles rippling under his tanned skin.
Izuna’s gaze stayed stuck too low, too long. He didn’t see the pole.
Bang.
His forehead hit the metal. The world did a little spin. He stepped back, eyes wide, one hand already on his skull.
“Ow— fucking pole.”
The guy in front of him stopped dead, turned around, and looked at him with a mix of concern and amusement. From the front, it was even worse. Tall. Broad frame. Open face, a little tanned, a mouth that smiled easily. Warm brown eyes, almost too light in the morning sun. On his cheeks, a pink trace of tiredness from the run.
Izuna forgot the pole. Then the ground. Then his dignity.
“You didn’t miss it,” said the guy Izuna had identified as “the sexy ass.”
“Yeah, I didn’t see it,” Izuna answered, still a bit dazed, tapping his forehead.
“And yet it’s pretty wide,” he said, laughing, in a fairly calm way for a laugh. A low, pleased laugh, not mocking. The kind of laugh that made you want to take a second pole just to hear it again.
“I… yeah.”
Hashirama took a step closer. Even standing still, even stopped, he took up space. The T-shirt was a little stuck to his chest from the run. Izuna tried to look elsewhere. Failed. He was just there, staring at that divine sight.
“Shit, your nose is bleeding. Does it hurt?”
“What?! It’s your fault, you’re too hot.”
Blood was already running down his lip.
“Shit, you’re bleeding harder. Tilt your head up,” Hashirama said, gently lifting Izuna’s face. His fingers were warm. Broad. Careful, as if he were afraid of hurting him a little more.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t worry,” he answered, pulling a light-blue handkerchief from his pocket. “My little brother often has nose veins that burst, so he often has a bloody nose.”
“Oh, I see.”
“You too, apparently.”
Izuna would have liked to disappear. Or bite the handkerchief. Both options were equal.
“I’ll wait for it to stop,” Hashirama said, cleaning his face, then folding the handkerchief and sliding the part without blood into his nose.
They stayed there, in the middle of the park, like two idiots. A jogger passed by. But didn’t stop to help them. Izuna still felt the shock of the pole and the presence of the guy who was too tall, too close.
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
After half an hour that, in reality, had lasted less than that, Hashirama crouched a little to be at his height. His hair slid over his shoulder. Izuna saw the line of his jaw closer, the sweat in the hollow of his neck.
“Anyway, what’s your name? Because calling you ‘the guy who runs into poles’ is getting long to say in my head.”
“Izuna. And you are… because I also have a nickname that, honestly, didn’t bother me: nice ass.”
Hashirama blinked. Then he laughed, shoulders shaking, head a little tilted.
“Hashirama.”
“Nice to meet you, Hashirama.”
“Same, Izuna.”
Silence came back. Izuna felt the blood dry. His T-shirt was already a disaster.
“Shit, I’m covered in blood.”
“I would have walked you, but I’m in a hurry.”
“Don’t worry, you’ve already done a lot,” Izuna said, holding out the handkerchief.
Hashirama took it, looked at it for a second, then gave it back right after doing who-knows-what with it. His fingers brushed Izuna’s. Enough for Izuna’s brain to go haywire.
“You can keep it. I have to go. See you next time, Izuna.”
He threw him one last smile, that one a little more charming, then set off again. Izuna followed him with his eyes until he disappeared behind the trees, like a problem you hadn’t asked for and clearly weren’t going to give back.
Izuna looked at the handkerchief. While crumpling it to try to put it back in his pocket, a paper sound caught his attention.
“What’s this?”
A note, folded any which way, already a little creased from Hashirama’s pocket:
“Here’s my phone number. Call me. And if you feel like giving me my clean handkerchief back, here’s my address. Rue du Pays des Feuilles, n°8 78600”
Izuna read it twice. Three times. His heart did a stupid thing.
“Ah fuck, I have to go home, yes! LONG LIVE LAUNDRY!”
A neighbor, from the window, yelled back, “SHUT UP, FUCK, IT’S ONLY 6:30 IN THE MORNING!”
Izuna went home running almost as hard as on the way there, the handkerchief clutched like a dubious treasure. At his place, the smell of coffee and a familiar silence welcomed him.
“Yo, Madara.”
Madara looked up from what he was doing, saw the dried blood, the bump, the idiot smile, and already frowned.
“You look happy. Did something happen?”
“Uh, no no. I’m just happy to do laundry,” Izuna said, going off to wash the handkerchief as if he were holding the relic of a particularly well-built saint.
He put on water. Soap. And rubbed with suspicious concentration. The paper, he had already hidden elsewhere. Madara watched him walk away, then glanced at the reddish bump on his forehead.
“He must have caught rabies, or something like that. That’s the only explanation.”
The end.