futakuchi fanclub

content:

profiles!

yns circle! || tōru and friends!

chapters:

(names + number of chapters are subject to change) Prologue 00: a rocky start.

01: my hero!

03: wait, what's your name?

04: the day, together. 05: what is grief, if not love persevering?

06: the boy from the train.

07: argentina.

08: what makes you, you? 09: i’ll be seeing you.

10: oikawa tōru.

You stifle a laugh at his groan as he grabs at his throbbing foot for but a second before continuing to squeeze through the large sum of people. Feeling his fingers slip on your puffer jacket, he wastes no time in practically yanking you forward, determined to not lose his grip, causing you to let out a yelp as your forehead collides with his shoulder. 

Rubbing at your forehead, you look up at the brunette, expecting him to at least mumble an apology, but are met with him simply eyeing overtop the crowd—likely to view where the crowd was the most scattered, he could see above most people after all—as if he didn’t just send you crashing headfirst into his surprisingly hard shoulder.

“Excuse me?” 

“Hm?”

“Don’t ‘hm?’ me! You could at least apologise for giving me permanent brain damage.” You make a point to hyperbolize the pain, as though it wasn’t already fading away. Only to be met with Futakuchi's index finger flicking at your forehead, just once, just enough for you to feel the graze of his (now dried) blood around his fingernail as it striked you. When did that happen?

“Don’t be ungrateful, you were the one begging me to come and help you survive this evening rush.” He said, attempting to sound annoyed, but the smirk on his face—now turned away—gave him away. Almost as if he was amused with the fact you wanted his presence so bad.

Not bothering to dignify him with a response, you decide to keep your mouth shut. Only speaking up after a few minutes of him incessantly adjusting his grip around your arm. “Are you planning on stopping anytime soon?”

“Don’t get mad at me cause you wore something that's impossible to grab on.” He said, making a point to adjust his grip with a little more fervor, making you roll your eyes.

You just barely manage to stop yourself from hitting his back upon noticing him suddenly halt at an emptier part of the mall. Just as you’re about to question him, he turns to face you, holding his hand out expectedly. “This’ll be easier.” 

Lowering your gaze to his open palm, you struggle to miss the clear calluses and bruising stretched from his fingers, all the way down to the end of his palm. Making you wince instinctively, almost in pity.

Futakuchi, however, pays it little mind, already so used to seeing his hands dirtied up. He raises an eyebrow and holds his hand out a little closer to you. “Well? Let's get a move on.” He probes, letting out an exasperated sigh at your silence.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, though you’re unsure why. Probably out of discomfort, yeah, definitely. It’d be uncomfortable to hold his hands, probably.

As you shake your head, Futakuchi cocks his head to the side, confused. “What? Is there a problem?”

“Nope, but I just… don’t feel like holding hands.”

That makes him let out a heavy groan. “Well I don’t feel like grabbing on your arm for dear life and having to adjust my grip every two seconds, this’ll be easier.” 

“No thanks.” You smile innocently.

“You know we’re gonna lose each other in this crowd,” he says peremptorily, a deadpanned expression plastered across his face. “I’d also rather not have to file a lost child report so—”

His words get cut short—or perhaps you simply don’t get to hear them with how a stampede of people suddenly dart between the two of you, and while you don’t recall consciously moving your feet, the next moment you get a moment to breathe, you’re in a part of the mall you can safely say you don’t recognise. At all. Leaving you with just your phone.

It takes him a good fifteen minutes to find you based on your rather vague description of your surroundings, and a lecture that was hard to take seriously when coming from him.

The dried blood around his fingernail is still there.

You wonder if it hurts Futakuchi when he spikes a ball. Such force slamming against a hard surface can’t be beneficial to his already prevalently callused palm.

Though it’s only when you watch his hand gliding through the air to stick onto his hip as he regards you, do you realise you’ve stopped paying attention to your homework.

But as you swiftly lower your eyes to the textbook resting atop your knees, pages only still spread open by your non dominant hand splayed across the middle of it does your focus shift away once more.

Almost as if expecting something, you squeeze the aforementioned hand into a fist, releasing it after a moment. Nothing. Is that the case for Futakuchi too? Even with the new bruise you (shamefully) had instantly noticed blooming across his index finger the moment you walked into the gym today?

“Yoohoo, anyone home?” You hadn’t even noticed his approach until he began flailing his uninjured hand in front of your face. Though, you’re not sure if you could call it uninjured, not with the calluses clearly visible on his palm, and with the gauze he’d applied yesterday after a nasty block binding his ring and middle finger together.

Snapping your eyes away from his fingers, you meet his gaze sharply. “What?”

He shrugs, crouching in front of you as his forearms lean on his knees. “Nothing, you were just staring off into space, and I’m gonna need your homework answers, so it benefits me if you get your work done.” He simpered.

You roll your eyes, flicking his forehead in the same manner you recalled him doing to you back at the mall a few days ago, only in this case, your index finger is completely fine. “Do your own work.”

“I’m kidding,” he drawled, mimicking the way you rolled your eyes in an overexaggerated manner. “You know I do my own work.” Not missing your raised eyebrow he sighed. “Most of the time.”

Giggling, your hand instinctively comes up to your mouth as you do, the textbook on your knees bouncing by the action as he laughs in tandem.

The two of you are only pulled away from the situation as Kogenegawa calls out ‘captain!’ in the endearing, lost puppy manner he’d always had. Causing Futakuchi to perk up, glancing back at the court as he stands up and jogs back on the court.

You don’t miss the way his bruised finger was tucked as he waved goodbye to you.

Similarly to how he doesn’t miss you mimic him, your index finger curling into the edge of the page of your textbook, though he found it hard to tell whether or not it was a conscious effort on your part.

As you approach the night market side by side with Aone, your eyes immediately find Futakuchi’s, and you can’t help but notice the way he almost instantly looked away, opting to breathe into his clasped hands.

He’s wearing gloves, leaving the state of his palms a total mystery, and you can’t help but frown as your fingers dig deeper into the pockets of your coat. You forgot your gloves, having left in such a hurry.

“You guys finally made it.” Futakuchi finally says as the two of you draw closer to the rest of the team, snow crunching beneath your guys’ feet. Straightening up, Futakuchi places his hands on his hips, though he only looks at Aone as he speaks. “Took you long enough.”

Aone simply bows his head silently as a way to apologise, the beanie on his head slipping into his eyes for a moment. But you don’t notice, eyes fixed on Futakuchi. Especially his gloved hands.

Eyes narrowing, you can’t help but wonder if he’d moisturised his hands that laid beneath the thick, knitted gloves on his hands. The cold weather could crack the many calluses atop them.

A crystallined snowflake landing on the bridge of your nose jolts you out of your thoughts, just enough to process the fact Sakunami was speaking to you, though his words barely reached you. As if he was underwater. 

Something about heading further into the festival, and the way he tilted his head to the side made it lucid that he was asking a question.

Not wanting to ask him to repeat himself, you simply nod—your frigid lips brushing against the inside of your scarf—and by a stroke of luck, you seem to have answered appropriately, with the way the others smile and begin making their way towards the bustle of the crowd.

Not wanting to be left behind, you quicken your steps, just enough to be close enough in the team's vicinity as you walk behind the rest of them, shrouded in your own thoughts.

You never noticed the way Futakuchi’s eyes would look back to get a glimpse of you and your lack of gloves, made apparent by the slither of your wrist sticking out from your pocket, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he looked away before anyone would spot him.

Were you really that interested in his hands?

That's the question that popped in your head as your feet absentmindedly carried you along the sides of the market, bathed in warm lighting and engulfed in lively chatter. Though those all slipped to the back of your mind when you lifted your head.

Breathing out, a small cloud of breath vapour fading into the air as quickly as it came. You find your eyes on the back of Futakuchi's head.

‘No, I’m not interested.’ You remind yourself, eyes squeezed shut as you shake your head hard enough for passersby to glance in your direction, puzzled. But you don’t notice, or care as you open your eyes once more, eyes trained on his brown hair, twinkling warmly as small snowflakes fall from it, his ears tinted red from what you presume to be the cold.

Lowering your stare, you stick a hand out from one of your pockets. Your fingers had gone red, and your nails brittle. It reminded you of him, admittedly. The mere comparison bringing a flush to your cheeks that hadn’t a thing to do with the cold weather.

Curious, you find yourself curling the trembling fingers into an experimental fist, at which you wince, biting your bottom lip just hard enough that a coppery taste floods into your mouth. How could he manage something like that on the daily?

You attempt to bring your eyes to his gloved hands, but your view is obstructed by the other guys walking between the two of you. But as your eyes land on one ungloved hand, you raise an eyebrow. 

His is just as damaged as Futakuchi’s, bruises, cracked calluses, and gauze decorated his hand. In fact, his is even worse than you’ve ever seen Futakuchi’s.

The revelation hits you like a bucket of ice cold water, how come you’d never noticed? You were hanging around the team constantly, yet you only seemed to notice when Futakuchi had knuckles split and bloodied from some careless, sudden move, causing them to scab and bleed, scab again, healing in time, only for the cycle to repeat.

You find yourself incapable of looking anymore, instead you just watch your feet carry across the heavy snow, dipping gently under your steps as the warm lamps colouring it made it seem more like the glistening stars overhead.

You don’t notice how there are far less recognisable footsteps ahead of you, or the way you still hadn’t returned your hand to your pocket, the cold air biting at the skin slowly fading purple as it stayed by your side firmly. Quivering like an autumn leaf desperately clinging to a tree in the harshest of weathers.

Not until you feel a gloved hand grab at your shoulder from behind. Harsh, gentle, and recognisable all at once. Enough to make your head turn expectedly for a familiar face.

And what a familiar face it is when you crane your neck to find a familiar pair of brown eyes and sideswept hair, dusted with snow. “What’re you doing?” Futakuchi asks, an eyebrow cocked.

You blink, your hand pointing ahead, where the rest of the team was. “Following you guys.” You say, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world as you turn your head back around to look at the crowd, only to find the team gone. Wait, where did they go? When did Futakuchi even get behind you?

“We all wanted to go to different stalls, so we left in pairs. You dummy.” He flicks at your forehead again, the same finger from last time. Only this time the pain is minimised from his knitted gloves covering his hand. 

“Oh.” You say, batting his hand away as you look to the side, bashful at your own absentmindedness and you can already hear the croak in your voice before you even speak. “I didn’t re—” 

“—Realise? I can tell.” He sighs, pulling his hand away from your shoulder. 

“You’ve been so lost in thought ever since you got here,” he comments, of course he noticed. “And you’re the one who’s been looking forward to this the most.”

You huff, digging your hand back into your pocket now that you felt the biting air against it. “Didn’t realise you were such a worrywart.” You tease.

“Usually you’re always nagging when we take too long—reminding us about how we need to get a good spot for the fireworks before they’re all taken.” He states, a finger pointing at the sky.

“And my opinion still stands.”

“Well they’re starting in fifteen minutes.”

“Huh—?” You furrow your eyebrows, mouth agape. 

Were you really zoned out for that long?

As if suddenly immune to the cold, one of your hands flies up to your mouth, aghast. “Why didn’t you say something earlier! We’ll never get a good spot now!” You exclaim as you look over the surroundings, your other hand raising to grab his wrist. Not his hand. 

Hearing him snicker, you turn back to him with a frown. “This isn’t funny!”

He shook the wrist you held, your grasp loosening before soon enough falling to your side once more as he placed a hand on your head, mockingly. “Don’t worry, for I—the amazing, incredible, and devastatingly handsome Futakuchi—have already secured a spot. The rest of the team is waiting there.” 

Letting out a sigh of relief, you smack his chest lightly. “Gosh Futakuchi, you scared me!”

“I know.” He smiles.

You attempt to maintain your angry facade, but the way he’s smiling so boyishly at you makes you unable to stay angry at him. 

Acting as if he won a prize, his gaze softens before he begins to slip his gloves off of his fingers, making your eyebrows furrow. “What’re you doing? It’s cold—”

“Your fingers are turning purple.” He comments bluntly, a smirk on his face before slipping off the other one as well.

Your eyes widen at his statement, looking down at your tremoring fingers, the tips already dusted a faint violet. “Oh!” Your hands fly to return to your coat pockets, but his fingers curl around both of your wrists, stopping you.

His fingers are cracked and cold. You can tell just by the feeling.

Shaking your head, you giggle. “Come on Futakuchi, it's just ‘cause they’ve been out of my pockets so long.” You attempt to reason, but his unamused expression makes you shut up.

“Yeah, but do you want to have your hands in your pockets this whole time? Besides, you want to record the fireworks, don’t you?” He says, releasing one of your wrists to line a glove up with one of your hands.

Too cold—and impatient—to argue, you allow him to slip the glove over your hand with a heavy sigh. “What about you?” You ask, glancing down at his hands.

You find it weird to acknowledge, but it feels a lot more like him when you’re able to view the various damages littered over both of his hands as opposed to when they’re concealed.

He shrugs at your question. “I’ll be fine.” He says before a warmth abruptly engulfs one of your hands as he moves to put the second glove on the other one. The frigidness melting out of your skin, the heat seemingly stretching to your cheeks while you watch his fingers flex as he rushes to put the other glove on.

Once both of your hands have been sufficiently covered, he smiles. “There you go.”

“Thanks.” You breathe, bringing your scarf up higher to hide your grin.

You don’t even realise how long you’ve been standing there until you notice his scarf swaying as he moves to step closer to you, his hand stretched out, palm up. Close enough for you to see the cracked calluses (so he didn’t moisturise them) and bruises covering it. “The fireworks are gonna start soon.” He reminds you. Though the words barely reach you as you scan the outlines of each blemish and injury on his open palm and splayed out fingers.

You wonder why your chest blooms with warmth as you look up at his face, breath vapour fanning from his mouth. Your silence causes a smirk to tug at his lips (and a blush he’d blame on the cold if asked about) as he gives you a onceover.

Flipping his hair with his spare hand dramatically, he chuckles. “Listen, I know I said I’m so very handsome and charming, not to mention way better than the mediocre fireworks you’re so eager for,” he drawls, looking down at you through his eyelashes, “but we should get going.”

Letting out an amused huff, you roll your eyes. “You never said you were charming.”

He blinks. “Yes I did.” 

“No you didn’t.”

“What did I say then?”

“You’re amazing, incredible, and devastatingly handsome.” You answer with ease, batting your eyelashes in an exaggerated manner as your voice raises an octave obnoxiously.

“Wow, how sweet of you. I know I am, but what an honour it is to hear from your lips.” Futakuchi teases, seemingly rejuvenated, making you realise you’d only fallen for his trap.

Just as you’re about to huff, he leans in a little closer, holding his hand out a little more insistingly. “In all seriousness, glad to know you pay so much attention to what I say.” He says, voice smooth as his pupils dance, looking within yours.

Your mouth falls open in an attempt to retort his ridiculous claim, but no words manage to escape as you come to the realisation that it really isn’t that ridiculous.

It’s completely, wholeheartedly true.

And that's the w̶o̶r̶s̶t̶ best part.

Moving his face away from yours, he raises his hand to take its place. A cheery smile on his face, “Come on.” He says, his voice so casual yet inviting all the same. You want to drown in it.

Suppressing a smile, you look back down at your own hand—specifically the glove layering it—with a curious glint in your eye. If you took his hand now, there’d be no direct contact. You wouldn’t feel the calluses, the roughness of his hand, his cold fingers between yours.

That would be good.

No, that should be good.

Right?

And yet, you can't help yourself from quickly taking it off of your hand, reintroducing your hand to the winter air once more, it’s freezing, painful, and aches for nothing more than to go back into the warm chasm it was trapped in before, and it's clear Futakuchi agrees with it, opening his mouth—likely to question your ridiculous action—before the sensation of your fingers, intertwining with his, befalls him.

And for once, he’s the one looking at your hand. A slow, genuine smile creeps onto his features as he looks back in your eyes and tugs you a little closer to him. “Well?”

“Let’s get going, then.” You smile, squeezing his hand, and you have to hold yourself back from giggling as he reciprocates the action.

His hands are callused, dry, and cracked. And they fit perfectly in yours.