#futakuchi fluff

you didn’t mean to cause chaos. really, you didn’t.

it just sort of happened—like the way koganegawa’s serves happen (loudly, disastrously, and with someone screaming in the background).

practice had been dragging on for hours. futakuchi was being, well, futakuchi—loud, smug, endlessly talking about how “date tech’s defense is so solid because i’m solid.” you’d rolled your eyes so hard you almost saw your brain.

but then he dove for a ball that should’ve been impossible to save—face-first, might you add—and somehow popped it perfectly into aone’s hands. and you, for a moment, forgot that he was the most annoying person in the known universe.

“you’re not so bad,” you said absently, handing him a towel as he grinned up at you from the floor.

and that—oh, that was your mistake.

because the moment those words left your mouth, futakuchi froze like you’d just proposed. his grin went from normal-idiot to i just heard angels singing in 4k surround sound.

and then he stood up—dramatically, of course, because futakuchi doesn’t do anything halfway—and turned to the rest of the team like a man delivering world-shaking news.

“everyone shut up!” he announced, voice echoing through the gym. “y/n thinks i’m amazing.” he dramatically flips his imaginary long hair. “sorry losers, i’m taken.”

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

the entire gym went silent.

koganegawa’s serve went flying sideways, smacking sakunami in the head.

aone blinked. very slowly.

you, meanwhile, stood there, towel still in hand, brain buffering like an old computer. “i—what?”

“you heard me,” futakuchi said, tossing his hair back like some 2013 heartthrob. “you think i’m not so bad. that’s basically a love confession.”

“it’s not—”

“too late,” he interrupted, already strutting over to where aone stood like a proud husband. “she said it. my girlfriend thinks i’m great.”

aone tilted his head. “you’re… dating?”

“emotionally, yes,” futakuchi replied, dead serious. “spiritually? we’ve been married for centuries.”

you almost threw the towel at him. “i said one thing—one thing—”

“and it changed my life.”

you groaned, pressing your hands to your face. somewhere behind you, koganegawa was whispering to sakunami, “should we, like… congratulate him?”

sighing, you walked over and smacked futakuchi lightly on the arm. “stop telling people we’re dating.”

“so you admit there are people to tell,” he said with a grin so blinding it could power a small city.

“kenji,” you warned.

he perked up at his name, immediately softening. “you called me kenji.”

“that’s literally your name!”

“still,” he said dreamily, hand over his chest. “sounds different when you say it.”

you stared at him. “you’re unbearable.”

“and yet,” he said, stepping closer, “you’re still here.”

you were still there. stupidly. unreasonably. maybe because futakuchi’s grin, when it wasn’t plastered on like a showman’s mask, was actually kind of sweet. and maybe because, even under all the bravado, you could see how his ears flushed pink whenever you looked at him for more than a second.

you crossed your arms. “you’re lucky i tolerate you.”

“you adore me,” he said immediately. “don’t even lie.”

you scoffed. “keep dreaming.”

“i will,” he replied, and something about the way he said it—soft, sincere, almost shy—made your stomach flutter in a way you were not prepared to deal with.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

later, while the boys were scrimmaging, you caught him glancing your way between plays. every time he blocked a spike, his head would swivel toward you—just to check if you’d seen it.

when you finally gave him a small thumbs-up from the bench, he practically glowed. like actually glowed. sakunami muttered that he was “so disgustingly in love it’s throwing off the team’s energy.”

and he was. absolutely. irredeemably.

after practice, he lingered as the others packed up. aone patted his shoulder and said quietly, “you’re… happy.”

futakuchi nodded solemnly. “the happiest man alive.”

you, oblivious, were busy stacking cones. you didn’t notice the way he hovered near you like a very tall, very smug shadow.

“y/n,” he said softly.

“hm?”

“i kept thinking about what you said earlier.”

you glanced up. “which part?”

“the part where you said i’m not so bad.”

“oh my god, you’re still on that?”

“it’s the only thing keeping me alive right now,” he said, grinning. “you basically gave me emotional CPR.”

you laughed despite yourself, shaking your head. “you’re starting to sound insane.”

he gasped dramatically. “you wound me.”

you rolled your eyes, but when you looked up, he was still watching you with that same stupidly earnest expression—the one that made your heart do that inconvenient fluttering thing again.

“okay,” you said, setting the cones down. “fine. you’re… not so bad.”

he lit up like christmas morning. “say it again.”

“no.”

“please?”

“no!”

“you love me.”

“i don’t.”

“you totally do.”

“futakuchi—”

“say it one more time,” he pleaded, voice suddenly softer, almost boyish. “please?”

you groaned, face heating. “you’re not so bad.”

he looked absolutely feral with joy. “i knew it. i knew it. i’m calling my mom.”

“don’t you dare—”

too late. he was already dialing.

“mom,” he said when she answered, “good news. y/n thinks i’m amazing. you can start planning the wedding now.”

you nearly combusted. “give—give me that phone!”

he dodged your grab, laughing breathlessly. “you’re stammering! oh my god, you’re actually stammering—”

“because you’re embarrassing!”

“you love it.”

and maybe you did. because the sound of his laughter was warm and bright and the way he looked at you—like you’d just given him the whole world with one careless sentence—was enough to make something in your chest go soft.

so you sighed, pretending to be annoyed, even as you smiled. “fine. if i say you’re amazing, will you stop being dramatic for five minutes?”

he froze, eyes wide. “say that again.”

you did. softly.

“you’re amazing, kenji.”

for a second, he just stared. mouth slightly open, like he couldn’t quite process it. then—

“i have to sit down,” he mumbled, heart racing so hard you could see it in his chest. “i’m actually dizzy. is this what true love feels like?”

you snorted, tugging on his sleeve. “come on, drama king. help me carry the water bottles.”

he followed immediately, grinning like a fool, still half in shock. and when you brushed past him, shoulder to shoulder, he quietly whispered, “i’m never letting you go, you know.”

you rolled your eyes but didn’t move away. “i know.”

and futakuchi smiled like he’d just won the championship.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

that night, he posted on twitter:

but futakuchi didn’t care.

because for the first time ever, you said something nice.

and in his mind, that meant forever.

♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

a: futakuchi is so underrated

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© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners. (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)

“I was thinking of getting some flowers for my mom, but I don’t know which ones,” he thought out loud one day, sitting on the bench after a game with their municipal volleyball team. Aone was drinking from his water bottle and nodded for him to continue. “What’s your sister’s favourite flower?”

Aone eyed him for a second before shaking his head, making Futakuchi feel quite sheepish.

“Who’s your sister bringing to that family thing you guys had? She never talked about going on any dates, right?”

Aone sighed and shrugged, not particularly updated on your love life and preferring to eat his lunch in peace.

“Your sister just opened her new cafe! I happened to walk by this morning. Maybe we should go there, show our support.”

Aone pinned Futakuchi with a stern look and pointed down the street. “You should go.”

Futakuchi couldn’t believe the blunt answer and just sounded an awkward squeak in response.

“I’m not stupid,” Aone mumbled.

“Could I get a double burger and a large soda?”

You rolled your eyes and chuckled affectionately, putting the lid on a cup for a finished order as you turned around. A chuckle, Futakuchi thought, that’s not enough. “I thought you two might come around soon with some ridiculous order-“

As your eyes found a lone Futakuchi with a cheeky smile, you leaned silently to the side to check that your tall brother wasn’t hiding behind his friend. “It’s just me.”

Without answering, you walked to the end of the counter to hand off the order to the waiting customer, telling them to have a great day before moving back to the register where he waited. “I didn’t think you liked coffee.”

You spoke politely, with a soft smile that made Futakuchi crave more, greedily. “Wait,” he said, feigning surprise and putting his hands on the counter so he could lean over and look around the station. “You mean you actually don’t sell burgers here?”

A laugh slipped past you, but you covered your mouth. “Not many cafes do, I think.”

He smiled, cheeky as ever. “My bad. I got distracted.”

“Coward,” Aone grumbled into the phone the second Futakuchi picked up.

The brunette scoffed, making sure it rang clearly. “I’m working on it!”

“You spent an hour bothering her at work and still didn’t ask her out.”

“I’d like to think I was good company, anyway,” Futakuchi argued, exasperated but knowing he couldn’t argue much with Aone. If anyone stunted his attitude, it was his best friend.

“You get one week, and then I‘ll tell Koganegawa to shoot his shot.”

Futakuchi stared at the phone in his hand, which beeped rhythmically.

“That bastard hung up on me,” he whispered to himself in disbelief. The audacity.

Meanwhile, Aone was smiling as he hummed and watered his plants. It’s fun to instigate some drama every once in a while.

Futakuchi Kenji was not a coward.

But as of late, he sure was a simp.

As he entered your cafe, his breath hitched hearing you laugh well at something another customer said, waving your hand as if they had you laughing for hours.

“Y/n,” Futakuchi said, just loud enough that he was sure to get your attention, but not so loud that he would be yelling. “What’s up?”

You cleared your throat and wished the funny customer goodbye before moving to the register. Futakuchi sent the customer a look in passing before giving you his usual mischievous smile. “Back again?” you asked, smiling sweetly like you didn’t have his heart in a chokehold.

“Enough with the applause, I’m just a normal guy,” he cooed, as if paparazzi were snapping photos when he made his way to you. He leaned on the counter to be even closer as you laughed and almost let his eyes fall closed to enjoy it. “Everything alright here?” he asked instead.

You nodded, looking over the tables filled with the miscellaneous students, gossipers and business folks. “I’d say it’s perfect.” Your eyes travelled back to his again. “Now that you’re here too.”

Not many people could make Futakuchi blush. He looked down as if that would hide it when his ears were just as red. “That’s good.”

You tilted your head. “Can I get you anything?”

“A normal coffee and…” He leaned back up on his hands. “And a date.”

To say you were surprised… would be a lie. Your brother was not always the most subtle. Still, you couldn’t stop smiling at the fact that he finally asked. You chuckled happily and nodded, tapping on the screen of the register.

“One coffee. How would you like the date?” you asked. Futakuchi felt the constricted air in his lungs finally escape and was replaced with butterflies waving around his stomach. The cheeky look was back on his face as he gestured to show he was thinking about it.

“There’s a fair out by the beach? Friday night, if you’d like that.”

With a decisive nod, you agreed. “Perfect. I will get you your coffee now, then.”

“Thanks, pumpkin.”

He’s about 20 minutes late to work now, and he couldn’t be happier about it.

masterlist

“I’m sorry, I have to cut this call short. Goodbye.”

You’re out of your seat in a heartbeat, racing down the hallway like your life depends on it. Thank god you joined the track team during middle and high school, or you’d be no match for Futakuchi long legs.

This way, though, you slide into the common room barely ahead of him, and body slam yourself into the counter. “First!” You choke out, both hands hovering over the box of Donuts Sadow-san brought in earlier. 

Futakuchi is dangerously, no, strangely quiet behind you. You turn, and all blood leaves your face as you spot your supervisor at one of the tables, watching you with something akin to horror on her face.

“I-” You start, unable to explain yourself. Hate my coworker? Am a greedy pig? 

“Wow,” the sound of slow clapping pulls your focus toward the doorway where Futakuchi is smiling fake-proud. “All that training really paid off.”

“Training? You echo alongside your supervisor.

“Indeed,” Futakuchi steps closer and flicks his pointer finger against your forehead. It hurts, but not as much as it could have. He’s probably holding back. “Isn’t the company-wide sports festival in a month or so? I bet you’re going to outrun everyone on the team.”

“Oh, you’re training for the sports festival?” Your supervisor beams. “That’s admirable! I’ll put you down for the race if that’s okay!”

“I, uh, sure.” You’re too much of a people pleaser to say no, and too much indebted to the lie to disagree. “I was hoping for it, actually.”

“The relay, as well?” She blinks up from her phone. “We’re doing shorter laps, so you two would probably make a great team.”

Futakuchi’s jaw drops, but you must have seen it coming, because you’re smiling sweetly now. “Of course, yes, I’d love that.”

“Great. I’ll let everyone know. Now that you two are on board, I’m sure more will feel inspired to follow.”

You doubt it, but she leaves the room, and two glorious seconds of peace later, Futakuchi is in your face. “Relay? With you?!”

“What?!” You hiss back. “Don’t tell me Futakuchi long legs can’t outrun a bunch of guys who call “drinking beer” their favorite pastime.”

“Futakuchi long legs,” he repeats slowly, and you realize belatedly that your nickname for him slipped out just like that. His grin grows, and goose bumps rise on your skin at the sight. “Do you want to call me Daddy?”

“Grow up!” You hiss, slapping his hands away from the Donuts. “I said I was first!”

“You owe me one for helping you out.”

“I wouldn’t have needed help if your greedy ass didn’t eat all the Donuts in one sitting last time!”

“I didn’t, and you’re still not believing me!” He fake sobs. “I call that harassment.”

“I’ll give you harassment,” you hiss back, grimacing when he grins smugly again. “That sounded better in my head.”

-

You’re still not sure how it happened. One day, Futakuchi had been the attractive new guy hired alongside you, the next, he’d started bullying you so subtly, coworkers thought he was flirting.

But you knew what flirting was. Or at least you thought you knew what flirting was, because that for sure wasn’t flirting. It couldn’t be.

Flirting involved being nice to people. Agreeing to their ideas. Going out of your way for them.

Come to think of it, you were doing that, every day, for everyone, with the sole intention of not being disliked. 

You spot your face in the mirrored surface of the elevator doors, doubt clouding your features. But no, Futakuchi couldn’t be flirting with you. Right?

-

“What are you doing tonight?”

You look up from your monitor, startled by the suddenness of his presence and the volume of his voice. Futakuchi talking in low volume is about as rare as a giraffe sighting in your small town, and probably just as scary. 

“What?”

“What are you doing?” He repeats, just as quietly. “Tonight?”

“Why are you asking?” You hiss back, followed by a quieter. “Nothing. But why are you asking?”

“Cause our supervisor went straight to her supervisor, and that guy just congratulated me and told me to work hard because apparently we’re being rated on performance?”

“What?!” Your blood rushes into your feet, and you feel sick. “Oh god. I’m going to get fired. I just started working here, and I like it, I-”

“Calm down,” he shakes you by shaking the chair you’re on. “Meet me after work tonight. We can train for this. You said it yourself, ninety percent of the company has never done any sport in their life.”

“But-”

“No butts but mine,” he jokes, clapping the back of your chair instead of your shoulder. “Meet me in the lobby later.”

-

The giant in front of you blinks. You blink back, unsure.

“Ah, so you’ve introduced yourselves already?” Futakuchi walks up to your side, smiling. “No? Well, that’s Aone, Aone, that’s my coworker, the one I told you about.”

“The cute one,” the giant says, his voice deep and gravelly.

Futakuchi sputters. “I didn’t- He’s making that up, I-”

You’re not quite listening, distracted by the sight of him in shorts. And how short these shorts are. You lean back, trying to gauge if you can spot-

“Are you checking out my ass?” Futakuchi asks, his gasp surely exaggerated.

“What ass?” You ask, trying to sound nonchalant. “You’re flat like a surfboard.”

“I’ve got a bubble butt,” Futakuchi claims, slapping his own cheeks. “And you know it.”

“Besides that,” Aone saves you from answering. “Have you brought a change of clothes as well?”

“No, I didn’t know I had to.”

“No worries,” Futakuchi hands you a bag. “Our manager brought some along. You should be the same size.”

“Why should I-”

“Training,” Futakuchi points out slowly, as if you’re dumb. “Performance rating.”

“Right,” you stutter, turning toward the changing rooms of the gym. “Just a second.”

-

Futakuchi does not look at you the whole night. He’s too busy showing off his skills at volleyball or racing his teammates during drills, or slamming balls over the net like his life depends on it.

At first, you wanted to believe his manager, sweet, well-behaved Nagata-chan, but after a while, it became obvious he was trying to avoid looking at you. Or talking to you. When it became clear he wouldn’t even take the water bottle you were trying to hand him, you had had enough. You had come with him after work, despite fearing the worst, had dressed in someone else's clothes, had run drills with them, and thought way too much about the length and shape and color of his legs for him to treat you like this. 

You’d been born and raised a people pleaser, but even you had your boundaries.

“I’m leaving,” you announce quietly, not wanting to disturb practice. “I’ll… I’ll give you back your clothes once I’ve washed them.”

“Are you sure? You ran a lot. You should probably shower and change. You could get sick.” Nagata-chan eyes you worriedly. “If you need to get going, I can tell Futakuchi-san to take you home.”

“No need,” you hurry to placate her. “I’m fine, I don’t live far away. And it’s been such a warm spring day, I’m sure I’ll be fine. Thank you for your worries, though. Tell… Uh, tell Aone that it was nice to get to know him.”

“And Futakuchi-san?” Nagata-chan blinks. “What am I supposed to tell him?”

“To eat dirt,” you snap, shocked by your own outburst. “I mean, to… uh, that I will see him tomorrow, yes. Yes, that’s right. I’ll see him tomorrow at work, and there we can talk some more about our training regimen, but I have other things to attend to and need to get going.”

“Oh,” she blinks. “Okay. If you say so.”

-

The next morning brings a stuffed nose, a persistent cough, and something that feels like a fever building behind your eyes.

You call in sick and decide to skip breakfast in favor of slowly slipping tea and grimacing every time you have to swallow, your throat a little raw from coughing.

The warm spring day had turned into a chilly night, your flimsy blazer no match for the cool breeze. 

You know you should have done things differently. For starters, you shouldn’t have gotten involved in a silly competition with Futakuchi. You shouldn’t have noticed the length of his legs either, or the way his hair fell into his eyes sometimes, or that his voice sounded nice when he wrapped up a call. 

You bury your head under your pillows and fight back a groan. 

It doesn’t matter now that you’ve caught feelings for him just as easily as you’ve caught a cold. You’re not going to do well in the sports festival with how things are. You’ll be demoted, or fired, and forced to find a new position in a different company, where you’ll be able to people-please undisturbed and fall in love with a nice, polite guy with short legs and a beer belly. Maybe bald, too, so there’s no overlap.

There’s a knock on the door. You bury yourself further under the blankets. Whoever it is, you’re not in the mood to be social and not in the state to force yourself, either.

“Room service,” a familiar voice calls out, and you shoot up from your home-made blanket coffin. Are you hallucinating now, too?

Another knock. “I know you’re in there. Boss told me to bring by some papers.”

Oh, right. Work. You shuffle out of bed awkwardly, aware of your bare legs and bunny slippers, but too exhausted to find something more suitable at such short notice.

Of course, Futakuchi notices it immediately, lips pulling tight at the sight.

“Where are the papers?” You croak, using the door handle to prop yourself up. 

“They are, uh,” he hesitates, eyes darting everywhere at once. “Soup.”

“What?”

“I got you soup,” he pushes through his teeth. “Cause you’re sick and all.”

You blink at the box in his hands. You can smell it even through your stuffed nose and when you grab it, the warmth seeps deliciously into your cold hands.

“Thank you,” you answer, a little too surprised to think about the how or why. “And the papers?”

“You’re not working,” he concludes. “You’re sick.”

“But Boss-”

“It was a lie,” he admits, jaw grinding. “So you’d open your door. So I could check in on you. Make sure you’re not dead.”

You glare at him. “I can do very well without you.”

“Yeah?” He crosses his arms in front of his chest and glares back. “So you didn’t get sick because you insisted on walking home at night in sweaty work-out clothes and a flimsy blazer instead of waiting around?”

You open your mouth to retort something - what, you’re not yet sure off - but a violent cough cuts you off. Futakuchi reaches out, perhaps to save the soup from tumbling to the ground, but he grabs you instead, holding you upright, his hold a little too gentle for a coworker this annoying.

“What are you even doing here?” You cough on. “You’re supposed to be at work.”

“I am at work,” he disagrees. “I’m doing house calls in the area.”

“Oh, am I keeping you-”

“Yes,” he pushes you back inside. “You’re the house call, get inside where it’s warm.”

-

Maybe it’s the fever, or the cough, or the lack of oxygen getting to your brain because of your stuffed nose, but you’re pretty sure Futakuchi is standing in your kitchen, rummaging around.

“Here,” he holds out a pill. “Google says this is against pain and low fever. Swallow it.”

“What if it’s against hemmorhoids?”

“Well, I found it in your medicine cabinet, so I think you’ll be fine and hemorrhoid free,” he quips, watching you as you swallow the pill with a sip of luke-warm tea. “Where are your spoons?”

“In the drawer, of course,” you rest your head on the cool table. “Do you want some coffee? I’m sure I can-”

“Idiot,” he chides you gently, opening the box of soup and stirring it. “The spoon is for you. Do I need to feed you as well?”

“I can do that myself?” You claim, though you’re a little too tired to prove him wrong. And didn’t that just come out more like a question than a statement?

“Sure, but you don’t have to. Your savior is here.”

“Why are you nice to me?” You mumble, eyeing the spoonful of soup that’s making it’s way toward you. 

“I kinda figured you knew that,” he claims, dribbling soup everywhere. “Shit, sorry. Did that get in your nose?”

You cough and you sneeze and maybe that’s exactly what you needed for a boost of morale, because you sit up and eye him curiously, cautiously. “Are you trying to usurp my position? Is that it?” You gasp, the sound hurting your throat. “You’re worried I’m going to report you.”

“I like you,” Futakuchi interjects, and maybe it’s the hair falling into his eyes or the messy knot of his tie, or the fact that he’s trying to feed you soup he’s bought on the way here, but you want to believe him, desperately so.

Still, it’s Futakuchi.

“Then why are you bullying me all the time?”

“Oh,” he flushes. “I, uh, I wasn’t trying to bully you. I was, uh… flirting. Or showing off, like last night.”

“Your flirting sucks,” you declare, pulling the soup container toward you. “It’s a good thing you have hot legs.”

Futakuchi’s mouth curls into a smile you haven’t seen on him before, one that makes you want to find out how his lips taste.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you protest, sipping from the container directly since the spoon is still firmly lodged in Futakuchi’s hands. “Makes me want to kiss you.”

He laughs, surprisingly light and airy for a guy as tall and mean as him. “I love how bossy you get with me. Only me,” he seems proud of this. You knock your toes against his ankle under the table and wonder how long you can draw out this house call.

- - -

You win the race, of course. Easily, too. Neither of your coworkers is a match to you, your two-man team or the competitiveness you both have in spades.

Futakuchi catches you around the hips at the finish line, and pulls you into him, grinning smugly.

“What’s my prize?” He asks and you could kiss him, despite all those other people watching.

So you do.

-

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Futakuchi gives you a look of suggestion, and you shake your head and look away. “I didn’t mean it like that,” you say.

“Then how did you mean it?” he says, inching closer to you on the sideline bench.

You grab the water bottle with his name plastered on it off the floor and thrust it at him as a makeshift barrier between you two. “Drink your water.”

He eyes the bottle and screws his lips together in a pout. “You’re no fun, you know,” he says. Nonetheless, he takes it from you and pops open the nozzle.

You shrug and watch as he tilts his head back to drink. “I’m not the team manager to be fun,” you tell him.

Futakuchi takes one more swig and swallows. You try not to stare at his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down or the sweat running along his neck and disappearing into his jersey collar. He shakes his water bottle upside down and frowns when nothing else comes out. “Damn. All out now.”

“Futakuchi!”

He jumps to attention at the shout of his name from the volleyball court, where the team is lining up to do drills. Coach Oiwake is glaring at him with crossed arms and an impatient foot tap.

Futakuchi hurriedly passes you the water bottle and gives you a roll of his eyes before running out onto the court. You hide your smile behind the back of your hand when he protests about how they’re starting without their captain.

After drills, the team gathers on the sidelines for a ten-minute break. You make your rounds handing out water bottles and towels to everybody, and it’s when you’re rifling through your armful of supplies for Aone’s water bottle that you feel a rapid tap on your shoulder.

“Y/n.”

You barely spare a glance to the ever-expectant voice of Futakuchi and say, “Yes?”

“Did you refill my water bottle?”

Finally, you pull out Aone’s water and hand it to him, which prompts a nod from him in thanks. You smile at the gesture as he’s not one for words, then turn around to face the steady smile of Futakuchi standing tall over you.

Sometimes, like now, you forget how handsome he really is and have to force yourself to pay attention to the fact he’s actually talking. You blink at him as he raises a brow.

“Y/n?”

“S-sorry, I forgot while I was filling the cold towel bucket. But there’s an extra one right”—you lean down and grab the spare bottle you’d been planning to use yourself but hadn't gotten the chance to yet—“here.”

Futakuchi smiles and takes it from you, twists off the cap, and pauses for a moment. Then he tips his head back and pours the water down a couple inches away from his lips in a waterfall. You cock your head and wonder why he didn’t drink from the rim.

“Thanks,” he says, replacing the cap. He watches you as you set everyone’s waters back down, lining them up neatly so they don’t topple over. “You don’t have one?” he asks.

“Hm?”

“Do you not have any water?”

You absentmindedly scratch at your head and shrug. Biting back the That one was mine on the tip of your tongue, you tell yourself he probably needs it more anyway. “Just for today,” you say sheepishly. “I was just forgetful this morning.”

Futakuchi’s eyes narrow and his lips just barely turn up. He holds the spare bottle out to you. “Here, you can keep this one. I don’t need to have two, and I can just refill mine. I didn’t drink directly from it, so don’t worry.”

A bit surprised, you take the bottle back and take a sip. He’s right, after all. He didn’t touch the rim so there’s no chance of spreading anything. Besides, you’re parched, so you smile at him. “Thank you.”

Futakuchi smirks as you recap it again and turn to place it with the others. “Actually, got any more?”

You whirl back to him in confusion. “I…you just—”

Before you can answer, he swipes the water bottle straight out of your grasp, quickly removes the cap, and drinks directly from the rim.

Your eyes widen and your lips part as you stare at him in disbelief.

That was…he just did an indirect kiss....

Futakuchi wipes his arm across his mouth and hands it back to you again with nothing but a satisfied grin.

At a loss for words, you just look from the water bottle, to him, to the water bottle, and up at him again.

Is he expecting me to take this back like he didn’t just drink from it?

When you still don’t move, he grabs your hand himself and wraps your fingers securely around the bottle. “Thanks,” he says happily as if nothing about this is unusual, then jogs back out to the court again.

You stare at the bottle in your hand.

He drank from this….

For the remainder of practice, you don’t take a sip.

After Coach Oiwake blows the final whistle and tells the team they’re done for today, you start cleaning up the sidelines and helping everyone put the net and volleyballs away. 

“I didn’t mean what I said earlier.”

As you’re taking down the net, Futakuchi appears behind you again.

“Huh? What do you mean?” you ask.

He says, “That you’re no fun. I didn’t mean it, you know.”

You barely even remember his words when you forced him to drink his water. “Oh. That’s okay, I didn’t think much of it. And even if you did mean it, I wouldn’t be surprised,” you reply, brushing him off. “I mean, I really don’t think I’m fun compared to everyone else, anyway. But I still like helping you guys out.”

Futakuchi watches you struggle to unhook the top knot of the net from the post. He reaches over your head and swiftly removes it and hands it to you. “Don’t worry. Everyone else can think you’re no fun if they want to. But you’re plenty of fun when you’re with me.”

You raise an eyebrow and laugh at him. “Do you mean you have fun messing with me?” you joke.

He pouts and follows you to the equipment bag in the middle of the court. “You don’t have fun with me, Y/n?”

You take a second to size him up. He’s staring at you like he’s genuinely upset at the idea of you answering no. Sighing, you give in and reply, “I have a little bit of fun.”

His face lights up and he grabs the equipment bag like it weighs nothing and slings it over his shoulder. “Good,” he says, walking with you to the equipment room as you check off the items on the supply clipboard to make sure everything’s accounted for. “I’ll make sure you keep having more fun from now on,” says Futakuchi, setting the bag down in the corner of the room as you place the clipboard on the shelf. As you hold the door open for him to leave after you, he stops halfway out and bends down a little to your eye level.

Your breath hitches in your throat at his sudden closeness. Your eyes dart down to his lips for a brief moment, then back up to his gleaming eyes.

Futakuchi smirks at your reaction. “Only with me, though. Because I’m the most fun out of all of them, right, Y/n?”

You swallow and brush it off as best you can, ushering him out of the room so you can lock the door. “If you say so, Futakuchi.” Your voice feels a little more uneven than it sounds and your heart beats rapidly in your chest when you remember his lips touched where yours were just a short while ago.

He stands back up straight and follows you to the bench again, trailing you like a puppy. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

You don’t tell him he’s right as you finish cleaning up.

As you start to lug the bucket of cold water with the rest of the unused towels in it to the drain outside, Futakuchi speaks up again. “Hey, what are you doing this weekend?”

“Nothing as of now. Why?”

He hums in delight to himself. “Do you like amusement parks?”

“I do.”

“Then let’s go to one. It’ll be fun.”

You shrug. “Okay, we should probably let the team kno—”

“No!” He leans in, almost in a panicked whine, and you stop mid-sentence at his outburst. Just as quickly, he backs away again and stutters, “N-not with the team. I mean…just you and me.”

You study him for a moment. “Wouldn’t it be more fun with everyone else?” you say.

“No.” His answer is immediate and resolute. “I have fun when it’s just us. I don’t want them….” His voice trails off and you patiently wait for him to continue. He lets out a heavy breath and one of his cheeks puffs out. “I don’t want them to take you from me when they see how fun you are to tease.”

It takes a minute for his words to make sense in your head. “Tease?”

Futakuchi nods and bows his head to the ground as if forlorn.

You don’t say anything at first, then let out a laugh. “Futakuchi, if that’s the reason you have fun with me, I don’t think you have to worry about anyone else thinking I’m fun the way you do.” When he looks back up at you in reluctance, you realize he genuinely thinks it’s fun when he teases you. And if you’re being honest, it feels fun to be teased by him too, but you’re never telling him that to his face. Not to Futakuchi. Not to the most clever, hotheaded smart aleck in your year. You roll your eyes when he still doesn’t seem convinced. “Let’s go on Saturday.”

He perks up instantly and steps forward. “Just us?”

You nod.

The look of apprehension on his face is replaced with one of excitement and relief. His eyes shine again and he nods along with you. “I’ll pick you up, okay?” he says eagerly. “Don’t worry about bringing anything. I’ll buy our tickets and lunch.”

You say, “Okay,” and he murmurs to himself, “Ah, and one water bottle.”

“Futakuchi!”

A laugh escapes you when he visibly stiffens at the call of Coach Oiwake again, who’s gathered the rest of the team for their post-practice meeting. 

“Alright, alright!” Futakuchi yells, a hint of annoyance in his voice. You find it endearing when he turns back to you in a hurry. His eyes probe into yours for more confirmation, like he needs to hear you tell him again. “Just us, yeah?” He sounds so hopeful that you stifle another laugh at his expense.

“Yes, Futakuchi. Just us.”

He grins at you when you shoo him away to the team meeting, but he walks backwards still smiling at you before turning almost reluctantly to face Coach Oiwake’s scolding. While you watch him take a seat with his teammates, a realization flashes through your mind.

Did he say…just one water bottle?

Suddenly, you look around you for the spare bottle Futakuchi returned to you, but it’s nowhere to be seen. All the team’s water bottles have been claimed and none remain beside the bench now.

Then you look up and your eyes are caught immediately by Futakuchi’s gaze on you. You watch as he gives you a small motion as if to say Cheers! with a water bottle in each hand, then uncaps the one without his name and tips it back, lips so clearly encased around the rim. Drinking right from where you drank once again.

He unabashedly side-eyes you as he empties the rest of the water into his mouth.

It had been a lazy Sunday for Suna and you, merely enjoying that you had finally some time for yourselves. No practice, no paparazzi, no boss, no last-minute assignments… Just the two of you sleeping in before finally getting breakfast (or rather lunch?) and spending the rest of the day in a sort of at-home spa while a TV show played in the background.

You had just gotten out of a relaxing and much-needed bath and picked some comfortable lounge-wear when your eyes landed on Suna´s EJP team jacket. Slipping it on, you marched into the living room, towel and blow-dryer in hand, to find your boyfriend half-asleep on the couch. You gently nudged him awake and gave him your best puppy dog eyes, “Dry my hair for me? Please?”

Taking a moment to blink away the remnants of sleep, he patted the spot next to him “Come here, you brat.”

“What a hypocrite,” you scoffed, “If I remember correctly, it´s usually me who dries your hair.”

“You don´t remember correctly.” His statement came out blunt but you could see his lips quirking upwards and his eyes crinkle at the corners.

The two of you fell silent after a little more banter and it allowed you to focus solely on the way Suna´s fingers moved through your strands and massaged your scalp. His caring touch weighed heavily on your eyelids and you fought hard to keep them open as your breathing deepened and evened out.

“Hey, pretty, stay with me. We´re almost done.” This time his voice was low and barely above a whisper and although it only lulled you further into dreamland, you hummed in agreement. When he finally put the blow-dryer down, he laid back down and pulled you down with him, so that you could look him in the eyes. “Now that that´s done, I guess I still have to congratulate you.”

“Huh? What for?” You eyed him suspiciously. He certainly was up to no good when he started like that. “If you´re going to say `for having such a kind boyfriend´ then you can save it.”

Suna smirked at your doubting expression and slung both his arms around your waist. “I wasn´t going to say that but yes, that´s also something to be very grateful for. No, I was actually going to congratulate you on making it into the EJP men´s volleyball team. I hear they´re really good. What position are you playing?”

“Middle blocker,” you said, copying his normal deadpan face, “The former one just wasn´t cutting it. What was his name again? Something with an S, I believe…Suga or something like that?”

“Sure, doll,” your boyfriend said, pulling at the hem of his your jacket, “But they could´ve at least given you a jacket that fits, don´t you think? Or do they expect you to still grow into it?”

“Thin ice, Rin.”

He snickered and you couldn´t help but join in. What Suna said earlier was absolutely right, you were extremely grateful to have him in your life. As you watched a cheesy rom-com, you eventually gave in to the temptation to rest your eyes for a bit and were promptly out like a light. Not even Suna pulling his jacket closer around your shoulders startled you, as he gazed at you with a lovestruck look. He pushed the hair from your face before placing a delicate kiss on your forehead.

“Sweet dreams, pretty.”

ATSUMU

He´s giddy like a child on Christmas eve

Might stop breathing for a second

Reverts back to smooth-talking very quickly but the pink tint to his cheeks gives him away

Once he´s calmed down, he´s all over you

Fawning about how cute you look in his sweater

If you don´t physically push him away, he won´t let you go

´Tsumu swears he falls in love with you all over again

No, he´s not exaggerating, what makes you say that?

The house felt very cold and lonely as you were lying on Atsumu´s side of the bed. Your boyfriend was currently on a trip with his team to two away games in a row and because the matches were close to each other, he wouldn´t have the chance to come home in between. Saying you missed him would be an understatement.

With a sigh, you heaved yourself out of bed and made your way to your closet. More specifically, Atsumu´s side of the closet. Rooting through his clothes, you dug out his most oversized sweater and threw it on before returning to bed.

Just as you nestled into the blankets, your phone went off with an incoming video call. Smiling to yourself you answered it without checking the number. There was only one person it could be anyway.

“Babyyyyy, A miss yaaaa!!” As much as it pained you to be away from him, hearing your boyfriend whine like this was definitely lifting your mood. “Omi-Omi´s been so mean to me again during practice.”

In the background, you could hear someone grumble a faint “Don´t listen to this idiot, (y/n)”. Atsumu was sitting up against the headboard of the hotel bed, hood pulled over his still-damp hair and an adorable pout on his lips. You couldn´t help but break into a wider grin at the thought of the Miya Atsumu, heartthrob supreme of the volleyball court, whining like a child because his opposite hitter was a bit too blunt with him.

“Mmm, I missed you too, ´Tsumu. I can´t wait ´til you´re back.” You smushed your face into his pillow and mirrored his expression. “It´s so lonely without you.”

“Aww, don´t say that baby or A´ll miss ya even more. Just wait, A´ll win the next games for ya, alright?” There was a newfound excitement in his eyes and you wondered how he still had energy left after all that practice. You covered your mouth with your hand to stifle your yawn, before sleepily blinking at the screen again only to see Atsumu visibly perk up “Is that ma hoodie yer wearin´?”

“Mhm, you took all your team jackets with you. I had to choose something else.”

“Yer so cute, ma heart can´t take it, (y/n). Yer killing yer boyfriend over here!!” To further emphasise his point, he theatrically clutched his hand over his heart. You thought he might actually be crying. “Omi-Omi, look! Doesn´t ma baby look so cute in ma hoodie.”

The camera panned over to show a very unimpressed Sakusa, “You have my sincerest condolences (y/n).”

“Thank you, Kiyoomi.”

“Oi, what´s that supposed ta mean?!”

OSAMU

You´d think he´d be chill about it but he´s still a Miya (Kita said it best, they do share the same DNA at the end of the day)

He does keep his composure better than his dear brother, he can´t help but look a little smug though, especially if he´s around said brother

As the owner of Onigiri Miya, he has a lot of his branded shirts and caps laying around and it fills him with pride when you wear any of them

After all, you supporting the dream he built up through hard work so openly? Yeah, he´s living his best life

But it´s not only his shop´s clothes

Whenever you wear anything of his, you look so sweet he could just eat you up

You were spending the evening over at your boyfriend´s house for some much-needed quality time after a stressful week for both of you. Osamu had found a new lasagna recipe he wanted to try and you were not one to pass up the chance of tasting his god-like cooking. The bologna sauce had already been prepared the day before and now the only thing left to do was to layer the delicious dish.

It would´ve probably taken only half as long to get the lasagna in the oven if it wasn´t for the two of you fooling around or stealing kisses every couple of minutes. The kitchen was already smelling amazing and honestly, you didn´t think you could wait another half an hour for it to be done. Naturally, your talented boyfriend pulled most of the weight when it came to actually making the lasagna but you´d like to think it was an equal team effort.

You were currently layering the pasta and the sauce and in your enthusiasm, you hadn´t noticed some of the sauce dripping onto the edge of the counter you were leaning against. So, once you were done, your lightly coloured shirt now sported an intricate and totally fashionable red pattern.

“Dammit,” you cursed under your breath, examining the stain.

“Huh? What happened?” Turning to you, your boyfriend realised the situation pretty quickly. But Osamu wouldn´t be Osamu if he could hold his tongue. “Ya know, babe, that was actually for eatin´, not creative expression.”

“´Samu!”

“´m kiddin´, ´m kiddin´.” He held up his hands defensively before sliding the finished lasagna into the oven. “There, now we have all the time in the world ta throw yer shirt into the laundry and get ya a new one.”

“But I didn´t bring any spare clothes...”

“If only there was someone around who could give ya one of his, like, say, yer boyfriend,” he teased, grinning before giving you a quick peck on the top of your head. “Ya want a shirt or a hoodie?”

After getting out of your stained shirt, you handed it to your boyfriend through the half-opened door so he could throw into the washing machine while you changed into the one he gave you. That was the moment at which you decided to never bring a change of your own clothes when coming over.

You could smell the laundry detergent he always used and there was a sense of comfort wearing something that was his. Making your way back into the kitchen, you basked in the feeling a little longer before coming up behind Osamu and wrapping your arms around his waist.

“Oh? Yer done?” You couldn´t help but beam up at him and lean your whole weight against him as he returned your embrace. “Just gotta wait a little longer. A promise yer sacrifice wasn´t for nothin´”

Playful banter was exchanged left and right while you killed time by cleaning up the kitchen. Though there wasn´t much to do in the first place, Osamu had perfected the art of neat cooking, never making more of a mess than necessary. While you busied yourself with the dirty dishes, you didn´t catch the loving gazes he sent you way, committing the image of you in his shirt to memory. When the lasagna was done, Osamu suggested eating on the couch while watching the show you recently started.

“You know, this feels sort of illegal,” you chuckled as you settled against his broad chest, his strong arms firmly holding you there. “What if I ruin your shirt too?”

“Ya see, this is the fun part about bein´ an adult. We get ta decide for ourselves if eatin´ lasagna on the couch is illegal or not.” He placed his chin on your head and you could feel the soothing way his chest rose against your back with every breath he took. “Don´t worry about ma shirt, sweetheart. A wouldn´t mind lendin´ ya all of ´em, ya look better in ´em anyway.”

FUTAKUCHI

This menace, I swear

Will tease the absolute shit out of you

But if you move to take off his sweater again, he´s going to backtrack ASAP

Man has never moved so fast in his life, years of read-blocking are paying off

Might actually give you a real compliment afterwards, too

Maybe I´m kidding, I´m kidding

Of course, he´ll let you know how he actually feels, it´s just a rather painful way there (please be patient with this idiot)

You were meeting up with a friend at a café that day and had spent some time picking a cute outfit only to have all your planning go down the drain as the weather suddenly changed from pleasantly sunny to chilly windy. Seeing as you didn´t have the time to change clothes again, you grabbed the first hoodie in sight and threw it on before heading out the door. You´d later come to regret your choice of outerwear.

The time spent with your friend was practically flying by as you caught up with after not seeing each other for quite a while. After a couple of hours, you bid them goodbye and went home. Before almost leaving the second you entered.

“Oh, so that´s where my hoodie went. I almost thought it had grown legs and ran off. Well, considering how big it looks on you, some might actually think that´s what happened.”

“Hello to you too, Kenji. My day was lovely, thanks for asking. Yes, (f/n) is doing well, I know you are heartbroken that you couldn´t meet them today,” you said as you move to the couch, voice dripping in faux sweetness.

Your boyfriend had the audacity to snicker as you plopped down next to him and you promptly turned your body to face slightly away from him. Which only made him coo at your pettiness.

“Aww baby, don´t be like that. You know I´m not mad,” he said, poking your ribs with his pointer finger. “I understand that everybody wants to dress fashionably once in a while.”

When you forcefully spun around with an indignant “Excuse you?!”, you come face-to-face with that infuriating smirk and mischievous glint in Futakuchi´s eyes that made you want to wipe this amused expression right off. Putting on your best poker face you reached for the hem of the clothing article while holding eye contact.

“Fine. Be like that.”

As you motioned to pull the hoodie over your head, two firm hands kept it locked in place.

“As much as I appreciate you wanting to take your clothes off for me, we wouldn´t want you catching a cold now, would we?” He turned you around again so your back was against his chest before you could get a proper read on his expression. But your best guess was that it was most likely a nice shade of pink.

“Oh? So now it´s mine? Didn´t all of this start because you were so adamant it was your hoodie?” It was your turn to tease Futakuchi now and you revelled in it. “Something wrong, baby? Cat got your tongue?”

“You´re a brat, you know that?” Your boyfriend dramatically exhaled before pushing his face in the crook of your neck. “But I guess you´re cute, so I´ll let it slide.”

“If you want me to wear your clothes more often, you just have to ask, you know? You don´t have to be such an ass about it.” You laughed as he grumbled into your skin and slid your hand through his fluffy hair. “But I guess you´re cute, so I´ll let it slide.”

“Don’t make fun,” you complain, turning to him. “Aren’t you miserable?”

“Not particularly,” he shrugs. “Starving, maybe, but I brought my slippers, see? So I’m very cozy.”

You eye him, fuzzy slides to sandy hair. He’s not wearing pajamas like most of you, but a hoodie beneath a flannel beneath a denim jacket, loose jeans, and thick socks covering his would-be-exposed toes. Your gaze connects with his, and you get the odd sense that he’s laughing at you.

“I’m fighting off the urge to mug you right now,” you say, sarcasm coloring your words as you cock your hip and regard him with artfully unimpressed eyes.

“I would never let you take my fuzzy slippers,” he vows. “I’ll protect them with my life, I’ll have you know. You seem like the violent type.”

“I am,” you agree. “Especially in the middle of the night.”

“Could you live with yourself if you killed me, though?” You hate everyone you speak to immediately after waking up, but he’s proving to be an exception. Obnoxious. “Society would lose so much if this face and body were destroyed.”

“I can’t really see the body under all that fabric,” you twist your lips. “And the face… I think we’ll survive.”

“Don’t try to provoke me into stripping for you,” he turns his nose (which is admittedly pert and well-centered and suits him nicely) up. “Because I’ll do it.”

“If you’re going to strip,” you reply, “give me your jacket. I’ll respect your fuzzy slippers, but I don’t want to waste a good layer.”

“Of course you can have my jacket. I think you’d look so good in it.” His smile is sly. You reach for a witty retort, but your well of words seems to have run dry. His bangs are blowing in the wind and the color of his eyes seems to shift under the night lights, dancing hypnotically with mirth. Everything about this man screams good time. “What’s your name, if I’m putting my clothes and life in your hands?”

“You’re so dramatic,” you huff, but share it nevertheless.

“Pretty,” he offers you a small grin. “I’m Futakuchi Kenji.”

“I didn’t ask.” You glance at him from the corner of your eye. He doesn’t seem particularly fazed, and he catches you looking. God, he’s cute.

A small commotion distracts you temporarily from the most bearable thing about this situation, firefighters pushing through the crowd and calling out for someone. You recognize one of them — Daichi Sawamura, one of your seniors back in high school, and wave him over.

“What’s going on? Is everything okay?” So maybe you’re not totally immune to fear of fire.

“Oh, yeah, another false alarm,” he says, eyes bright and voice soothing. “We’re just looking for the owner of the apartment, trying to see what the problem was this time.”

“Hi, Sawamura!” Your new neighborly friend-friendly neighbor steps forward, expression barely sheepish. “Long time no see.”

You glance between the two of them, at Sawamura’s attempt at sternness, at Futakuchi’s poor apology, and the wires in your brain connect and light a neon sign that blinks repeatedly behind your eyelids.

You hate this guy.

Futakuchi hates to admit it, but he’s slipping into a routine. He wakes up at the asscrack of dawn, brushes his teeth in the dark, and eats last night’s leftovers for breakfast. He worms into his uniform, notices that it’s starting to get a little tight around the shoulders lately and pats himself on the back for it, heads out the door, realizes that he’s forgotten something, like his rail pass or his jacket, and leaves for work. Work is generally uneventful — there’s always something to complain about, but he gets that all out of his system at volleyball off the clock. By the time he gets home, he’s generally in a pretty good mood and ready to relax.

He’s always considered himself a pretty youthful, even slightly immature (though charming!) kind of guy. This sense of maturity is honestly a little alarming to feel overtaking him, as though he’s been possessed by some kind of demon of adulthood and healthy habits.

Admittedly, his diet has not quite caught on to this new theme, so he’s still eating convenience store noodles every day. He has mixed feelings about this, which is why Aone recommended that he learn to cook.

Well. Look how well that turned out.

It turned out so badly that he is shamefacedly going to an entirely new grocery to buy his silly little noodles and some canned coffee, because he really does think one of his neighbors is going to come after him with an axe if he sets off the fire alarm one more time, to say nothing of the risks to his health caused by actually eating his culinary failures. It turned out so badly that he is staring between two packs of noodles — one flavor packet extra spicy, the other extra extra spicy — and wondering if burning off his taste buds will erase the memory of his attempt at cooking.

“My vote’s on the extra extra spicy,” you say from behind him in the queue. Displaying his lightning-fast reflexes and extreme athletic prowess, Futakuchi flinches, attempts a half turn that twists his feet together, and falls squarely on his ass. You watch on with amusement and not a little satisfaction. Serves him right for forcing you to leave your bed and not even having the decency to invite you to share his. Not that the latter part is relevant, or true, or anything.

“Sorry,” you say, offering a hand to help him up. His eyes lock onto yours, face burning. You get the impression that this is not a man who blushes easily. “Were you really hungry?”

“Yes, right,” he says, trying to recover himself from the world tilting on its precarious axis. “What?”

“You seemed really focused on the noodles,” you trail off.

“Ah, not really, no, especially not when I’ve been eating these for way too long already,” he wrinkles his nose. “Just… thinking.”

“Oh?” Your eyes widen with recognition. “Was that why you kept setting off the fire alarm?”

“Shh,” he says, stepping closer to you. “I’ve heard some people were kind of pissed about that.”

“Was that why you kept setting off the fire alarm?” You ask, in a very loud whisper. Futakuchi doesn’t see the point in trying to hedge around it.

“Yes.”

“For a good-looking guy, you’re incompetent,” you say thoughtfully, and he frowns, but only a little. He’ll take what he can get. “Come to my place sometimes, I’ll show you how to cook without setting off any sirens.”

“No, that’s really okay,” he holds a hand up to deny you.

“I can come to yours if it’s easier for you. We live in the same building, after all.”

“You don’t have to—”

“You’re next in line,” you shove him forward lightly. “See ya, neighbor!”

He’s nearly forgotten all about the encounter by the time a smart knock sounds through the apartment, disrupting his mid-evening vegetation time. He answers the door unsuspectingly and is confronted with the sight of a basket of market goods, leafy greens sticking out of the top.

Not that kind of vegetation, for crying out loud!

The bushel of greenery is moved to the side to reveal your smiling face, and he realizes suddenly that he’s very enthusiastic about vegetables, thanks ever so much. Never appreciated a good ‘chini (of the zucc persuasion) so much in his whole life.

“What’re you doing?” He says suavely as you busy past him and starting putting things — weird, foreign-looking things, like spinach and a cardboard package and a bunch of little jars, what —

“I brought my own spices,” you say, casting a critical eye over his kitchen, “but not my own rice. I hope you have that?”

He’s grateful he does. If he didn’t, it wouldn’t be embarrassing anyway, because you’re the one who barged in here to give him unasked for and debatably unneeded cooking lessons. But he does. So there.

“Do you have any allergies or anything? I assumed oyakodon would be safe, but if you don’t like it, we can try something else. Do you know how to fry an egg?”

“I know how to fry an egg,” he says indignantly. “And oyakodon is fine. I can eat anything.”

You hum in response.

“How did you even know which apartment I am?”

“I bumped into Mr. Tomura, you know, the elderly man with all the dogs, in the elevator, and he told me. He also said he was concerned about your vision, he doesn’t like how all the youth wear their hair in their eyes these days.”

“I can see fine,” he huffs. “And my hair looks good like this.”

“I don’t disagree. Can you tie my apron for me?” You ask, turning your back toward him, holding out the two straps. He steps in close, and if he inhales a lungful of the scent of your shampoo, it was an accident. He’s so glad he made the genius decision to take cooking lessons from you.

“Whenever you’re ready, chef,” he says mockingly. You slap his arm.

“That’s the spirit.”

The broth comes first, and there’s not really anything for him to fuck up there. You order him to chop up the green onion while you beat an egg and warn him that you’ll make him do the next one.

Everything is going great until the chicken.

“I don’t want to touch raw meat,” he whines. “It’s gross. Gross!”

You hold out a chicken thigh, pink and juicy and it wiggles when you move it. He cringes away, only playing up the melodrama a little bit.

“You are a grown man. Cut the chicken! Cut the—”

You grab his hand and put it on the knife. Well, fine, if you insist. And if you leave your soft hand over his, guiding his movements, it’s not so bad.

You divide the ingredients in half to cook it, and he nearly burns his, but you click some magical button on the machine above the stove and it makes the smoky smell go away, and chide him to pay attention to when things are sticking. You also recommend setting a timer and keeping the heat on low. He nods fervently and seriously considers writing it down, but ultimately decides that that would be dorky.

“This is good,” Futakuchi stares at you, his first bite still in his open mouth, eyes the size of twin moons. He chews quickly and swallows hard. “You made me make good food.”

“I’m glad you like it,” you purse your lips and blow on your own portion.

“No, you don’t understand,” he says, standing up and putting his hands on your shoulders. You drop your bite. “You are a miracle worker.”

After that, it’s settled: this isn’t the last cooking lesson you’ll give him.

You teach him soups and salads and entrées. You teach him to add twice the amount of garlic. You teach him all kinds of recipes that look so much more complicated than they are, and then you start in on actually complicated things, and sometimes it doesn’t go right but it always feels good. Putting his hand on your lower back as he passes you by is a flirty move at first, charged and intentional, and then it becomes second nature, and now you lean into his touch, bump him with your hip when he’s cleared the straits, and it’s flirty all over again in a different way. You smudge flour over his nose without an ounce of hesitation, lick frosting off his fingers and find yourself giggling about his failure of an icing job a second later, make space for yourself in his life like you’re filling a gap that was always empty.

Futakuchi thinks he’s settled pretty nicely into his routine; he’s learning to appreciate it for what it is, just like he appreciated the riptide of his college adventures. There are ups and downs, and, holy fuck, has today been a down.

Most of the time, he encounters fairly normal people, even the assholes. Futakuchi’s a bit of an asshole himself, so he’s pretty good at letting passive-aggression and snide remarks slide off. Today, though, there were just a few too many general assholes and one top-notch dickhead, and slamming volleyballs into the hardwood just didn’t feel as good as he’d thought it would, which pissed him off even more, and he just wants to go to bed so this terrible day can be over. When he unlocks the door and closes it behind him with a heavy sigh, though, he’s not greeted with the discouraging sight of an apartment bare except for empty glasses in the sink and wrappers left on the coffee table.

You sit on the counter, swinging your legs back and forth, the spare key he gave you dangling from your right hand.

He’s not even startled, even though it’s the first time you’ve come in without knocking. Instead, he’s just struck by the relief that floods him and the gratitude he feels. He shucks off his jacket and shoes as fast as he can and heads straight for you, stepping between your legs and dropping his head on your shoulder without preamble. One of your hands finds its way into his hair and he nearly purrs at the feeling, going half-limp on top of you while you use your other hand to support yourself on the counter.

After a few full of minutes of decompressing like this, he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead on yours.

“I had the shittiest day at work,” you say before he can start.

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, I — ugh, I don’t even want to talk about it. I was basically asleep the last couple hours and I ended up coming straight here instead of my own place by accident. I don’t know why.”

“I thought you’d sensed that I’d had a shitty day — ‘cause I did — and somehow knew,” he laughs quietly. “What a bonding force.”

“If it is, I’m gonna find a way to blame it on you,” you say.

“The world is so unfair,” he complains. “You shouldn’t be this mean to me. It’s an injustice, I say.”

“Oh, hush,” he can feel you smiling more than he can see it. “Today wasn’t that bad, I guess, in the end. You’re off the hook.” He takes a deep breath.

“You don’t happen to feel up to cooking tonight, do you?”

“Don’t push your luck,” you push him, and your heart seizes a little when you see his honey-brown eyes staring right down to your soul.

“Then let’s go out. No cooking, good food, I’ll even pay.”

“Are you asking me on a date, Kenji?”

“Officially, yeah.” His smile is devastating. You hate him.

“If you let me borrow your jacket, then it’s an unequivocal yes.”