#prevhanzashiro

.

“That can’t possibly be effective.” 

Tashiro squints at the newly arrived Hanzawa. “How do you know?” he asks, even though now that he’s stopped flapping a hand in front of his face at a breakneck pace, he realizes there’s not much of a difference. 

Still, it’s so hot that he's willing to try anything. Even Hanzawa is sweating under the height of summer, which is seriously messing with his sense of reality. On some level, Tashiro knows that Hanzawa sweats and gets exhausted just like any other guy—maybe gets a little too faint, judging by how he’d looked during ping pong practice, sometimes—but he just seems like the type of person who would never succumb to the sun. Here, though, he looks more mirage than ever, and when Tashiro squints he can see a bead of sweat roll down his neck. 

…The heat's getting to his head. 

“If it worked, I imagine someone who wasn’t you would be doing it,” Hanzawa replies, adjusting the strap of his messenger bag. “As it is, you’re all out of luck.” 

Tashiro restlessly shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Sure,” he agrees. “We’re going inside soon, right?” 

Hanzawa gives him a funny look, and Tashiro feels a year younger already. “The president’s always five minutes late to things.”

Tashiro has the urge to be pedantic. Technically, the president of the ping pong club arrived seven minutes ahead of time. One ex-president is punctual. It’s another ex-president that's late. But between the two of them, there’s only one common president.

“Then why are you on time?” 

“How about this,” Hanzawa counters, “why were you early?” 

That’s not an answer, Tashiro thinks, but it’s not like he has one, either. He goes back to fanning himself and groans, “I’m going to die in this heat.”

As if on cue, a cool shadow looms behind them. “Patience is a virtue,” the president says.  

Tashiro startles, and turns to face the president, who looms above them both, his figure a momentary alleviation of the heat. He steadies his heart. “Then I’ll be—un-virtuous, or whatever.” 

Hanzawa hums a contemplative set of tones. “Punctuality is also a virtue.” 

“Certainly,” the president remorselessly agrees. “Now, don’t abandon me now, ‘kay?” he appeals, crooking a finger to beckon them both inside. 

Tashiro has three separate protests building on the tip of his tongue. But the president’s shadow is stretching longer, farther, and Hanzawa looks like he might wilt under the heat. He follows them in.

—

Even under the welcome blast of air conditioning, it’s like Tashiro can still feel the heat creeping at his back. His restlessness makes him the first to clamber into an open booth, and he immediately regrets it when the president slides in next to him. Hanzawa slinks into the opposing side of the booth with a nonchalance that’s ruined by the smug look on his face.

Tashiro’s legs drum beneath the table, unable to kick the summer buzz. Forlornly, he says, “I wanted the outer seat.” 

“Well,” the president says, effervescent, “Clearly my legs need the room more than you do.” 

“You’re so unfair,” Tashiro says. “Hanzawa-senpai’s shorter than me, why can’t you box him in?” 

To Hanzawa’s credit, he does not comment. This might be because the first time they’d figured this out, Tashiro had immediately crouched on the ground to make him feel better. Hanzawa had burst out laughing, and said, Do you think height is going to stop me from being your senpai?

It wasn't the height that bothered him. It was the difference. In his first year he’d been short enough to dress as a girl, so long as he shaved his legs, but now that was no longer the case. He couldn’t help but wonder what else would change.

The president wags an infuriating finger. “I just sat down!” he says, looking affronted. “I’m not going to get up just so you can switch seats.” 

Tashiro stands, still cramped in the booth because the president’s legs are long, and gangly, and he’s got a dangerous glint in his eyes that suggests he’s about to encroach on Tashiro’s personal space. He teeters dangerously over the table to stare down Hanzawa, who’s unable to hide the way his shoulders shake with suppressed laughter. “Come on, Hanzawa-senpai!” he protests. “This is an injustice!” 

Hanzawa breaks from his laughter, looking up at Tashiro, undyed brows exposed to the overhead lights, and lets Tashiro helplessly dangle above him. Finally he curls a finger around the neckline of Tashiro’s shirt and tugs him back down to a seated position. “You’re going to get weird looks,” he says. 

“And?” Tashiro rebuts. “They’ll agree with me.” 

A waiter comes by to take their orders, and after the president orders some monstrosity of a sundae, he ambles over to the restroom. Tashiro leaps for his chance.

When the president returns, Tashiro is sitting on Hanzawa’s side, legs kicked outwards and free.

“Mutiny!” the president gasps. 

“Is it really mutiny if you both chose us to be presidents?” Hanzawa argues with a devilish smile.

“Mutiny,” the president repeats, “My two proteges, striking back at their master! You can’t even beat me at ping pong!”

“He can,” Tashiro reminds him, jabbing a finger at Hanzawa, who is in the process of accepting the sundaes that the waiter has brought over.

“Stolen valor,” the president insists, undercut by the giant sundae that’s been plopped in front of him. He’s lucky enough to be tall, so his face isn’t totally covered, but it’s still silly. “I could still crush you.”

“I don’t know,” Tashiro says. “Don’t your skills dull with age? You said you were out of practice.”

The president gasps. “Well, I never,” he says, which is a sign of age better than any Tashiro could have pointed to, and then he’s off on another tirade about mutiny again, about his deceptive kouhai and how they’re true terrors, and—

“Your sundae’s going to melt,” Tashiro finally says, because it’s worrying him, and instead of going for the sides the president just squawks and dives into the center, which makes Tashiro accept that smart people can be really, really dumb. And misleading. For all his stupid tirades and strange manner of speech, the president’s best subjects are the sciences, which Tashiro had only learned after hearing him babble about metabolic processes in the midst of kidnapping him back to the ping pong club. He was tricky like that.

Under the table, the president’s foot kicks against his ankle. Tashiro frowns and taps the foot to the side. Another kick. “Seriously?”

“Why, I have no idea what you’re talking about, Tashiro-kun,” the president says, with a shit-eating grin. There’s a spot of ice cream on his lips. His sundae is totally melting.

Tashiro finishes off his sundae. He kicks back at the soles of the president’s sneakers.

Hanzawa says, “I can see you playing footsie under the table.”

Tashiro jerks his feet back. “He started it,” he says, and then, “Captain, your sundae’s going to melt over—”

The president makes an unintelligible noise and attacks the spilling over sides. Once he’s finished it—quicker than he should—he wipes his mouth, says, “Same time next week, yeah?” and flits off.

Tashiro slouches in the booth and grumbles, “He’s so demanding.”

“It’s not like you have to say yes,” Hanzawa says. With that face, he should have a lucrative poker career.

Tashiro taps his ankle with his feet. Lightly, because Hanzawa’s delicate. In response, Hanzawa slips out from his hold and hooks his foot around Tashiro’s ankle. He eats the last bit of fruit from his sundae like that, and doesn’t let go even when he’s done.

“You know that’s not true,” Tashiro says with a look of consternation. It’s the inevitability of existing within the president’s inner circle. Once you’re in, you can’t get out.

With a smile, Hanzawa pays for the three of them. Their ankles uncross, but they exit together. “Are you planning on showing up early, next week?” he asks.

Tashiro thinks it over. “Only if you are.”