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Shinonome makes an expression that could freeze hell over, if they hadn’t already trudged through it to get here. “What…is this?”
“The Latin terminology is viscum album ," Gouto observes, almost shouting over the din of the Trans-Siberian Orchestra over the mounted speakers in the living room. "It’s classified as part of the Santalaceae family—”
“It’s mistletoe!” Amiguchi nearly spills the crystal pitcher full of red drink (not wine, not cranberry juice—unidentified drink ) in his excitement. “And you’re the first to fall under its ancient trap. You know the rules, now—”
“No,” Shinonome says.
As Amiguchi wilts, Gouto gravely considers the plant hanging from the doorway. “Why the kitchen? Surely a more populated area would prove more satisfactory for…results.”
Their host gawks in horror over the pitcher rim. “No! That’s way too in your face. You gotta play the field, make it subtle. Consider the following scenario with me, if you will.”
He clutches the collar of his incredibly ugly Christmas sweater and pitches his voice to a squeaky falsetto. “ Oh! He’s standing right there! I’ll just oh-so-casually go for a cup of red drink and BOOM.” Amiguchi draws in a breath full of expectancy. “Trust me. Couples won’t be able to resist that magnetic pull. The subterfuge of it all. The coyness. The—”
“The juvenile stupidity,” Shinonome interrupts flatly. “We’re not in high school.”
“That’s why there’s alcohol!” Amiguchi beams. He leans in conspiratorially. “It’s not just the kitchen. I’m telling you, it’s gonna work.”
Gouto and Shinonome look thoughtfully at Amiguchi. At his crooked Santa hat, the tray of red drink, around them at the frenetic pulse of the young crowd gathered in his living room, and then back up at the little green plant Scotch-taped to the doorway.
“Goddammit, you’re going to be right, aren’t you,” Shinonome mutters. She places a ginger peck on Gouto’s jaw without any ceremony whatsoever and swirls past an open-mouthed Amiguchi to set down her tray of food in the kitchen. “Do you have a good bread knife?”
“Dude,” Kisaragi says as she pushes her way through the crowd, her eyes wide as saucers underneath her reindeer horns. “I think someone’s getting to second base in the upstairs master. I could hear them all the way through the vent in the bathroom.”
“Gross.” Ogata wrinkles his nose at the statement and in the general direction of his Solo cup. “What is in this stuff? Almost tastes like cold medicine.”
“I don’t know. but I kinda want more.” Kisaragi tosses back the rest of her own drink and hisses in delight. “Gaaahh, that’s nice.”
Ogata waves away the gas fumes. “Jesus, watch yourself. You got that analytics final tomorrow.”
“Why do you think I’m drinking this stuff?” Kisaragi mutters around the rim, almost slurring. “Besides, you’re one to talk, Mr. 8 AM exam.”
“Hey, I know that study guide like the back of your head. Don’t worry about me.”
Kisaragi tossed her hair, nearly flinging off her antlers in the process. “Hmmph. I guess we’ll see tomorrow.”
She continues happily sucking the dregs of her drink until the noise rankles him too much for words and he snatches the cup out of her hand. “Oh my God, just get more, you idiot. That’s nasty.”
Infuriated, Kisaragi chases after him as he stomps towards the direction of the kitchen. “Hold on! There’s like a taste at the bottom that’s almost pleasant—”
“It is not—”
He sees the plant when it’s too late and stupid Kisaragi and her stupid horns collides into his back in a flurry of limbs and muffled curses and he stumbles right under the doorway of a piece of Scotch tape and that terrible little green thing.
Kisaragi comes up for air and raring for a fight. “What’s the big idea?! Can’t you even walk in a straight line?!”
Ogata’s own rancor is all hot wind as he barks, “Look at where you’re goin’,” without much real fire. Fuck, his ears are definitely burning bright red enough for her to notice and he almost wants to die on the spot if it weren’t for the small part of him that wants to stay and see how she’ll react once she notices.
Which doesn’t take long, as Kisaragi stops her shrieking, huffs in annoyance at his stubborn silence, and then begins to push past him into the kitchen before she reels to a surprised stop.
“Oh.”
“Mrrgh.”
There’s a beat of flustered silence as the party continues to surge around them. Yuki shoulders him broadly as she hustles past into the kitchen with a plate piled high with cookies, followed by Tamao with an enormous ham in her arms. Somewhere, Miwako squeals with badly-surprised laughter at something that Natsuno-san says. Someone’s high heels clatter down the wooden-floored hallway.
All that dies away in the sudden understanding in Kisaragi’s eyes.
“That’s what you’re nervous about?” She doesn’t quite hoot in his face about it, like he expects her to, but there’s almost a gentle quality to her question. Kisaragi peers up into the face through her owl-like glasses, and takes a tentative step forward. “Really?”
“I’m not fuckin’ nervous,” Ogata grumbles, his heart racing a mile a minute. At this proximity, she smells sweet, like that red drink. Unidentifiable.
“We don’t have to.” Kisaragi reminds him. Again, that softness in her voice. “It’s just a plant.”
Ogata puts a slightly shaky hand to the back of his neck and stares determinedly into the middle distance. “I kinda want to.”
Kisaragi giggles. A relieved sound. “Nice. Same.”
And then she brings his head down and towards hers with her free hand to kiss him.
It’s light. Shy. Tastes kinda sour. But like that god-awful drink, there’s a taste at the bottom that’s pleasant, so he chases it further until her hands are fisting in his sweater and he's knocking those antlers aside to card through her pretty golden hair and her lips are curving into a smile too wide to keep kissing and then—
“Hey, lovebirds, can you not suck face right in the middle of traffic? Thanks.” Yuki’s strident voice cuts through the lovely haze and Ogata is going to commit homicide right here in Amiguchi’s posh mansion-house-thing because Kisaragi is pulling away from him with a frustrated expression.
“Screw off!” He yells at the disappearing ponytail and is greeted by an unromantic middle finger in return.
“Leave her,” Kisaragi says, her voice breathless in a way that makes his mouth dry. She pats him absently and the realization that she's pleasantly dazed just as much as he is makes him way more happy than it should. “I’m gonna get more red drink. Be right back, okay?”
“Okay,” Ogata says, a little pissed because she’s picked up her antlers only to shove them onto his head, but grinning like an idiot because it’s not every day you have a really awesome kiss with your best friend.
“Hey, Juro!”
“Oh, hey, Shiba-kun.”
“You waitin’ for somebody?”
“N-No.” A pause. “Are you?”
“Nah.” A casual swirl of his cup. “Just sort of chilling, watching the vibe. Also counting how many times someone trips over that string of lights stretched by the bannister.”
“Oh yeah, I did on my way up too.”
A fist pump. “Nice! That makes seventeen.”
“Who puts lights in the way like that?” Indignance. “Someone could trip and fall!”
“I kinda want someone to. Hopefully Wajima. Is that bad of me?”
“There’s a word for that. Schadenfreude , German for taking pleasure in someone else’s pain.”
A chuckle. “Aw geez, now I feel worse. Oh well, it’s what drives like most of the epic fail videos on YouTube. A ruthless world we live in, eh, Juro?”
“Ha ha, right.”
“I’m going to snag some of the biscuit donut things that Natsuno-san made. There’re cinnamon ones. Want me to get you any?”
A quick shake of the head. “Oh, no, none for me, thanks.”
“Suit yourself!” A cheery wave. “See ya around, Juro.”
“Bye, Shiba-kun.”
A quick decrescendo of footsteps.
Juro leans forward and waits for the last glimpse of the tousled blond hair to disappear out of view before quietly rapping on the door of the master bedroom. “Megumi! He’s gone now.”
The door creaks open hesitantly, revealing a flushed face. “You sure?”
“Yeah, he’s gone to get donuts."
Slight interest in her features. “Donuts?”
“Cinnamon-sugar ones.”
Bright-eyed interest. “Cinnamon-sugar?”
A small smile. “Do you…want some, Megumi?”
The door opens further and Megumi steps carefully out, clutching her rumpled scarf in one hand. “I…would like that.”
Juro tugs her to a stop before she can descend the stairs. She looks at him, puzzled, before he takes the scarf from her and gently winds it around her like his grandmother taught him, in and out and back in again into a nice knot. It covers the little red blooms on the pale column of her neck and he touches one of them with his thumb with some latent marvel.
“Juro,” Megumi murmurs, embarrassed. “Someone will see.”
“Okay, okay.” He stands, blushing a little at his own forwardness at this of all things, tonight.
A tromp of dual footsteps towards the kitchen. Stepping carefully over the stretch of terribly placed string lights. A pause to let a slightly hysterically giggling Tomi and grinning Ogata barrel past them. (Singsong: “Hey, Megumi!” Sweet: “H-hi, Tomi.”) Into the kitchen, in which rests an enormous and beautifully tiered tray of all sorts of sugary confections with Natsuno dancing delightedly around it. Shiba-kun, happily demolishing a couple of jam-filled pastries.
Juro is about to step into the kitchen when Megumi tugs on his sleeve and points upwards. “Juro! Mistletoe.”
“Ah,” Juro says, staring up at the plant. “I bet Amiguchi-kun put this up.”
“Mustn’t disappoint him, now,” Megumi says laughingly, and he grins ruefully and kisses her long enough that Shiba-kun’s wolf whistle tapers off into a coughing fit.
Juro breaks the kiss to laugh. When Megumi raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow at him, he just answers breathlessly,“schadenfreude,” and doesn’t let her look of bewilderment stop him from stealing another kiss.
Pain throbs through her ankle like a tongue of flame, and Iori can’t hold back a whimper as Ei puts his fingers around the bone carefully. “Ow…”
“Here?” He’s more clinical than gentle, but she bites her lip and nods as he inspects the reddened line where the strap had bit into her skin earlier. “It doesn’t look too serious, but I’ll get some ice anyway. Are you hurt anywhere else?”
Iori shakes her head. Ei straightens from his kneeling position. “I’ll be right back.”
Without a sound, he slips out of the slightly ajar door and disappears back into the din of the party. Alone in the little side room, Iori mournfully wiggles the snapped-off heel of her pretty strapped heel like a loose tooth. And it was such a nice shoe, too.
It’s all her fault, really. She had been the one whose excitement had been stoked to a near-feverish excitement tonight, buoyed by red drink, the spirited clamor of Amiguchi-kun’s house full of partygoers, and the tingly-new warmth of Ei-kun by her side. But then, that nervous first-time eagerness had swept her along too fast in its wake, his voice calling her name in concern as she barreled excitedly through the halls and then—
Holding her broken shoe, Iori allows herself the luxury of a single, little sniffle.
“Iori?” Ei’s there again, as if by magic. He’s got a plastic bag of ice and a tube of some dollar-store glue in his hands. His silvery eyes are wide. “Are you in pain?”
She sniffs again, and a treacherous tear trembles on her lashes. “I’m—I’m—” To her absolute horror, her voice breaks.
Ei tosses the ice and glue to the side and swiftly kneels by her shaking knees. He touches the length of her leg again, passing a hand along the skin of her ankle in a way that by anyone else would’ve been seen as seductive. But the press of his fingers is deliberate, and instead of sweet nothings he murmurs under his breath, “fibula, tibia, talus.”
“I’m sorry, Ei-kun!” Iori holds in the childish impulse to wail, but she doesn’t do a splendid job of it and she all but burrows in the silvery misery of her crumpled skirts.
“What—” His voice, usually so low and serious, brooks on open confusion. The warmth of his fingers leaves her ankle. “What are you sorry for?”
“I ruined our first date as a couple!” Iori’s voice wavers again, and she gulps in a breath. “I was just so excited to share tonight with you, Ei-kun, but I got so nervous that I made such a mess of things…”
She sniffles again. “You didn’t even want to come here tonight anyway. And now I’m making you clean up after me like this. Oh….I’ve ruined things, I’ve ruined things!”
Ei sigh. Oh, he really is so mad, isn’t he?
Then there’s a gentle pressure on the softness of her hair, and startled, Iori lifts her chin from her skirts and Ei-kun—Ei-kun is gazing at her.
“Iori…” His chiding tone utterly contradicts the gentleness in his eyes. “Is that really what you think?”
She hiccups a little. He still hasn’t moved his hand from the side of her head. “U-Um…isn’t it?”
Ei makes a sound, a little puff of breath. It takes her a beat to realize that it’s an actual laugh, golden-tinged and soft.
“It’s true, tonight wasn’t how I expected things to go.” He stands and sits next to her on the sofa. The cushions are so soft that his knees are above the line of his hips. “I expected things to be close, and loud, and rather distracting. The night would go on for too long, and tomorrow I would have a hangover during Anatomy.
“But I wouldn’t have minded all that because you’re…here, too.”
Iori’s breath catches in her throat.
"You didn't ruin anything at all." He brushes a stray droplet from the corner of her eye. "So don't cry."
She fumbles for his hand. He lets her weave her fingers through his and he squeezes. Iori’s just about transported to the seventh circle of heaven.
“This is actually a much preferable alternative.” Ei glances down at her and his lips are in an unmistakable upwards curve. “Injury aside, it's quiet here. It’s just us.”
Iori blushes and looks down again shyly. “I…guess it is.”
She glances up at him anxiously. "Oh, and it doesn't hurt that bad. Really."
Ei shakes his head with almost mock gravity. "I'll be the judge of that."
So, at his behest, they sit comfortably for a while. Outside, the party surges to new heights as someone really enthusiastically sings to karaoke. There’s another thump as someone trips over those light strings again. Iori’s heart thumps happily in her breast and her pulse is singing in her body.
Ei puts the ice to her ankle and glue to her heel. They chat about tomorrow’s anatomy exam, and wonder if Professor Morimura would allow them extra-credit at this point in the semester. At some point, Miwako-chan wanders in, all concerned best friend, with a plate of cookies, sympathetic coos, and the gleeful news that Kisaragi-chan and Ogata-kun were caught upstairs kissing! How romantic!
“It’s about time,” Iori says with relief as Ei absorbs this ground-breaking news with his usual enthusiasm.
Miwako waves them a cheery goodbye and trips merrily out of the door to spread more borrowed cheer, but not before she affixes something to the doorway and casts a wink at a scandalized Iori.
For luck , the other girl mouths as Iori casts a despairing look at the mistletoe swaying in the breeze of her best friend’s swift exit.
It’s almost a mercy that Ei doesn’t notice, or at least doesn’t seem to mind. “I think the glue should’ve set by now.” He tests the sole with his hand, and looks pleased when it doesn’t budge. He unfolds himself from the sofa and takes a knee by Iori’s foot.
Iori’s skin is numb from the ice pack, and so the sudden prickle of pins and needles makes her shiver when he removes the ice pack and turns the ankle slowly. “Hurts?”
Iori shakes her head. “Mmm-mm.”
“Good.” His hand lingers.
A growing blush mounts in her cheeks as he just holds her foot in his hands, stroking the curve and swoop there, a thumb sending electric tingles up and down her spine. His earlier touch was clinical. This time, it’s—something else. Something…warmer.
Iori’s heart beats an excited tempo that roars in her ears. Thump thump, thump thump . She gazes wide-eyed down at Ei’s bowed head. She can’t see the face he’s making, and it’s making her squirm. What does he look like? Is he making the same expression as the one that had oh-so-briefly crossed his features earlier that night, when she’d popped out of her door in this pretty silver dress and (unbroken) heels? Or is he as stoic as before?
I’m glad I’d painted my toenails , Iori thinks stupidly.
Wordlessly, Ei slips her shoe back onto her foot. Then the unbroken one onto the other. “That feel alright?”
Iori goes to stand and he grips her hand to help her up. She accidentally lands on his chest in her fluster. “O-Oh! Excuse me…”
“Sorry,” Ei says quickly. The hand on her waist is burning a mark into her skin. He’s not really letting go though.
Iori’s hands, balled into startled fists on his chest, relax until she’s resting open palms just underneath the wings of his collarbone. Underneath her fingertips beat a quick, steady tattoo: thump thump, thump thump .
Like mine , Iori realizes with a stab of joy.
She tentatively moves a hand up, and cups his jaw. Ei leans into her hand almost automatically, which of course makes her blush even harder. His eyes drift closed as she strokes her thumb against the warmth of his cheek.
Before she loses her courage altogether, Iori tiptoes, her freshly-glued heel hovering just above the carpet, and pecks him on the lips.
Ei’s eyes open and he looks down at her in surprise. “Iori—”
Her heart quails. “Oh! I’m sorry, I should’ve asked before I did that, um, I’m sorry if I did something wro—”
His lips come down onto hers again and Iori just about melts into a puddle. He takes his time, methodically mapping out the corners of her mouth with a wordless urgency that just about weakens her knees further. She grips his shoulders for purchase, and his broad hands cup her neck like he’s fetching water from a brook, guiding her into him and—
“W-wait!” Iori pulls away, panting for air, and Ei makes an impatient noise (just the small sound sends hot waves all over her body) as he regains his composure, his pupils large and blown out. “What?”
“Miwa-chan’s mistletoe! We’re not even in the doorway! It’s supposed to be tradition!” Iori latches strong fingers into Ei’s sweater collar before he can protest and bodily shoulders him into the doorway. He’s tall enough that the mistletoe sprig just brushes the edges of his tousled hair.
Ei looks down at her with a kind of bemused wonderment. “You’re something special, Iori.”
Iori beams, and covers up his answering smile with another kiss.
Natsuno staggers through the kitchen door (dodging the mistletoe on the way in, really, Amiguchi?) and dumps out at least the entire shelf of grocer’s biscuit mix. “Okay, I think this is enough!”
Miura looks up from the oven with a look of alarm. “Natsuno-san? What is all this…?”
“I promised Megumi I’d make donuts for the party!” Natsuno beams at him and holds up a can. “Look; you can make these in the air fryer!”
“Wow,” Miura breathes. “I didn’t know Amiguchi-kun had an air fryer.”
“Is it your first time using one?” Natsuno begins dumping the rest of her bag’s contents onto the counter. A stray bottle of cinnamon teeters and rolls towards the edge before she catches it with a “whoof!”
“Yes, so I’ll be in your care, Natsuno-san.” Miura’s voice is so earnest, it almost makes her blush with how sincere he is.
“Oh, it’s really not that hard. I can show you once we get the dough and things prepared.” Natsuno sheepishly hands him a can. “Can you get these lids off for me? I always get a little jumpy when they explode.”
Miura’s eyes go wide. “They explode?”
“Here, they kinda—” Natsuno squinches one of her eyes shut, presses hard on the slightly damp cardboard can, and the tin lid pops out with a deafening bang as the entire can depressurizes. “Like that. Reminds me a little of the starting gun so I get a little jumpy.”
“And you’re planning on using—” Miura scans his eyes over the entirety of the counter, littered with cans, “all of these?”
“It’s a big party, and these will go like hotcakes. Trust me.” Natsuno grins and brandishes the bottle of cinnamon like a sword. “I’ll make it worth your while, Miura-kun.”
Miura mutters something under his breath, his ears flushing, and then nods determinedly. “Right then. Let’s get to it.”
“That’s the spirit!” Natsuno cheers, and Miura’s smile is so fond it’s enough to make her blush an embarrassing shade of pink as she hurriedly turns to the mixing bowl to hide her own answering beam. God, she has to stop grinning like an idiot around him.
Though the kitchen is huge, larger than any she’s ever been in, they keep bumping shoulders to accommodate the constant traffic of the party. Everyone’s hooked on that horrifyingly scarlet “red drink” that Amiguchi had whipped up, and whatever it did to Megumi and Juro that made them disappear for almost two hours Natsuno doesn’t want to know. So they both keep a wide berth from it as partygoers flock in and out to grab refills, and they end up jostling elbows a couple of times as Natsuno directs Miura to quarter the little biscuit rounds and cover them in butter.
“And then we brush them in cinnamon sugar. Kind of like a donut, but it’s not as sweet, so you can eat a ton of these without feeling guilty.” Natsuno dumps a whole thing of sugar into a mixing bowl with a slightly manic grin.
“Your face and your words are conveying entirely different meanings, Natsuno-san,” Miura says from behind the safety of the fridge door. “Are you sure this is going to work?”
“It will,” Natsuno says with a voice of steel. “This recipe has survived the deadened palettes of my adolescent brothers. It will work.”
Miura snaps to attention like a startled soldier. “Right! I apologize for doubting you!”
“Don’t worry about it,” she laughs, slapping his shoulder with a force that nearly sends him staggering. “Now, I’m going to teach you how to preheat the air fryer.”
He follows her instructions with a rapt attention, and it doesn’t take them long to get the first batch inside and cooking. Soon the fragrance of cinnamon and butter wafts through the entire kitchen, and by extension the house, and soon there’s a crowd sniffing the air and wondering aloud what that wonderful smell could be.
“You get the first taste, Miura-kun.” Natsuno puts the steaming tray onto the counter and pokes at them gingerly with a chopstick. “Oooh, Amiguchi’s fryer is stronger than mine, so these might be a little too hard.”
“Let’s see.” Miura picks out a little brown wedge, wincing at the heat, and tastes it. “Oh, these are hot.”
Natsuno watches him anxiously as he chews, resisting the urge to clasp her hands like a tween. “Well…? Is it good?”
Natusuno knows well that Miura has a heart that shines brilliantly through the expressions on his face. He’s aware of this and sometimes hides his face in an attempt to conceal the emotions that reveal so intimately the deeper parts of himself. It’s only human, after all.
But this time, Natsuno gets to watch with awe the way that a gentle and instinctual delight spreads over Miura-kun’s face like a flower blooming. His smile is small, but it changes so much of him as he looks at her with wide, almost boyish eyes alight with amazement. “This…is so delicious, Natsuno-san! The flavor is subtle, but it’s baked perfectly and has such a wonderful aftertaste. You’ve truly outdone yourself.”
Natsuno flushes pink again, and from the way his own cheeks heat up she knows that he catches her blush this time. “T-Thank you. It’s not that amazing, but if you say so…!”
“I do say so,” he says firmly, and her insides turn to mush.
“Then!” Natsuno, so buoyed by delight, whirls to the tray of little biscuits. “Let’s make more for everyone! They’ve been waiting!”
“Right,” Miura says, already stealing another, and Natsuno thinks that this must be what champagne is like—all golden bubbles of delight threatening to carry her to the top of the world.
The treats are a hit; everyone scoops at least a handful and Natsuno floats on a smug but relieved little cloud for almost the rest of the night. Even Megumi and Juro stop by to try them out (“I thought these were donuts, but these still taste good, Natsuno-san!”) and wow, Natsuno should seriously consider baking if track falls through.
But there is an end to all things, even cinnamon-sugar biscuit/donut/things, and soon Natsuno finds herself licking her thumb and running it all along the edge of the empty bowl with a forlorn sigh.
“Any left for me?” Miura-kun asks with a hint of a laugh as he swipes the rest of the counter with a damp cloth (so much red drink stickiness, shudder ).
“Just sugar dust,” Natsuno sighs, wiping at her mouth. “Ugh, it’s all over me.”
“Here, give me a moment—” Miura wrings the cloth dry and runs it under the tap quickly. “It’ll stick.”
“Oh, but I’m—” Natsuno’s eyes go wide as he brings the cloth up to her lips and dabs gently. His face is aflame, and so is hers, but he methodically gets every bit of sweet stickiness from her mouth and hands. His face is so close, and she can see the leftover summer tan on his skin, the scar he got when he was a child slashing across his forehead, and the deep velvety darkness of his lidded eyes. His lips are parted a little bit, and there’s a rough bit of sugar at the edge of his mouth and—
Without thinking, Natsuno leans forward and pecks him real quick on the corner of his lips, just where the sugar rests. She can feel more than hear the startled intake of breath he sucks in as she leans back, a little jerkily as she claps her cheeks, sugar-free but still warm to the touch.
“T-Thanks for the help. Really.” Natsuno attempts a cheerful smile as Miura continues to stare at her, wide-eyed. “Um—I didn’t overstep, did I?”
“Hu–No! No, not at all.” Miura’s beet-red, and so is she for her, but then his eyes are dancing and that warm fondness that drips from him every time she does something outlandish or silly spreads across the face. “Never, Natsuno-san. Never.”
Natsuno blushes again, and hides her face in her hands. “Ugh, I’m so embarrassed. Let’s not ever talk about it again, okay?”
“I think we should talk about it again,” Miura says in a firmer voice, though out of the corner of her eye Natsuno can see his hand clenching and unclenching anxiously in the fabric of the cloth. “As soon as possible, in fact.”
“Really?” Natsuno peeks through her fingers, and then her indefatigable courage returns beat by beat. “Are you sure?”
“As sure as I can be.” Miura’s voice is so low, she almost has to strain to hear it. But it’s enough to get her smile up at a thousand-watts again, and Natsuno reaches forward and takes his hand in hers. Oh…he has callouses. “N-Natsuno-san?”
“I like just Natsuno,” she whispers to him like a secret. She waits for his fierce blush to subside, and then tugs gently on his hand. “Let’s talk about it over by the doorway.”
“W-Why by the doorway? Are you planning on leaving already?”
“Oh.” She blinks innocently at him, casting a sidewards glance towards the sprig of mistletoe still hanging innocently from the ceiling. “I’ll tell you when we get there.”
Hijiyama’s frown radiates onto Okino’s neck like a tangible breath. “You said you were done with studying for tonight.”
“Just grading the quizzes from Douji’s 101 course.” The glower intensifies, and Okino rolls his eyes. “It’s multiple choice . Really, you can be so domineering.”
“You’re going to work yourself to death before the new year,” Hijiyama mutters. “If you collapse and I have to drive you home from the nurse’s office again—”
“Does this mean you’ll carry me again?” Okino asks with his most innocent expression, and smirks at the immediate blush across Hijiyama’s face. “I wouldn’t say no to such an experience. I haven’t forgotten how toned your chest is.”
“Y—” Hijiyama makes a sound akin to a steam train, and Okino smirks and serenely returns to the soothing work of little red dashes, little red circles, and—
“I can feel you hovering,” he says without looking up. “It’s not going to work.”
Hijiyama sits down beside him, and man, does the entire sofa sink with his weight. Okino’s not going to do the big lug a favor by telling him how he feels about that. “What would it take for you to actually enjoy yourself for once tonight?”
An idea germinates—is mulled over quietly. “Well…” Okino drawls luxuriantly, tugging at the collar of his cardigan, “I can think of a few ideas.”
Hijiyama goes even redder, if that was even possible. “HAVE YOU NO SHAME WE’RE IN PUBLIC!!!”
“I bet that wouldn’t stop you on a good day,” Okino purrs. “You’ll have to come up with something really inviting for me to get off this couch.”
Still scarlet, Hijiyama bolts to his feet again, nearly bouncing Okino into the ceiling with the loss of that comforting weight. “E-Enough! I’m going to get a drink!”
“Suit yourself." Okino returns to his work, scratching out another incorrect answer with a sigh. “Maybe I overdid it this time.”
This time, the comforting buzz of his work isn’t quite enough to lull him into a state of perfect tranquility. He keeps thinking of that flush of red peeking from just underneath the collar Hijiyama’s silly letter-man jacket, and resenting the red of his pen for being a shade too light to match it.
He would like to see it again.
Can it , Okino. He shakes his head and focuses on scrawling a determined 10/12 by one of the student’s names. Be gentle with him.
“You don’t drink, don’t you?” Hijiyama holds out a cup of that red stuff, and the smell of it is enough to peel paint.
“Nothing that smells like that.” Okino wrinkles his nose. “Is that the only alcohol in the entire house?”
“Ogata and Kisaragi have found a six-pack. They won’t let anyone near it though.”
“Oh, well.” Okino sighs. “I wasn’t expecting Amiguchi to be a rosé person. I’ll try a sip.” He lifts his hand expectantly.
Hijiyama doesn’t budge. “Put those papers down and then I’ll let you have some.”
Okino blinks, and then smiles. “Oho. Is this an attempt to get me up and at them?”
“We’re at a party and you’re just going to hide and grade work that you can do in your sleep?” Hijyama bends down and bares his canines at Okino. “We came here to enjoy a party, Okino. I’m not going to let you fester away the holidays.”
Okino raises an eyebrow. “A battle of wits, is it? Then I refuse. That red stuff’s going to melt your insides anyway.”
“Sour grapes, is it?” Hijiyama gnashes his teeth and takes a generous swig of that drink. Okino could swear he could hear the liquid burn into his boyfriend’s esophagus. “Then I’m not going to lose! Okino! Prepare to enjoy yourself or perish!”
“I’ll perish, thanks,” Okino says drily, but Hijiyama’s already barreling into the kitchen yelling at Miura to give him some of those cinnamon biscuit things he’s been cooking up.
Why not put him through his paces? I did come here for a good time, after all. Alright, let’s see what he’s got.
Hijiyama actually puts up a pretty amusing fight. When the sweets don’t work, he has an arm-wrestling contest with Ogata for one can of passable-tasting IPA beer. It’s almost worth leaving the cozy warmth of the college library to watch Hijyama’s delectable forearms bulge with the effort of absolutely demolishing Ogata to the floor (“Geez! You’re gonna put a dent into the table, Nenji!”), but Okino burrows deeper into the sofa and feigns casual indifference.
Hijiyama growls and strides over. “I’ll convince you yet!”
“Here I am, waiting to be convinced,” Okino sings. Hijiyama growls and stomps off deeper into the house. Okino is actually impressed when he returns with an enormously obese brown cat who looks ready to murder him as Hijiyama triumphantly carries him out with splendor.
“Behold, Okino! Would this wonderfully plump cat convince you to leave your work and join the festivities?”
“THAT IS MY MOTHER’S CAT AND SHE IS NEARLY TWENTY YEARS OLD PLEASE TREAT HER GENTLY—”
Okino actually laughs as Amiguchi shrieks from somewhere upstairs, and Hijyama’s face goes soft before he cradles the cat and walks off with a determination that bodes nothing good for Okino’s self-deprecation.
So he’s a little surprised when Hijiyama returns a little later sans cat, with his hands tucked behind his back and an incredibly vivid blush on his handsome features. There’s no beer, no sweets, and no cat. Hijiyama’s not making eye contact.
“Hmm.” Okino tents his fingers a la Renya Gouto and assumes an air of superiority. “Given up yet? Willing to surrender me to the bonds of the academic grind?”
Hijiyama mutters something, and Okino squints. “What was that?”
“I said, this was Amiguchi’s idea,” Hijyama says louder, thrusting his hand out with a gangly awkwardness more reminiscent of a high school teen. He’s still not meeting Okino’s eyes.
Okino shakes his head. “Hijiyama-kun, my love, I can’t see what you’re holding if you’re not going to show me.”
Hijiyama’s ears go pink at the endearment, but then he unfurls his fingers and Okino sucks in a startled breath.
The dark green leaves, the white droplets…the plant is unmistakable. Okino feels his own cheeks go warm as he looks up with a genuine, warm smile this time. “That thing’s crushed to pieces. I can’t even tell what it’s supposed to be.”
“Goddamit Okino, don’t make me spell it out!” Hijiyama spits, trembling, and Okino finally relents and stretches his arms up towards him.
Hijyama drops the mistletoe and falls to his knees before Okino. His hands, broad and calloused, hold Okino’s face with a hesitant tenderness and Okino says in a voice that is almost embarrassingly soft: “You can just ask the next time you want to kiss me, idiot.”
Their lips clash with an almost feverish desperation, and Okino nearly gasps aloud when Hijiyama forces him back into the plush of the sofa cushions, almost crushing him beneath the firm bulk of his body. He forces the kiss to gentle, transforming the almost rough fire of Hijiyma’s advances into a slower, sweeter thing that almost stokes the embers in Okino’s belly to a hotter blaze.
“How do you do it?” Hijiyama mutters into his mouth, grasping his jaw and forcing him back against him, swallowing Okino’s gasp. “How do you have me completely at your mercy? It’s infuriating,” he breathes, and then licks the inside of his mouth so desperately that Okino actually lets out a startled moan from somewhere deep inside.
“I—hah, don’t know.” Okino’s head falls to the side automatically as Hijyama kisses a hot trail down the length of his bare neck to the wings of his collarbones. “I just couldn’t resist.”
“Hmph.” Hijyama’s knee nudges Okino’s legs apart and he pushes him deeper into the sofa. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“Careful,” Okino warns, mostly to himself but also in Hijiyama’s direction as he palms the bit of exposed skin where the hem of his cardigan rides up above the waist of his skin. “We’re in public, you know.”
“I don’t care,” Hijiyama growls, to Okino’s delight, and kisses him again, and he shoves the quizzes aside until they scatter luxuriantly all over the floor, forgotten.
Amiguchi closes the front door after a staggeringly drunk Wajima and slides down the surface into a morose puddle on the floor. “I think someone had sex in my parents’ bedroom.”
“Good party then,” Yuki says witheringly, an arm still slung around a nodding Tamao-san. “What did you think was going to happen with all those damn mistletoe plants you hung around?”
“I was trying to encourage the spirit of the holidays!” Amiguchi wails.
“To get dicked down is what you were trying to encourage,” Yuki grins, shaking Tamao. “Right, babe?”
“…sex…” Tamao says dreamily.
“What happened to her?” Amiguchi asks, peeling himself off the front of the welcome mat.
“Your red drink is what happened,” Yuki growls, caressing her girlfriend’s cheek with a gentleness that belies the absolutely ferocious expression on her face towards Amiguchi. “What, did you add kerosene in there or something?”
“No! I would never do something so crazy.” Amiguchi blinks with the innocence of a doe. Yuki returns his gaze with a flat-eyed stare.
“We’ll be on our way now,” she finally says, unnerved, hoisting a limp Tamao over her shoulders. “Come on, you.”
Amiguchi opens the door and bows. “Have a safe walk home, m’ladies.”
“God, you’re insufferable,” Yuki groans, and tugs Tamao across the threshold.
“Mistletoe…!” Tamao says suddenly, and then nearly bashes her head into the front doorway in her excitement. “Kiss me, Yuki.”
“Why is there even mistletoe under the front doo—” Yuki’s demand is cut off by Tamao happily planting affectionate pecks all over her face, leaving a trail of wet lipstick stamps as she goes. “I thought Shinonome said you didn’t stoop to something so crass!”
“I DIDN’T! I was so much more subtle than this!” Amiguchi snatches the plant off of the door frame, his ears burning red. “If I wanted to kiss someone, it wouldn’t be in the doorway!”
“Hmph.” Yuki tosses her head, nearly throwing Tamao off of her back in the process (“wheeee…”). “I wouldn't be surprised if you did.”
“Do you really think so poorly of me, Yuki-chan?” Amiguchi says with an expression one can only really equate with a kicked puppy.”
Yuki sighs loudly, looks out at the blurring darkness, then tugs Amiguchi across the doorway and plants a very poorly-aimed kiss on the side of his mouth. When she pulls away, both their faces are beet red.
“…come over to our place sometime.” Yuki thumbs the edge of her mouth, looking at the wall with a flustered determination. “I can show you how to mix an actual drinkable cocktail.”
Amiguchi stares. Claps the slides of his face. “…I’m not dreaming. Am I? To be kissed by Yuki-chan…? The angel of my dreams…?”
“That’s it, you’re being annoying again.” Yuki hauls Tamao over her shoulder and storms out into the darkness. “See you in hell!”
“I’ll meet you gladly there!” Amiguchi calls, waving madly at the dark ponytail that he could’ve sworn had an irritated life of its own. Then freezes, as Tamao opens her perfectly sober eyes and winks, twirling that errant mistletoe back into her collar and blowing him a sardonic kiss as Yuki hauls her away, ranting loudly about the stupidity of malekind.
Amiguchi closes the door, and slumps to the floor in utter defeat. Pookums purrs like a rusty engine and flops over his feet, effectively chaining him for eternity.
“What a good party.” He flings his arm over his face to hide his enormous grin. “We should do this again next year.”
.
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fin