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The thing about living together with your best friend since high school is that you're bound to develop new dynamics around each other. When you see each other almost every second of the day, from the groggy mornings to the stressful nights, you reach a new kind of intimacy that paves the way for new habits.
Some people call that domesticity. Hanamaki Takahiro calls it his mid-life crisis.
"You're only 26. This is far from mid-life," Iwaizumi says through the phone, his words interrupted by an occasional huff for air as he continues his morning jog.
Hanamaki ignores him, staring at the muffin he's microwaving. Matsukawa had left it out on the table for him before he left for work this morning, along with a sticky note with just his name and a smiley face on it. It's nothing special—in fact, Matsukawa's handwriting hasn't improved at all since high school and his chicken scrawl leaves much to be desired, but Hanamaki still felt his heart lurch in his chest as he tosses the offending piece of paper away. He immediately got on the phone to call Iwaizumi and grumble about his disaster, who has done nothing but point out the obvious.
Well, not that Hanamaki came here for advice anyway. He just came here to bitch and moan about his problems. If he wanted advice about Matsukawa, he wouldn't go to the guy who has been pining after his childhood best friend for over a decade by now.
"Mid-life or not, it's still a crisis." The microwave 'dings!' and Hanamaki pulls out his muffin, almost dropping the plate when he touches it. He didn't think it'd be that hot. "He drew a smiley face, Iwa. I think I'm in love."
"Oh, shut the fuck up. It's not like you're going to do anything about it other than whine to me and make me suffer."
"And you whine to me about Oikawa all the time. I thought we had a mutual contract going on." Sarcasm bleeds into his voice and Iwaizumi laughs, ignoring his jab. "I need to lock him up in a glass tank and stare at him forever."
"That's not the weirdest thing you've told me, but okay." A bicycle bell rings from through the speaker. Ah, the sounds of the outside. Hanamaki hasn't heard those in a bit. "You know, I'm literally always saying this, but you could just ask him. Mattsun's a straightforward guy. He'll answer you."
"Ask him what? What are we?" Hanamaki scoffs. "We're just friends."
"And how many times have you 'friends' kissed?"
"Two… But we only kiss when drunk," Hanamaki defends. "Or when tired."
"You still kiss, Makki. Lip-to-lip. That's not a casual friend thing."
"How dare you. It could be a casual friend thing. Kissing your friends isn't a crime. I'd kiss you if you asked me, Iwa—"
"Quit your yapping," Iwaizumi sneers, and Hanamaki bursts out laughing.
As he’s hunting for a fork to eat his muffin with, like the dignified, respectable adult he is, Iwaizumi continues, “I know we haven’t met up in a while, but every time we do, I swear he looks at you the same way. You know Mattsun is kind of stoic, but his eyes, Makki. They’re full of love.”
Hanamaki swallows roughly. He knows what look Iwaizumi is referring to. He’s just afraid to acknowledge it.
“Really, just save me from this headache and talk to each other. You could be kissing so much more if you did.”
That does sound tempting. “Whatever,” he says instead. “Go confess to Oikawa first before you preach to me about communicating.”
“Fuck you,” Iwaizumi says before hanging up, and Hanamaki laughs into open air. He stops when he realises it’s coming out strained and groans, taking another bite of his muffin.
The first time it happens, it's a little over a month after Hanamaki moved in with Matsukawa.
He's settled in pretty well by then, his bedroom starting to look more cluttered than Matsukawa's. The chores list stuck to the fridge hasn't been edited in a while and Matsukawa has accidentally taken his jacket to work more times than they can count already.
They're both on the couch, watching some stupid cooking show that Hanamaki is unfortunately invested in. There's two cans of beer on the coffee table next to the bag of takeout they've yet to throw away, and Hanamki's eyes are glued to the screen when he feels Matsukawa slump onto him.
He doesn't pull away, letting him rest there as he asks, "Long day?"
Matsukawa only gives a noncommittal hum. He settles in there and they continue watching the show together. The clock ticks by as the world sinks further into darkness.
Eventually, the episode comes to an end, and the remote controller is too far away for Hanamaki to reach, so they just sit there in silence, staring at the blank screen. The lamp by their side flickers—they still use it despite its worsening condition because Matsukawa hates the overhead fluorescent lighting. Says it hurts his eyes.
And then, softly, Matsukawa calls his name.
"Hm?" Hanamaki asks, tilting his head, freezing when he realises how close they are.
Matsukawa's eyes are half-closed, like he's drifting in and out between sleep. His hair has already dried from his shower, curling around the edges of his forehead, and Hanamaki's finger twitches with the sudden urge to reach out and sweep it aside.
Matsukawa mumbles out something incoherent before burying his face in Hanamaki's shoulder. His hand comes up, clinging onto the crook of Hanamaki's elbow.
"Don't fall asleep yet. I gotta take out the trash," Hanamaki says absentmindedly, but he lets Matsukawa stay there, just like how Matsukawa lets him stay. Here. Or in general.
Throughout their lives, they've always made space for each other. It's rare to find one without the other. Even when they separated for a while, going to different universities, they still wound up together again, never leaving each other's orbit.
Yet, it feels like they're crossing a line right now, a line that previously never existed. Hanamaki's breath stutters when Matsukawa lifts his head to rest it on his shoulder instead. His words seem to ghost right past Hanamaki's ears, sending a shudder down his spine as he asks, "Have you ever kissed anyone before?"
Hanamaki feels his heart drop to his stomach. "Huh?"
"You haven't, right?" Matsukawa sounds almost desperate, his fingers tightening their hold. His eyes, always so dark and mysterious, look terribly alive in this light. "Tell me you haven't."
"W-where is this coming from?" Hanamaki asks, afraid to answer the question. Afraid of the reaction he'll get.
In all their years together, Matsukawa has always been easy to read. Hanamaki never once had to doubt his intentions or his emotions.
Not this time, though. Hanamaki can't tell what's swirling in that mind of his, and that makes him more afraid than he'd like to admit.
"Makki," Matsukawa pleads, and Hanamaki's walls crumble.
"I haven't," he says, almost placatingly, like he's trying to soothe a feral animal. "Not even once."
Matsukawa smiles. It brightens up his dark features, softening his sharp eyes. He looks attractive like this. Alluring.
"Do you want to try?" he asks. "Kissing."
Hanamaki thinks, with a devastating pang in his chest, that Matsukawa could ask him for anything in this moment, and he'd say yes.
In lieu of an actual response, Hanamaki simply lets his eyes flutter shut, the action doing the talking for him. His heart thunders against his ribcage as he feels Matsukawa inch closer before there's a pair of lips on his, warm and gentle.
It feels like watching the first flower bloom after a frigid winter night. Hanamaki's defenses melt like snow on grass, his skin tingling with warmth, as if caressed by the peeking sun's rays. He tries to make it work, mimicking what he's seen in movies and shit, but then Matsukawa presses harder and every coherent thought flies out of his brain.
He pulls away too soon and Hanamaki has to swallow back an embarrassing noise. He runs a nervous hand through his hair, looking anywhere but Matsukawa's face. The silence stretches on for too long and, in his haste to break it, he blurts out, "Cool, bro."
He feels Matsukawa's answering laugh more than he sees it. "Yeah. Cool."
"I'm going to throw away the trash," Hanamaki says, peeling himself away from Matsukawa's touch. His body is still thrumming with energy, feeling like there's electricity boiling under his skin, zipping through his blood. He gathers up the trash and the two beer cans, feet padding across the hardwood floors quickly like he's trying to run from something.
When he returns, Matsukawa has fallen asleep again, this time curled up on the couch's armrest with a pillow stuffed under his head. He's going to get a hell of an ache in his neck tomorrow.
Hanamaki doesn't wake him up, though, for his throat constricts when he even thinks about calling Matsukawa's name. Instead, he creeps into Matsukawa's room, taking his blanket and returning to the living room. He drapes the blanket over his frame before switching off the lamp and retreating into his own room to panic.
Matsukawa doesn't seem to remember it at all the next day. He greets Hanamaki in the kitchen, grabbing two pieces of bread and butter from the fridge. He asks if Hanamaki wants eggs and Hanamaki says no, struggling to find his voice. He makes two cups of coffee like usual and Hanamaki grips onto the offered mug like it's his lifeline.
Matsukawa leaves for work without acknowledging anything about the night before, which leads Hanamaki to conclude that it was really just an experimental, between friends, out-of-curiosity thing. A one-off event. In fact, Matsukawa doesn't seem the least bit affected, which allows Hanamaki to believe that he needs to shove down these new feelings and lock them up forever.
Unfortunately, he spends the entire day thinking about it. He closes his eyes and feels the phantom touch of Matsukawa's lips on his own and he has to fight off these imaginary ghosts who keep kissing him. Seriously, don't they know how to leave him alone?
It's not even the fact that he just lost his kiss virginity—yes, social construct, he knows, but let him have this—to a guy. Hanamaki has always had eyes and he knew what he liked, even if he didn't bother voicing any of it out in high school. Plus, when the captains of your volleyball team have some weird tension going on all the time, Hanamaki doesn't even bat an eye at the idea of gay people anymore. In fact, he has overexposure to gay people. In fact, he might be one of them too.
So, sexuality crisis over. Hanamaki is a go with the flow guy. He's chill like that.
The real issue is that he kissed Matsukawa, his best friend, who he is kind of realising he sees more than that now, and that neither of them are acknowledging it.
Hanamaki immediately runs through a list of people he can panic about this to. It's a very short list. He needs more friends.
"Iwaizumi," he says the moment he picks up the call. "Have you ever kissed Oikawa before?"
"Have I— what? No!" comes Iwaizumi's flustered, surprised voice.
"Damn it." If even Iwaizumi and Oikawa haven't randomly kissed, then Hanamaki is royally fucked. "Okay. Hypothetically, what does it mean when you kiss someone, but like, as friends? And you pretend it didn't happen after?"
"...Did you and Mattsun kiss?"
"It's a hypothetical question!"
"Right, right. You're asking for a friend and all that." Iwaizumi's voice drips with sarcasm, but he still hums in consideration, entertaining him. Hanamaki's fingers drum on the counter as he waits for an answer. "I think it means that those 'friends' aren't really friends and need to have a conversation about it."
"...But what if one of the friends, say, doesn't seem to even remember it?"
"Makki, you're seriously fucking with me here. What happened?"
Hanamaki groans, flopping onto the couch. He glares at the lamp beside him when it flickers again, because even though Matsukawa isn't here to complain about fluorescent lightings, Hanamaki still doesn't turn the overhead lights on. It's become a habit. "I don't know, but I've been fighting demons all day. Save me."
"Well, if it helps, I always thought you guys liked each other."
"Bullshit! Even I didn't know until last night!" It seems they're dropping the rhetorical questions and hypotheticals completely now.
"Right, but you also didn't know that dryers have a lint trap that you're supposed to clear after every cycle until adulthood, so I wouldn't really trust—"
"Screw you," Hanamaki interrupts with a laugh. "Wait, what do you mean we liked each other? Mattsun doesn't like me."
"...I'm going to ask you to repeat that very, very slowly."
"Mattsun. Doesn't. Like me," Hanamaki repeats, doing as told. He snickers at Iwaizumi's responding scoff. If he was here, he'd get a flick to the forehead too. "There's no proof! You have no proof!"
"Ask him yourself if you're so unsure. He kissed you, didn't he?"
"...How do you know that?"
"Sorry, I just don't believe the great, stubborn Hanamaki Takahiro would ever initiate a kiss with the best friend he didn't know he was crushing on for years."
Hanamaki just groans again. His cheeks are starting to feel hot. He buries his face in his free hand and wonders if God would be kind enough to just strike him down right now. That'd be easier than dealing with whatever this is.
"Just ask him," Iwaizumi says again. "It can't hurt. Sorry, I have to go, training starts soon."
"Yeah, that's fine." Hanamaki holds back a sigh. "Bye. Have fun."
"Bye." Iwaizumi ends the call and Hanamaki stares at the wall ahead, wondering if he can really muster up the courage to ask his aloof roommate slash best friend slash crush, what the fuck that kiss meant.
(He doesn't. Matsukawa returns from work and they get dinner together and everything is the same as always, and Hanamaki fails to bring it up.)
The next time it happens, it's during a new year's party.
They book a chalet to spend the night, inviting some of their old high school teammates, as well as a few of Matsukawa's or Iwaizumi's friends from college or work. Iwaizumi and Hanamaki did most of the planning, but they got a bit of help here and there from Matsukawa and his older sister, too.
It's getting late already, the clock hand having just struck eleven. There's an intense game of beer pong going on between Kyoutani and Iwaizumi that everyone's watching, Hanamaki included. He stands a bit behind Iwaizumi, cheering or jeering depending on whether he's winning or not, the pleasant buzz of alcohol seeping through his veins and keeping him in a hazy state.
It ends when Kyoutani finally gives up and Yahaba drags him away with a laugh. Iwaizumi collapses onto the couch, his head falling back on the headrest. His phone lights up with a text from Oikawa in their group chat, wishing them an early happy new year—he must've woken up not too long ago.
Hanamaki snatches his phone from him, replying with a wonky selfie of the two of them and sending it off, before he realises, "Where's Mattsun?"
"Bathroom," Watari supplies. Kunimi has pulled out a deck of cards and is currently shuffling them. "Wanna join us? We're playing… What are we playing?"
"Don't know," Kunimi says with a shrug.
"It's fine. I'll go find him. Hope he isn't throwing up."
Hanamaki stretches, cracking a few joints with a groan and tossing Iwaizumi his phone back, before weaving through the crowd to find his best friend. It’s a difficult journey—he bumps into not one, but two of Matsukawa’s co-workers, who stop him for a conversation. Apparently, Matsukawa talks about him a lot at work. Hanamaki isn’t sure what to think of that.
He eventually bumps into Matsukawa, not in the bathroom but sitting on the stairs, his head leaning on the wall and his eyes closed. Hanamaki comes to a stop in front of him, snorting. “Yo. Don’t tell me you're already knocked out. It’s only eleven and the countdown hasn't happened—you’re getting old.”
Matsukawa grunts, his eyes fluttering open. They’re unfocused, probably due to the alcohol, but they catch onto Hanamaki and recognition flickers through those inky irises. “Makki. Hi.”
“Hi. Did you see Oikawa’s message yet?” Hanamaki invites himself next to him, sitting on the same step. They’re blocking the entire way, but there’s nothing interesting up there anyway except for a dingy balcony and a lame excuse for a bedroom that no one is going to retreat to, probably.
“Mm. No.” Matsukawa digs into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He chuckles after reading the message, typing out a quick reply, which is full of typos when Hanamaki glances at him. Not that he’s in a better state, so he doesn’t judge.
“This was fun,” Matsukawa says abruptly. “Thanks. I liked it.”
“You liked it?”
“Yah. I liked the party.”
“You liked the party,” Hanamaki parrots. “I’m glad.”
Matsukawa nods, just quick, jerky movements of his head. “The party. And you.”
“And me?” Hanamaki repeats, short circuiting. He feels like a broken record. But Matsukawa is nodding again, and when they make eye contact, he feels heat rushing to his cheeks, his stomach churning.
Matsukawa smiles, small like it’s a secret, and the world closes in on them. The other background voices fade into obscurity. Hanamaki becomes hyper aware of the way their thighs are pressed up together, or the pace of Matsukawa’s breathing, or the eyes flicking to his lips—
“Makki,” he says, begs, and it’s the same damn thing, the same magnetic pull in his gut and the same waves crashing against his walls, eroding them until they corrode and crumble, but Hanamaki falls anyway. He goes like a puppet on a string and their lips clash together, pulling a groan from their throats.
It’s not the same as their first kiss—hesitant and sweet. This one is messier, faster, surer. Matsukawa’s hand rests on his knee, squeezing, and even through the fabric of his jeans the contact burns.
He blames it on the alcohol. He blames it on the fact that they’re both intoxicated and maybe a little lonely. He blames it on proximity and intimacy and whatever other fancy word you want to use to describe this. Anything but the deep yearning that makes his chest ache, that makes his lips tingle as he chases after Matsukawa for more.
In the back of his mind, he wonders why they didn't wait for the clock to strike midnight. He erases that thought instantly—that would be insinuating that they are lovers, and they are anything but.
Hanamaki’s brain screams at him to stop. This is only going to make things worse, at least on his end. But the taste is addicting and Hanamaki has been starving ever since the first kiss, and Matsukawa’s hand keeps sliding higher. If Hanamaki dared to reach out too, he’d fist his hands into Matsukawa’s shirt and drag him in, but his hands remain firmly planted by his sides.
When they pull back for air, Hanamaki pants, his chest heaving. His cheeks feel like they’re going to melt off with how hot they are. Matsukawa’s eyes are blown wide, his lips coated with a light sheen of saliva, and if he stays here any longer he is going to explode.
Luckily, like fate is on his side, Kindaichi walks by, casting them a surprised look. “Oh, Iwaizumi-san is looking for you two,” he says, oblivious to what just went down.
Matsukawa stands up, wobbling a bit, and Hanamaki still puts a hand out to stabilise him. “Okay. Thanks. Come on, Makki.”
He offers his hand out. Hanamaki stares at it for what feels like ages before he rejects it, standing up on his own.
He pretends not to notice the kicked puppy look in Matsukawa’s eyes. He’ll drive himself up the wall if he does.
(They don’t talk about it the next day. Or the week after. Or ever, really.)
It’s not always at night when Hanamaki remembers these two instances and wants to scream into a pillow.
Sometimes it’s in the mornings, when Matsukawa makes him a cup of coffee and it’s exactly how he likes it. When Hanamaki can’t find one of his shirts and Matsukawa pulls it out from the laundry pile without him asking. When they’re out grocery shopping together and Matsukawa automatically adds Hanamaki’s favourite snacks into the cart.
Sometimes it’s the scary, almost uncanny, feeling of being so seen and so known, that sends Hanamaki on a trip down memory lane—feeling Matsukawa’s lips on his and the feelings spilling out of his chest.
He can’t even remember how long it’s been since the lines within their friendship blurred, sending him tripping and stumbling all over the place.
Hanamaki glances at the clock. It’s almost half past ten in the morning and Matsukawa still isn’t up.
It isn’t the oddest thing in the world—he does like sleeping in on his off days, says it gets rid of all the grief he shadows at work. Hanamaki doesn’t want to bother him, but he can’t help but think about how bored he is without Matsukawa by his side.
They could be talking. Trashing on some bad film. Kissing—
Ugh. Fuck. Hanamaki doesn’t know how much more he can take before he erupts from all the feelings he’s bottling up.
He’s not exactly an expressive person, but he does cry at sad dog movies and gets mad at people on Reddit who are replying with wrong answers, so he thinks he’s got a pretty healthy relationship with his emotions going on. This does not, however, translate to any of the romantic ones, clearly, and he is suffering the consequences of it.
He jumps when the door to Matsukawa’s bedroom opens and out comes the man in question. He’s wearing black sweatpants and a grey singlet, showing off toned arms from regular visits to the gym, and Hanamaki feels his throat dry.
“Morning,” he greets, voice still raspy as he goes to the kitchen. “Coffee?”
“It’s fine,” Hanamaki says, squeaks, even. He hasn’t seen Matsukawa like this in a while—on a lazy morning with not a care in the world, still blinking sleep out of his eyes. He hates the visceral reaction it’s bringing out of him right now.
As Matsukawa makes himself a drink, Hanamaki seriously considers running away to his room. He could do it. He’d escape before Matsukawa even notices, and it’s not like he’d care enough to chase him down. That would be weird, if he did.
He remains rooted to his spot on the couch, though, scrolling mindlessly through his phone and trying to think of anything but Matsukawa. It’s hard when he’s literally right there, humming to himself and shuffling around. When Hanamaki knows the pace of his footsteps and the way the right side of his hair sticks up after he sleeps like the back of his hand, when their friendship is too casual to be something more but too intimate to be just that, he can't help but feel haunted by Matsukawa's mere presence.
"Makki," Matsukawa calls, and even the way his name rolls off his tongue, filled with years of memories and slipping smoothly, feels like an arrow through Hanamaki's heart. He is seriously, seriously going to die. "Are you okay?"
"Peachy!" comes his automatic reply, because Hanamaki knows how to be as subtle as a truck crashing into a skyscraper.
"Are you sure? You look… well, you look not fine."
"You always have a way with words, Mattsun."
Matsukawa doesn't deem that important enough for a reply. He comes over, sitting next to Hanamaki, their knees knocking against each other, and Hanamaki sucks in a breath at the contact. As Matsukawa sips on his coffee, silence overtakes them. It rings in his ears, makes the pounding in his chest feel extra loud and the breaths he's taking come extra short. He flinches when a hand places itself on his forehead and he turns to see Matsukawa looking at him.
Not just looking. Assessing.
"You're not sick," he states.
"I'm not." Hanamaki's voice comes out an octave higher and he wonders what it'd be like to kill his own voice box.
Matsukawa doesn't push, though, because throughout all their years together, they've never pushed each other to talk about things they don't want to. They'll tell each other if they want, they won't if they don't. It's as easy as ABC.
Hanamaki knows this, so it doesn't explain why he's still feeling so nervous, like he's a criminal on the run waiting to be caught. Like he's spilled evidence of his feelings everywhere, and Matsukawa is going to pick up on them soon and realise that he likes him.
Would that be so bad? A voice that sounds suspiciously like Iwaizumi's echoes in his head. He tells brain-Iwaizumi to shut the fuck up.
Matsukawa shrugs. He grabs his phone, clicking through something before setting it down. "I'm meeting up with Kira-san and Shiina-san for lunch. Do you want anything?"
Hanamaki takes a while to remember who those are. His co-workers, yes. "Oh, okay. Nah. Have fun."
A few minutes later, Hanamaki is washing the dishes by the sink when Matsukawa appears from his room, ready for his outing. He's in a blue denim jacket that is most definitely Hanamaki's, but he doesn't point it out. His jeans are dark grey, matching the shirt he has on.
"You look like a rainy cloud incarnate," Hanamaki teases as Matsukawa comes closer, peering over his shoulder.
"Gotta keep up my vibe," Matsukawa laughs, his breath ghosting past his ear and sending his heart stuttering. "You sure you don't want anything? I can grab you boba tea or something."
Hanamaki hums, thinking about it. "Sure, if you're getting some then I'll have one too."
Matsukawa laughs again. "That's not what I asked, but fine. I'll get one so you don't bitch about being the only one consuming calories again."
"I'll have you know—"
"Lychee milk tea with less sugar and extra boba?" he interrupts.
Hanamaki pauses. "...Yeah. Thank you."
(To be known. To be loved.)
"I'll see you soon," Matsukawa says, and it sounds unnecessarily romantic, but Hanamaki doesn't think about that. He also doesn't think about the way Matsukawa's hand lingers on his waist (when did it get there?) or the way his lips press to Hanamaki's cheeks—
Pause. Record scratch. Rewind.
Hanamaki whips his head around to see Matsukawa already halfway out the door, sliding on his sports shoes, and without thinking, he yells, "Bitch!"
Matsukawa glances back with an eyebrow raised. "That's not polite."
"You're not polite!" His cheeks are beginning to burn, the press of Matsukawa's lips still vivid, making his skin tingle.
And— Hanamaki doesn't want to confront this situation, plus Matsukawa has places to be, but fuck. He can't do this.
He storms up to Matsukawa, hands still wet when they grip the front of his t-shirt and tug, twisting the fabric. Matsukawa stumbles with a yelp and Hanamaki slams their lips together, squeezing his eyes shut so he doesn't have to see what expression he's sporting.
Matsukawa practically melts into him, his hands coming up to wrap around Hanamaki's waist and pulling him even closer. Hanamaki's cheeks feel like they're on fire and Matsukawa's touch scalds and everything is hot, hot, hot, and he will die if he pulls away.
"Makki," Matsukawa gasps out between kisses.
"Shut up," Hanamaki groans. "I hate you. You're horrible."
Matsukawa just hums like he's trying to placate him and it only serves to make his cheeks burn brighter.
When they pull back and Hanamaki dares to open his eyes, he's stricken by the look of pure fondness that Matsukawa is wearing. It doesn't really show in his lips and eyebrows or anything like that, but he sees the unnamed emotion swirling in his eyes. It's soft, but intense, and Hanamaki gets it now.
Still. Terrible.
"If you like me," Hanamaki stresses, glaring when Matsukawa's lips begin tilting upwards in a small smile, "then you should say it, asshole."
"Doesn't that go for you, too?" Matsukawa asks before a full-blown smile appears. He grins, all teeth and no bite, and Hanamaki buries his face in his chest, flushing at the sight. "...I thought you knew."
"How the hell was I supposed to know?!"
"We've literally kissed."
"But— like, as bros, right?" Hanamaki tries, and Matsukawa just bursts out laughing, rough cackles that have his heart twisting painfully, so full of affection it hurts.
"If you say so. Do you want to kiss me again? As bros?" When Hanamaki looks back up, Matsukawa is carding a hand through his hair. His other hand remains firmly wrapped around his waist. "As my brofriend?"
"I'm going to bite your fingers off," Hanamaki threatens. All he gets in return is a wry smile and a gentle peck.
They flinch when Matsukawa's phone starts ringing, breaking apart. Matsukawa fishes his phone out of his pocket, looking a little disgruntled, before his expression turns sheepish. "Ah. I was supposed to pick Shiina-san up. She's probably already waiting."
Hanamaki debates about clinging onto Matsukawa more or clinging onto his dignity. Matsukawa ends up deciding for him, though, peeling himself away and leaving Hanamaki trying not to pout.
"I'll see you soon," Matsukawa repeats. "Go call Iwaizumi to gush about me. I know you want to."
"I— what?!" Hanamaki shrieks. "How the hell do you know about that?!"
Matsukawa shrugs, clearly trying not to grin. "I know you, Makki. Bye."
As he closes the door, Hanamaki gapes for a full ten seconds before he huffs, dialing Iwaizumi's number and doing exactly what Matsukawa guessed he would. After all, he knows him best.
To be known really is to be loved, Hanamaki thinks, as Iwaizumi picks up and he immediately starts screeching into the speaker.