Work Text:
"But it's June," Tajima says, his busy hands digging through the white paper. It shreds easily in his fingers and drifts towards the floor, simulated snow in summertime.
"You're welcome," Hanai snaps, already irritated, already blushing. His hands are balled into fists in his lap, and he watches Tajima unfold the gift.
He didn't mean for it to turn out this way. When Hanai decides to do something, he does it thoroughly. This was no exception: he started agonizing over this gift in September, and purchased it by October. But then it was December 24, the most romantic day of the year, and Hanai held the package in one hand, his phone in the other—I'm on my way as the last received message—and before he could stop himself, shoved the bag under his bed.
Tajima had complained, then, about not receiving a gift. Hanai had responded that feeding Tajima a meal he'd taken the time to cook himself was gift enough, maybe Tajima should be less greedy. And Tajima had gotten kind of quiet at that, his eyes watching Hanai through the dim light, and then swooped in to press a kiss to Hanai's cheek.
"Thanks for the meal, Azusa," he said.
"Don't call me that," he replied on automatic. Tajima didn't pull back after the kiss, and was still close enough that Hanai could watch the way his freckles scrunched up with the force of his smile.
Now it's six months later, and they're sitting at the same places at the same table, and Hanai has gotten better at practicing courage. Sunlight pours through the windows, thrown open to seek respite from the breathless early-summer heat. Takeaway cartons cover the small distance between them, and Tajima has found the gift that lies at the center of the cushioning paper.
Hanai can tell that Tajima knows what it is the second his hand closes around it. Immediately his gaze drops to the table, unable to watch Tajima any longer.
It's a long time before Tajima speaks. "Hanai—"
The words never mind are crowding forward on his tongue, so he says the first words he can to force them back. "Merry christmas," he bursts out.
Tajima stares at him, his face flushed faintly pink, his eyes wide—and then he bursts out laughing.
Hanai cringes back but Tajima is immediately leaning towards him, chasing him for once. He half-falls out of his own chair as he drapes his arms around Hanai's shoulders, shaking with laughter that teeters on the edge of tears. Hanai steadies his weight, awkwardly settling a hand between his shoulderblades. They're twenty-five and Tajima's still small, but heavier than he looks, all muscle.
"Um," Hanai tries again.
"I thought," Tajima says, but his voice breaks, so he tries again. "I thought you were a traditionalist," he says. "I expected a long speech or something."
The fingers of Tajima's right hand are balled into a fist around Hanai's present, a simple silver ring.
"I'm not going to kneel in front of you," Hanai snaps, before carefully shifting Tajima's weight in his arms so that he can hold him better. "Um. Are you okay?"
"You haven't really asked me, though," Tajima says.
"You haven't said yes, either," Hanai points out, voice shaking.
Tajima presses their cheeks together. "Yes," he whispers, so soft and close that only Hanai would hear. "Yes."
Hanai loses track of a few minutes. When his head clears, Tajima has migrated into his lap and Hanai's kissing him everywhere he can reach, his nose, his eyebrows, the curves of his smile.
He pulls back, and Tajima's just as flushed and teary-eyed as he is. "This is a mess," Hanai says. "Sorry."
"You're overthinking it," Tajima says, "I love you," and kisses him again.