Arashi fic- Seasonality
Title: Seasonality
Pairing: Sho/Aiba
Rating: R
Word Count: 2749
Disclaimer: Don't own, all fiction.
Summary: Haru mo natsu mo aki mo fuyu mo/boku wa itsumo koko ni iru yo (Be it spring, summer, autumn, or winter/I'm always right here)
Notes: One more before I start work. I noticed too that Arashi has songs about spring, summer and winter, and song titles respectively, but there's just nothing on autumn. Likewise autumn was so hard to write about. But it's probably because I've never experienced autumn as well.
春と相葉と私
Aiba wants to stick his head out the car window when he is driving and the trees are ripe with sakura blossoms begging to be admired. Aiba wants to do more than that; he wants to devour them.
Before they wither and fall and get crushed under the wheels, his car merrily rolling over them.
They went sakura viewing one year and he couldn't stop gushing about how beautiful they were, how they symbolised affection and love and all those lovely things; Sakurai told him very drolly kamikaze pilots used to take them or paint them when they went for their final missions; death.
He sneezed on him in reply.
Sometimes he gives in and slides the car window down and gets rewarded with endless sneezes, his eyes and nose running in protest, his nose going a step further to completely block up. Fleeting beauty and much less fleeting pain for that.
So lovely, so troublesome, so irresistible, sakura.
The things he puts up with for a little sakura.
Sakurai tells him they're scheduled for extra pv dance practice after filming. He wants to protest but only ends up asking, just us?
Yes.
Why?
Well, after Truth, isn't it obvious?
Did the choreographer request it?
No, I did.
He decides to protest after all but Sakurai only pets him on the head and smiles really sincerely (damnit, he thinks) and tells him they'll have fun before walking out of the room.
He decides he wants to protest about being treated like a kid too, but gets sidetracked reminiscing about the past, back in a time when Sakurai's temper was more well-known than the guy was, when Sakurai wouldn't have taken no for an answer, when if he'd said no Sakurai would've cowered him into submission.
Not at all like his name.
Dance practice, he thinks, right, dance practice, and Sakurai has him pressed up against the washroom cubicle door, tongue tasting of coffee in his mouth, and hands under his shirt and in his hair, and he wonders what exactly Sakurai's fascination with his hair is, really.
Sakurai must've noticed his attention wandering a bit, and tugs lightly on his earring. That brings him right back, shivers ghosting down his spine. Having had his full attention again, Sakurai proceeds to gnaw on his collarbone and he is just about to groan very loudly into the empty washroom when the door opens with footsteps.
Sakurai-san, Aiba-san, are you here?
It's the choreographer. Sakurai covers his mouth with his hand just in time. He inhales deeply. Everything suddenly sounds too loud, especially the silence. Sakurai's hand feels too hot.
They hear the choreographer take a few steps, calling out again, perhaps debating if they were indeed in the single locked cubicle.
He holds his breath and feels bad, not guilty enough to reply though. Then Sakurai's hand is trailing up his chest very slowly, pauses halfway, and reaches out to flick his nipple very lightly. He can fill his blood pounding in his head, his skin is burning, he bites down hard on his lip, and most of all he wants to hit Sakurai upside his head very badly. He settles for his best glare.
Sakurai only winks at him and buries his head in the crook of his neck. The hair tickles his nose and he holds it in for five seconds by slamming his hand over his mouth before it bursts explosively out, thankfully just as the washroom door closes again, footsteps fading away.
He runs out to wash his hands and Sakurai follows languidly, informing him, we'll better hurry back, if the choreographer's out we must have been gone too long.
And just whose fault is that, he thinks but doesn't say, busily looking around for the dryer.
Never mind, let's just go, Sakurai repeats and without waiting for his answer, grabs his hand and pulls him out of the washroom. Oh, Aiba-chan, I made a doctor's appointment for you tomorrow morning. You should get a shot so your allergies wouldn't bother you during tomorrow's pv filming.
So lovely, so troublesome, so irresistible, Sakurai.
***
C1000
Aiba is very good with the dog in their photoshoot, and he couldn't help be reminded of how that was the way Aiba used to play with his dog. Aiba looks happy. Open.
On impulse he blurts out, let's get a dog!
Aiba doesn't say anything, keeps rubbing the dog affectionately (lucky dog, he thinks). He scratches his head.
It isn't right to get a dog when we can't devote enough time to him, Aiba murmurs, but his eyes are warm.
He wondered if Aiba was lonely when he had to leave his dogs behind to move to Tokyo. He especially remembers the huge white shaggy monster, Atom, who was actually very gentle, and fiercely protective of his owner.
He will not forget the day Aiba called him up, asked him mysteriously if Sho-chan could spend the day with him. He said yes, but why, baffled.
Aiba ignored the question. See you then.
They went shopping and Aiba insisted on picking out a new outfit for him (that's called coordinating, Sho-chan), checked out DVDs at the music store (Sho-chan, watch this, it's good), went for yakiniku (I'm ordering the most expensive food and Sho-chan's paying!), finally ending up in a small, chic, quiet pub.
He only waited patiently.
Aiba got drunk and cried all over his shoulder. He carried him back to his apartment and spent the night there.
He found out a few days later Atom had died.
He knows it's summer when Aiba's hair is grown out and golden and curled when most people would hack their hair off.
Like a golden cocker spaniel. He runs his fingers through the fluff, fingers snagging on curls. He runs his fingers through again and again, amusing himself.
Aiba is all sprawled out on his living room floor, sticking his tongue out like a dog.
He drops an ice cube on Aiba's tongue.
Aiba pants, I'm sweating like a dog.
My dog, he thinks. It would be too much of a hassle taking care of two dogs at once, I should just focus my attention on one, he says.
Aiba smiles like he knows everything.
***
見た目はレモン 味だけメロン
Two matsutake mushrooms. Gifts, but expensive, so two. He can't help but give them a look over at once, and no, they don't look strange. He hopes Aiba isn't going to make strange remarks about shape. It's all Aiba's fault for corrupting expensive delicacies in his head. Mushrooms, just mushrooms! But not just mushrooms. Aiba likes matsutake mushrooms. Expensive taste. A little bit over-enthusiastic about it Fun to watch, though.
He calls his mum.
"What can I do with two matsutake?"
Matsutake Gohan Recipe (from norecipes.com)
Ingredients:
Cooking method:
He sets the bowls on the table, a wonderful earthy aroma filling the room. The mushrooms are a lovely harvest, it's the perfect time. Now, he just has to wait for his own harvest, his crop to bear fruit.
The door opens and a hurricane sweeps in. Welcome home, he beams at the wind-swept figure, picking out a small yellow dried leaf caught in his artfully styled mane and stealing a kiss.
Smells lovely, I'll give you that, Aiba inhales deeply, and shoves a spoonful into his mouth before sitting down, I hope I wouldn't have to go to the ER after this meal, his voice muffled around all the food in his mouth. He ignores it and waits for Aiba to swallow.
Aiba's eyes light up and he turns to him with surprise, oh god, Sho-chan, this is actually good! Try it, try it! Say ahhh...
And it has come to fruition, he rejoices inwardly, obediently letting Aiba feed him.
It is really not bad, he chews thoughtfully, watching Aiba attack the rice. If they were filming, 'umai' probably wouldn't be enough at all and 'it tastes of autumn' would earn Aiba a sharp rebuke from him for irrelevant comments, but when he is the one who has spent the last two hours slaving away in the kitchen it is all different; it becomes the highest praise possible.
Though, he privately thinks, unconsciously smiling fondly at Aiba, he would much rather have a side of Aiba, unadorned, in its purest most basic taste, fresh and raw so he could taste everything, at its peak season for harvest, with at most a dash of soy sauce for light flavouring and to enhance the flavours. The sweetest, reddest apple of his eye, just ripe for picking.
***
Double Parka
Aiba runs into the cafe, late, and drops down unceremoniously into the opposite seat. Then he starts peeling off the layers. A thick wool scarf. The heavy black parka. Another coat. He stops, but Sho sees a vest over a long-sleeved top still. Aiba rubs his hands vigorously and blows into them, cups them to his face, exhaling heavily. Then Aiba turns to him and sees him finally, and fine lines break out near the corner of his eyes to condiment his smile.
Aiba affirms lightly, “Hey,” a universe contained within a syllable.
The cold makes Aiba tear, glistening liquid eyes like he’s on the verge of spilling tears. Water in his eyes gives Aiba an air of vulnerability and probably deceptive innocence, but it is good deception. He takes a sip of coffee and with aimed casualness pretends to cast his gaze around the room. Aiba is made of water, and if he’s not careful he could just get washed away in the outflow. One thing if it’s for a noble cause, another if it’s just a matter of bad piping. He’s always been weak that way. Aiba’s the one who can hold his breath for 2 minutes and he can’t remember how many seconds underwater, enough seconds to send his jaw to the floor, to be weirdly proud of him like it’s his own achievement when it has nothing to do with him, for amusement to shade into concern, to conjure up the idea of a beach date and just how many seconds would Aiba last in an underwater kiss?
Sho-chan, Aiba told him seriously, or maybe not, that’s why you’re the biggest pervert in Arashi. Sho-chan, do you think it’s a matter of like attracts like, or that your perviness has rubbed off on me, or the combination of our getting together has brought forth new levels of pervertedness like a chemical reaction?
He bought breast puddings and left them in the freezer for Aiba to find, Aiba threw them at him, he ducked, the frozen pudding fell onto the floor and cracked into fragments.
When Aiba stopped laughing enough to close his mouth to form words, eyes moist, Aiba retorted, stop it, it’s too cold to play with ice.
Still, the next day, he found chocolates shaped like a certain part of the male anatomy next to his chilled beer, with a scrawled note ‘now that’s hard!! (^o^) unlike somebody’s’.
He dragged Aiba from the living room into the bedroom to further the discussion on firmness, rigour and stiffness. It was a matter of pride at stake after all.
And much later, watching Aiba work lips and mouth around his length, eyes watering, stone-cold fingers on his skin sending shivers to his spine, cold and hot on his body, his heart was definitely warm.
And a bit guiltily, as he carefully wiped the water from Aiba’s eyes with a warm thumb, trying to pass a bit of warmth to him. The floor must be cold on Aiba’s knees.
Can I be the jeans for your knees, the jacket against the cold for you?
Aiba has ordered black coffee and is rambling at length about how much colder it was than he thought when he left the house and he had to double back to get his parka and that’s why he was late and he thinks he really shouldn’t be thinking about Aiba giving him a blowjob right there, it might warm up the wrong parts of his body.
When they leave the cafe Aiba is all wrapped up again, hidden under all the layers and it gives the impression that he is both very warm and very cold at the same time. Aiba looks so cuddly, an invitation to hug. To share warmth. He files it away for home, later.
Aiba’s eyes and smile can thaw any ice, except the cold turning Aiba's nose red.
He thinks that's not very fair, so even though maybe it's too drama or manga to hold Aiba's hand and stuff it into his coat pocket on the pretext of warming Aiba up, that doesn't stop him.
Didn’t Domyouji do that to Makino, he blusters at Aiba’s knowing grin.
Aiba cocks his head, thinking. I don’t know, I can’t remember.
Doesn’t matter, he proclaims, and pulls Aiba along, feeling Aiba’s grin and trying not to let it colour his cheeks.
They walk in silence for a while, before Aiba tugs on his sleeve with his free hand. Ne, Sho-chan.
Hmm?
It’s quite warm, your hand.
***
Pairing: Sho/Aiba
Rating: R
Word Count: 2749
Disclaimer: Don't own, all fiction.
Summary: Haru mo natsu mo aki mo fuyu mo/boku wa itsumo koko ni iru yo (Be it spring, summer, autumn, or winter/I'm always right here)
Notes: One more before I start work. I noticed too that Arashi has songs about spring, summer and winter, and song titles respectively, but there's just nothing on autumn. Likewise autumn was so hard to write about. But it's probably because I've never experienced autumn as well.
春と相葉と私
Aiba wants to stick his head out the car window when he is driving and the trees are ripe with sakura blossoms begging to be admired. Aiba wants to do more than that; he wants to devour them.
Before they wither and fall and get crushed under the wheels, his car merrily rolling over them.
They went sakura viewing one year and he couldn't stop gushing about how beautiful they were, how they symbolised affection and love and all those lovely things; Sakurai told him very drolly kamikaze pilots used to take them or paint them when they went for their final missions; death.
He sneezed on him in reply.
Sometimes he gives in and slides the car window down and gets rewarded with endless sneezes, his eyes and nose running in protest, his nose going a step further to completely block up. Fleeting beauty and much less fleeting pain for that.
So lovely, so troublesome, so irresistible, sakura.
The things he puts up with for a little sakura.
Sakurai tells him they're scheduled for extra pv dance practice after filming. He wants to protest but only ends up asking, just us?
Yes.
Why?
Well, after Truth, isn't it obvious?
Did the choreographer request it?
No, I did.
He decides to protest after all but Sakurai only pets him on the head and smiles really sincerely (damnit, he thinks) and tells him they'll have fun before walking out of the room.
He decides he wants to protest about being treated like a kid too, but gets sidetracked reminiscing about the past, back in a time when Sakurai's temper was more well-known than the guy was, when Sakurai wouldn't have taken no for an answer, when if he'd said no Sakurai would've cowered him into submission.
Not at all like his name.
Dance practice, he thinks, right, dance practice, and Sakurai has him pressed up against the washroom cubicle door, tongue tasting of coffee in his mouth, and hands under his shirt and in his hair, and he wonders what exactly Sakurai's fascination with his hair is, really.
Sakurai must've noticed his attention wandering a bit, and tugs lightly on his earring. That brings him right back, shivers ghosting down his spine. Having had his full attention again, Sakurai proceeds to gnaw on his collarbone and he is just about to groan very loudly into the empty washroom when the door opens with footsteps.
Sakurai-san, Aiba-san, are you here?
It's the choreographer. Sakurai covers his mouth with his hand just in time. He inhales deeply. Everything suddenly sounds too loud, especially the silence. Sakurai's hand feels too hot.
They hear the choreographer take a few steps, calling out again, perhaps debating if they were indeed in the single locked cubicle.
He holds his breath and feels bad, not guilty enough to reply though. Then Sakurai's hand is trailing up his chest very slowly, pauses halfway, and reaches out to flick his nipple very lightly. He can fill his blood pounding in his head, his skin is burning, he bites down hard on his lip, and most of all he wants to hit Sakurai upside his head very badly. He settles for his best glare.
Sakurai only winks at him and buries his head in the crook of his neck. The hair tickles his nose and he holds it in for five seconds by slamming his hand over his mouth before it bursts explosively out, thankfully just as the washroom door closes again, footsteps fading away.
He runs out to wash his hands and Sakurai follows languidly, informing him, we'll better hurry back, if the choreographer's out we must have been gone too long.
And just whose fault is that, he thinks but doesn't say, busily looking around for the dryer.
Never mind, let's just go, Sakurai repeats and without waiting for his answer, grabs his hand and pulls him out of the washroom. Oh, Aiba-chan, I made a doctor's appointment for you tomorrow morning. You should get a shot so your allergies wouldn't bother you during tomorrow's pv filming.
So lovely, so troublesome, so irresistible, Sakurai.
***
C1000
Aiba is very good with the dog in their photoshoot, and he couldn't help be reminded of how that was the way Aiba used to play with his dog. Aiba looks happy. Open.
On impulse he blurts out, let's get a dog!
Aiba doesn't say anything, keeps rubbing the dog affectionately (lucky dog, he thinks). He scratches his head.
It isn't right to get a dog when we can't devote enough time to him, Aiba murmurs, but his eyes are warm.
He wondered if Aiba was lonely when he had to leave his dogs behind to move to Tokyo. He especially remembers the huge white shaggy monster, Atom, who was actually very gentle, and fiercely protective of his owner.
He will not forget the day Aiba called him up, asked him mysteriously if Sho-chan could spend the day with him. He said yes, but why, baffled.
Aiba ignored the question. See you then.
They went shopping and Aiba insisted on picking out a new outfit for him (that's called coordinating, Sho-chan), checked out DVDs at the music store (Sho-chan, watch this, it's good), went for yakiniku (I'm ordering the most expensive food and Sho-chan's paying!), finally ending up in a small, chic, quiet pub.
He only waited patiently.
Aiba got drunk and cried all over his shoulder. He carried him back to his apartment and spent the night there.
He found out a few days later Atom had died.
He knows it's summer when Aiba's hair is grown out and golden and curled when most people would hack their hair off.
Like a golden cocker spaniel. He runs his fingers through the fluff, fingers snagging on curls. He runs his fingers through again and again, amusing himself.
Aiba is all sprawled out on his living room floor, sticking his tongue out like a dog.
He drops an ice cube on Aiba's tongue.
Aiba pants, I'm sweating like a dog.
My dog, he thinks. It would be too much of a hassle taking care of two dogs at once, I should just focus my attention on one, he says.
Aiba smiles like he knows everything.
***
見た目はレモン 味だけメロン
Two matsutake mushrooms. Gifts, but expensive, so two. He can't help but give them a look over at once, and no, they don't look strange. He hopes Aiba isn't going to make strange remarks about shape. It's all Aiba's fault for corrupting expensive delicacies in his head. Mushrooms, just mushrooms! But not just mushrooms. Aiba likes matsutake mushrooms. Expensive taste. A little bit over-enthusiastic about it Fun to watch, though.
He calls his mum.
"What can I do with two matsutake?"
Matsutake Gohan Recipe (from norecipes.com)
Ingredients:
- 2 medium matsutake mushrooms (Still trying to shake phallic images out of his head. It seems wrong, like sacrilege of delicacy. Aiba's fault.)
- 320g Japanese rice washed and drained (They are so small and finicky and have a tendency to slip through his fingers. But at least he's learnt to leave out the detergent. After Aiba yelled his ear out.)
- 2 Tbs sake (He takes a few sips. This cooking thing is hard.)
- 1 Tbs mirin (He's tempted to take a few sips too.)
- 1 Tbs light soy sauce (He remembers drinking it down, Aiba's open-mouthed laugh and telling him it was the funniest thing he'd seen all year.)
- 1 1/2 cup kombu dashi (Wasn't there a boat of seaweed during the Odoroki specials? Aiba was there too. They sank like they always did and stank of seaweed for the rest of the day, salty wet seaweed.)
- 1/4 tsp salt (And a boat of salt, and Aiba was there too.)
- mitsuba leaves for garnish (If he's associated with flowers of the sakura kind, Aiba's associated with leaves and together they make a complete plant. Not funny.)
Cooking method:
- Thoroughly clean the matsutake mushrooms with a wet cloth and water. (No phallic images, not at all. He stifles a guffaw and rubs the mushrooms down and fails to not think of other things.)
- Trim off any rough bits at the bottom of the stem. Halve the mushrooms and slice each half lengthwise into 1/8″ slices. (His phone sings, "It's a magical song, yeah!" He attempts to halve the mushrooms with phone clamped between ear and shoulder. Aiba asks for their dinner plans tonight. I'm starving, thank god I'm almost done here, Aiba whines, voice tiny and distant and machine-distorted. I'm cooking, he inserts nonchalantly, so come home right away. There is about ten seconds of stunned silence.)
- Add the mushrooms, rice, sake, mirin, soy sauce, dashi and salt to a small enameled cast iron pot. Stir to combine the ingredients. (He hangs up to concentrate on measuring each precise tablespoon of seasoning, not before hearing Aiba wail but not hungry enough for that! Now I know how the poor kids in mago mago bangohan felt. No 'small enameled cast iron pot'. He has no idea what that is either, and it probably can't be found in the supermarket he stopped by to grab the ingredients. Normal pot it shall be.)
- Ideally you’ll let this sit for about an hour before cooking, but if you’re pressed for time, you can proceed to the next step right away. (He stares at the clock. Not enough time, and Aiba would be hungry and demanding food the minute he reached home. Better to have his mouth stuffed so Aiba would stop insulting his cooking skills. Lack thereof, you mean, he can imagine Aiba smirking already. He settles for a compromise of half an hour. The Aiba in his imagination laughs easily, that's exactly the sort of cooking you do, Sho-chan.
- Cover tightly with a lid and turn the heat onto medium high. Bring to a boil then reduce the heat to medium low and maintain a gentle simmer for 20 minutes. (He frowns. What is medium high? Or low? What is a gentle simmer? As long as it boils it should be fine right?)
- Turn off the heat and let the rice steam without opening the lid for another 10 minutes. Gently mix the matsutake gohan, serve into rice bowls and garnish with chopped mitsuba. (He arranges the mitsuba leaves into a smiley face. Aiba had texted a while back to say he was on his way home.)
He sets the bowls on the table, a wonderful earthy aroma filling the room. The mushrooms are a lovely harvest, it's the perfect time. Now, he just has to wait for his own harvest, his crop to bear fruit.
The door opens and a hurricane sweeps in. Welcome home, he beams at the wind-swept figure, picking out a small yellow dried leaf caught in his artfully styled mane and stealing a kiss.
Smells lovely, I'll give you that, Aiba inhales deeply, and shoves a spoonful into his mouth before sitting down, I hope I wouldn't have to go to the ER after this meal, his voice muffled around all the food in his mouth. He ignores it and waits for Aiba to swallow.
Aiba's eyes light up and he turns to him with surprise, oh god, Sho-chan, this is actually good! Try it, try it! Say ahhh...
And it has come to fruition, he rejoices inwardly, obediently letting Aiba feed him.
It is really not bad, he chews thoughtfully, watching Aiba attack the rice. If they were filming, 'umai' probably wouldn't be enough at all and 'it tastes of autumn' would earn Aiba a sharp rebuke from him for irrelevant comments, but when he is the one who has spent the last two hours slaving away in the kitchen it is all different; it becomes the highest praise possible.
Though, he privately thinks, unconsciously smiling fondly at Aiba, he would much rather have a side of Aiba, unadorned, in its purest most basic taste, fresh and raw so he could taste everything, at its peak season for harvest, with at most a dash of soy sauce for light flavouring and to enhance the flavours. The sweetest, reddest apple of his eye, just ripe for picking.
***
Double Parka
Aiba runs into the cafe, late, and drops down unceremoniously into the opposite seat. Then he starts peeling off the layers. A thick wool scarf. The heavy black parka. Another coat. He stops, but Sho sees a vest over a long-sleeved top still. Aiba rubs his hands vigorously and blows into them, cups them to his face, exhaling heavily. Then Aiba turns to him and sees him finally, and fine lines break out near the corner of his eyes to condiment his smile.
Aiba affirms lightly, “Hey,” a universe contained within a syllable.
The cold makes Aiba tear, glistening liquid eyes like he’s on the verge of spilling tears. Water in his eyes gives Aiba an air of vulnerability and probably deceptive innocence, but it is good deception. He takes a sip of coffee and with aimed casualness pretends to cast his gaze around the room. Aiba is made of water, and if he’s not careful he could just get washed away in the outflow. One thing if it’s for a noble cause, another if it’s just a matter of bad piping. He’s always been weak that way. Aiba’s the one who can hold his breath for 2 minutes and he can’t remember how many seconds underwater, enough seconds to send his jaw to the floor, to be weirdly proud of him like it’s his own achievement when it has nothing to do with him, for amusement to shade into concern, to conjure up the idea of a beach date and just how many seconds would Aiba last in an underwater kiss?
Sho-chan, Aiba told him seriously, or maybe not, that’s why you’re the biggest pervert in Arashi. Sho-chan, do you think it’s a matter of like attracts like, or that your perviness has rubbed off on me, or the combination of our getting together has brought forth new levels of pervertedness like a chemical reaction?
He bought breast puddings and left them in the freezer for Aiba to find, Aiba threw them at him, he ducked, the frozen pudding fell onto the floor and cracked into fragments.
When Aiba stopped laughing enough to close his mouth to form words, eyes moist, Aiba retorted, stop it, it’s too cold to play with ice.
Still, the next day, he found chocolates shaped like a certain part of the male anatomy next to his chilled beer, with a scrawled note ‘now that’s hard!! (^o^) unlike somebody’s’.
He dragged Aiba from the living room into the bedroom to further the discussion on firmness, rigour and stiffness. It was a matter of pride at stake after all.
And much later, watching Aiba work lips and mouth around his length, eyes watering, stone-cold fingers on his skin sending shivers to his spine, cold and hot on his body, his heart was definitely warm.
And a bit guiltily, as he carefully wiped the water from Aiba’s eyes with a warm thumb, trying to pass a bit of warmth to him. The floor must be cold on Aiba’s knees.
Can I be the jeans for your knees, the jacket against the cold for you?
Aiba has ordered black coffee and is rambling at length about how much colder it was than he thought when he left the house and he had to double back to get his parka and that’s why he was late and he thinks he really shouldn’t be thinking about Aiba giving him a blowjob right there, it might warm up the wrong parts of his body.
When they leave the cafe Aiba is all wrapped up again, hidden under all the layers and it gives the impression that he is both very warm and very cold at the same time. Aiba looks so cuddly, an invitation to hug. To share warmth. He files it away for home, later.
Aiba’s eyes and smile can thaw any ice, except the cold turning Aiba's nose red.
He thinks that's not very fair, so even though maybe it's too drama or manga to hold Aiba's hand and stuff it into his coat pocket on the pretext of warming Aiba up, that doesn't stop him.
Didn’t Domyouji do that to Makino, he blusters at Aiba’s knowing grin.
Aiba cocks his head, thinking. I don’t know, I can’t remember.
Doesn’t matter, he proclaims, and pulls Aiba along, feeling Aiba’s grin and trying not to let it colour his cheeks.
They walk in silence for a while, before Aiba tugs on his sleeve with his free hand. Ne, Sho-chan.
Hmm?
It’s quite warm, your hand.
***