What a View

Disclaimer: don't own

Fukuda braces his shoulders against the cold, pulling them up to his chin and trying to shorten his neck so that his team-issued jacket covers more skin (even if it does, it probably won't make a difference, but the movement might warm him up a bit or at the very least distract him from the wind). He's getting taller again; soon the jacket will be too small for him. He feels a tug on the hem and turns around. Furihata looks up at him; his shallow breathing sends clouds of condensation into the air and his cheeks are rosy. His jacket is slightly too big for him (it's not just the way he's hunkered down inside of it, peering out like a hermit crab from under the lid of the safety of its shell) and his fingers just barely stick out from the sleeves. Furihata's big eyes blink slowly and Fukuda feels his heartbeat accelerate and his stomach drop as he can't force back the horrible thought that Furihata looks absolutely adorable. Fukuda is glad of the cold, suddenly, because his cheeks are probably turning even redder than Furihata's.

"Um," says Furihata.

Fukuda fervently wishes he'd waited for Kawahara. The situation might be a bit less awkward and he might be able to think about something other than how plump Furihata's lips are.

"Fukuda," says Furihata. (Fukuda's face heats up even more hearing his name from that mouth.) "Thank you for doing what you did back there. You know, um. I really...it means a lot to me."

Fukuda scratches his chin and tries to think of an actual answer. "That's…that's what teammates are for, right? If you can't rely on us, then why are we on the team in the first place?"

Does that even make any sense? Probably not; Fukuda has no idea what he just said, but he's positive it wasn't anything stupid like "you're cute" or "please let me kiss you" or "hnggg". Furihata hasn't let go of the bottom of Fukuda's jacket. His cold fingertips are alarmingly close to Fukuda's hip. Fukuda reaches one hand out, brushes Furihata's cheek, feels Furihata take in a breath sharper than barbed wire. Fukuda flinches and brings his hand up farther to ruffle Furihata's hair.

Furihata sighs softly and releases his grip on the jacket. His hair is soft and still damp from the postgame shower and the humidity in the air. With each moment that Fukuda's hand stays on Furihata's head, the tension in the atmosphere becomes more palpable and feels a little more dangerous. Fukuda lets out all his breath at once and stuffs his hand in his pocket. He can't look at Furihata; it would be too weird—it might freak him out or overwhelm him. Is it the proper thing to do? Would it make things even more awkward?

"Um, I should go," says Furihata.

"Yeah, me, too," says Fukuda.

He automatically starts walking in the opposite direction from Furihata, even though he doesn't know where he's going or what he'll do when he gets there. Right now, he needs to clear his head and steady his pulse before he begins to figure out his feelings.

The air is thick with pollen; it cakes under Fukuda's fingers and gathers in his breath, turns it all to wheezing and makes his eyes swell. He sits in the back stairwell at lunch, leans against the exposed brick wall, while Furihata reads aloud from the book they're studying in literature.

Furihata's a natural storyteller; he makes even the most dull, stuffy old texts seem fascinating. His voice becomes steadier and stronger with the passing of the hour, and Fukuda closes his blurry eyes so he can hear Furihata's words without distractions. They echo pleasantly off the landing above and back into Fukuda's ears. Fukuda smiles.

Furihata stops short. It's too soon to be the end of the chapter, and it's a bit too abrupt of an ending even for an old-fashioned writer anyway.

"That's it?"

"Oh," says Furihata. "I thought you fell asleep."

"Nah," says Fukuda. He opens his eyes. "You can stop if you want to, though."

Furihata offers a smile and scoots a little closer. He begins to read aloud again, but Fukuda keeps his eyes open. Furihata's sitting up straight while Fukuda is slouched so far he's almost lying down against the wall, and he's never seen Furihata from this angle before. Furihata's lower lashes are dark and gorgeous and throw translucent shadows across the area of skin just above his cheekbones. (What's that called? Does it have a name?) Furihata's throat moves in an almost mesmerizing way when he speaks (Fukuda can't even really register what he's saying anymore because the motion is too captivating) and he tends to bite his lower lip between sentences. Fukuda really might be able to drift off like this, if not for the thudding of his heartbeat and the way he can't shut his eyes because the view's too goddamn beautiful.

It's all spinning around him, the room and the lights of the party and the sounds of music and conversation coming in and out of focus. Fukuda reaches out to steady himself and his hand manages to find a solid mass before he faceplants. When he feels the bones and tendons and muscles move under his touch, his mouth forms an o—it's someone's shoulder. Another wave of vertigo kicks in before he can identify whose shoulder it is and he closes his eyes and sways, gradually regaining his balance.

"Fukuda, are you all right?"

Furihata's voice is comforting even as it almost cracks with tiredness or worry (or maybe it's both).

"I'm fine," he mumbles.

He opens his eyes; Furihata looks up at him, bangs stuck to his forehead with sweat and a furrow in his brow and God is he lovely. Fukuda runs his hand up Furihata's neck and traces his jawline. Furihata shivers, leaning into the touch as his eyes flutter shut.

"You've got a really cute nose, you know?" Fukuda says.

Furihata laughs and takes Fukuda's other hand in his own. And then their lips meet and the teen movies got it all wrong because the music's fading from his ears and all he can hear are the rustle of skin on skin and the sound of his mouth sucking on Furihata's lower lip.