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Ignoring the plate Hanamaki holds between them, Matsukawa stares straight at Hanamaki and waits. It doesn’t take long for Hanamaki to start squirming; Matsukawa’s gotten pretty good at recognising the signs which, if you know what to look for, are an almost dead giveaway whenever Hanamaki feels he’s in the wrong. Whether or not he actually is in the wrong is irrelevant — calling him out on his cover-ups is one of Matsukawa’s lesser known joys in life.
Hanamaki’s smile widens, tipping over the edge from Casual, Clueless and instead cracking into Let me fall into the void now.
So it begins.
“So, what’s this?” Matsukawa asks. “An apology?”
There’s a pause, which itself isn’t an awkward thing but there’s no denying Hanamaki’s pause now is very, very awkward.
“…Well.”
“Well?”
Hanamaki drawls the words out, but he’s rambling. “I mean, I was actually going for a bribe, but. You know what, Mattsun? I’m nothing if not adaptable, so. Yes. Consider this an apology.”
Matsukawa raises an eyebrow. He might also be smiling slightly; he can’t be sure, because whatever his face is doing just amps up Hanamaki’s face, currently a portrait of internal anguish.
“Is it, now,” Matsukawa says. It’s supposed to be a question, though Matsukawa admits it doesn’t sound like one. Thankfully, Hanamaki’s also rather good at following other people’s prompts.
“Yes. My utmost, sincerest apologies. If you’d accept them…” Hanamaki nudges the plate in his hands closer to Matsukawa. Now, Matsukawa’s arms aren’t crossed, but nevertheless he lets the plate bump into his chest anyway.
Which is all well and good, dramatic effect and whatnot, until Matsukawa feels something soft and squishy and decidedly unplate-like roll into his chest and stay there. Matsukawa breathes in. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, he breathes out and looks down at the plate.
Across from him, Hanamaki does the same, sans the breathing back out part. Hanamaki probably hasn’t exhaled properly in the last three minutes.
Both their eyes inevitably fall towards the plate of — admittedly rather crudely shaped — creampuffs resting between them. Then, because there’s really no avoiding it, towards the creamy stain now on Matsukawa’s shirt, courtesy of a high-rolling creampuff into his chest.
“My utmost, sincerest apologies,” Hanamaki repeats solemnly.
“Creampuffs are your favourite food,” Matsukawa says back.
Wisely, Hanamaki doesn’t give a reply. He manages to hold his silence for almost half of a whole minute.
“In my defence,” he starts, “that —,” gesturing at Matsukawa’s shirt stain, “— was actually beyond my control.”
“Alright,” Matsukawa agrees. Then: “Still doesn’t explain why you have them at all, though.”
And here lies the heart of the matter. So naturally, Hanamaki does his damnedest to avoid it: carefully setting the plate at Matsukawa’s feet, he dips into a shallow bob that might be an apologetic bow, before whipping back up and turning to make a run for it. Matsukawa doesn’t let him, stepping over the creampuffs to trap Hanamaki where he is, arms settled around Hanamaki’s loosely middle. Hanamaki swears. It’s a mildly threatening position to hold someone in, so Matsukawa compromises and lets his chin rest along Hanamaki’s shoulder.
“C’mon, Taka, it’s comin’ out eventually. What’s the apology for?”
Hanamaki finally reaches his threshold for awkwardness.
“… eat them.”
Matsukawa blinks. “Didn’t quite catch that.”
Hanamaki closes his eyes. He neither opens them again or twist his head in Matsukawa’s direction.
“I didn’t think you’d eat them,” he says again, clearer this time.
“Then why’d you make them?”
“No,” Hanamaki insists, “not the, the — creampuffs. The condoms.”
There’s silence, but Hanamaki’s warmed up to his topic in full now, because his eyes snap open and he whirls on Matsukawa, distressed and just a little manic. “Why would you try to eat them, Mattsun, that’s latex and unsexy, and, and…” Hanamaki’s voice drops into a whisper. He — probably — doesn’t mean to create dramatic effect by doing so, but he does. Matsukawa’s face is deliberately neutral.
“They weren’t even flavoured,” Hanamaki accuses, like this is the worst of Matsukawa’s condom-consuming offences.
Matsukawa primly replies, “Well, not like anybody told me that beforehand.”
Hanamaki rolls his eyes.
“Mattsun — Issei. Issei, look. I’m sorry, but that was super awkward, and I’m sorry, and can we just. Eat some creampuffs and never discuss this again?”
“Oh, so now you want me to eat something.”
Hanamaki shoots him a Look. “It’s like you’re trying to kill a boner that isn’t even there.”
“Foresight —” Matsukawa’s not laughing, he isn’t, “— is the most effective form of prevention.”
Ducking out from his arms, Hanamaki goes back for his creampuffs. “No, you’re right, I’d much rather toss these at your face.”
Matsukawa pauses for a second, then says, “If that makes you feel better. I could probably think of other things you could toss instead, though.”
“Probably?”
Matsukawa looks at Hanamaki significantly. It’s not very effective, though, because he’s still laughing pretty hard. But that’s fine, because Hanamaki’s laughing, too.
“What, you want all the details? Because that is a service I can most definitely provide…”
Hanamaki’s wheezing too hard to reply, but that’s alright. Matsukawa’s more than happy to read between the lines.