Shall We Play A Game?
Pocky day with the Wind Breaker boys! Ft. Sakura Haruka, Umemiya Hajime, and Wanijima Yugo!
cw: none! Pure sugary fluff :)
other notes: This is my first time doing this style of post! I'd love to hear your thoughts if you like it, etc etc! Wani's is, unfortunately, a bit rushed but if I didn't stop yapping about him we'd be here for ages. also i'm sorry i don't use cool graphics or formatting or w/e it's hard enough squeezing in time to write most days ok ily
Sakura Haruka (1.1k)
Fairy lights twinkle in neat lines overhead, casting the rooftop in warm shades of yellow.
Umemiya, true to form, had thrown an anniversary party for…something. You feel a little guilty not recalling the occasion, but he’s hosted so many of these things, they’ve all started blurring together. The fact he keeps track of all these self-made holidays is impressive.
Whatever the reason, it’s a nice way to catch up with everyone—and, you suspect, the driving factor behind their frequency. Former Furin students mill about, drinks or snacks, in hand, chattering away with the same ease they did in high school. A series of cheers erupts in the far corner, where some of the rowdier boys had set up an arm wrestling contest.
You smile, fond, and continue wending your way through the crowd in search of Sakura. Your boyfriend had disappeared earlier, an excited Nirei tugging on his arm. A few people wave as you pass. You return them, but don’t pause for conversation.
Some time has passed since you lost Sakura. You’re eager to check on him, make sure his friends aren’t annoying him too much.
You eventually spot the back of his unmistakable head near the rooftop’s edge, seated on one of the mismatched lawn chairs dotted around the space. Nirei’s at his left, hands waving animatedly while he tells a story. Across from them sits Kiryu, knees drawn to his chest. Suo completes their loose circle at Sakura’s right. (Tsugera, you assume, is off with the arm wrestling crowd.)
“—patrols look strong!”
Nirei’s tale ends as you approach. Suo spots you first, rising from his seat to offer you a bow. Nirei stands a half second later, bowing, while Kiryu gives a lazy flutter of his hand.
“Hello, boys,” you greet warmly. Sakura merely tilts his head up, storm-blue eye softening as he takes you in. You smile at him, fingertips gently brushing along his shoulder as you lean against his seat. “Am I interrupting anything?”
“’Course not,” comes Sakura’s instant reply. There’s a rattle of metal as Nirei drags over a chair for you.
“Oh, thank you, Nirei-kun.”
He bobs his head and returns to his spot while you settle, legs curling underneath you. Once comfortable, you finally notice the low table in the middle of the circle, littered with packs of various snacks and half-empty paper cups. You reach for an unopened box of Pocky without thinking about it, intent on enjoying a little treat while the boys continue their earlier conversation.
Kiryu’s phone emits a faint chime. He slides it out of his pocket, muttering something about daily resets and character drop rates. You glance at Sakura, who is already watching you. “Want one?” The bag rips open easily. You extend it his direction.
Before Sakura can answer, Suo interjects. “Have you heard of the Pocky game, Sakura-kun?”
You have the distinct feeling of a trap closing around you. “Suo-kun…” you warn, lowering the box. Nirei hides his face behind his hands.
Put off by everyone’s reaction, Sakura stiffens, attention landing on Suo. “The hell’s that?”
Delight flickers in Suo’s eye, and for a brief moment, you fully believe an ancient demon of mischief lurks underneath his skin. “A harmless pastime!” The false innocence does not fool you. He gestures; realizing there’s no way out that won’t incur further curiosity (and possibly shouting from your boyfriend), you lean over, offering the box with all the reluctance of a child handing over a toy they’ve been told to stop playing with.
Lithe fingers remove a piece of Pocky from its package. His earrings gleam as he tilts his head, considering. “Two people place the opposing ends between their teeth. The goal is to bite your way towards the center, meeting your partner in the middle. If the stick breaks, you lose.”
You watch the words process in Sakura’s head. See the exact moment he realizes what meeting in the middle entails. Red unfurls along his cheeks. “H-h-he’s makin’ shit up again! Right?”
Despite your own embarrassment, you’re oddly proud he’s stopped instantly falling for whatever nonsense comes out of Suo’s mouth.
Nirei lowers his hands. “Sorry, Sakura-san. He’s telling the truth.”
You toss an ineffectual glare Suo’s way before re-focusing on your boyfriend. “Sakura, we don’t have to play,” you soothe, reaching for his hand. “It’s not a big deal.”
He lets you slide your palm into his, automatically threading your fingers together.
“We could play instead!” Suo indicates you, looking far too pleased with himself.
Sakura tightens his grip on your hand. “S-shaddup—fricken’ hell—!” He snatches the box from your lap, flushed down to his neck. “Ain’t no way.”
“Haruka,” you try again, soft, and while he flinches at the unexpected use of his first name, he keeps his gaze downcast, fighting with the bag of Pocky until he manages to pinch one between his thumb and forefinger.
A challenge has been issued. He will not back down until he sees it through. You can snap at Suo later; right now, you need to help your flustered, pissed off boyfriend.
Maybe there is a way to end this without further teasing. Your mind races as Sakura pops the biscuit end between his teeth, not quite meeting your eyes, brow knitted in a furious thundercloud.
You cup his cheeks on instinct. He relaxes the merest fraction at the contact, as if you’re blocking out the world by the heat of your palms alone. Gently, you bite the chocolate covered end of Pocky.
Sakura exhales once through his nose, then takes his first nibble. You do the same, not rushing, hardly tasting the sweet cream melting on your tongue.
The distance narrows in no time; you can smell the remnants of beer on his breath, note the determined line of his jaw. Fabric rustles—he’d released your hand at some point, fingers now digging into his pants. One more bite and you’re almost touching.
You send him a silent apology and snap clean through your next piece. He hears the crunch. Pulls back with a surprised blink, barely an inch or so of Pocky protruding from his mouth. “…you—”
“Aw, too bad! Got shy on us, hmmm?” Kiryu asks, phone put away, arms folded atop his knees.
Swallowing your treat, you shrug. “A little, I guess!”
Suo smiles. You have the feeling he knows you lost on purpose. Nirei starts chiding him.
Sakura chews the last of his Pocky, confusion on his face slowly clearly. He knocks his knee against yours in silent thanks.
Umemiya Hajime (1k)
You should have known your fiancé—a man notorious for coming up with any reason to pull you in for a kiss—would relish an entire day dedicated to a game whose purpose is to end in said kiss(es.)
The keys still jingle faintly in your hand as you pause at the kitchen threshold, looking between Umemiya and the spoils of his recent shopping trip. “Haji,” you ask, fond and disbelieving all at once, “did you buy every flavor they had?”
He has the decency to turn sheepish, apologetic smile making his eyes crinkle in the corners. One hand absently scratches the nape of his neck. “Ah, I may have gone overboard…”
An eyebrow raises in response. His enthusiasm and whimsy are qualities you love dearly, even when it means arriving home from work to find him proudly showing off his brand new collection of Pocky.
“It’s called Pocky Day for a reason!”
You laugh despite yourself, setting your keys atop the table. “I can’t argue with you there.”
Ume’s hand drops from his neck in relief, smile stretching wide like he’s already won. He plops down into a chair, then pulls out the one next to him. “Come on! We can have a taste test to determine which flavor is best, once and for all.”
How long as he been planning this? Stepping around the table, you take the proffered seat. He turns a bit so he’s facing you, long legs widening so you’re not crowded.
“Baby, I love you, but you’re crazy if you think anything other than matcha is best.”
His laugh is loud. Bright. “We’ll save it for last, then. Look! They had one of the fall flavors in stock.” Ume reaches for the nearest box, which proudly declares Trinity Orange Peel.
Too focused on opening the package, he misses your brief grimace of distance. The seasonal offerings for fall are not your favorite—everyone knows the summer flavors reign supreme. You school your face into something more pleasant by the time he looks up; you’re not going to burst his happy bubble over something as trivial as Pocky. It’s a relief to get this one over with first.
“And you couldn’t resist, hm?”
“It would be an incomplete celebration otherwise,” he counters easily, ripping open the bag with a crinkle of plastic.
Another quality you love about Hajime: he never does anything halfway. He goes all out, both in the loud ways and the quiet ways, pouring his entire soul into whatever has captured his attention.
“So. Why don’t we each trade off choosing a flavor? Since it’s agreed matcha’s last, that leaves us…” you trail off, mentally counting the boxes, including the one in his hand. Trinity orange, strawberry, banana chocolate, cookies and cream, chocolate, crunchy almond. “Six. Three each.”
Ume pulls a stick of Pocky free. “Sounds fair.” He twirls it between his fingers, intending to give you the chocolate coated end. For a moment, he has it, and then the cookie slips. It spins once, twice, then breaks as it lands between your feet.
His face drops. You bite back a laugh, already leaning down to clean up the mess. “That’s gotta be good luck, right? Like the wedding tradition of breaking a plate?” You straighten, dumping the bits of Pocky on the table. Something tells you to wait until this little competition is over to break out the broom and dustpan.
“Will that be our tradition for Pocky Day?” Plastic crinkles again. He stares at the newly freed chocolate stick as if daring it to jump from his hand.
Laughing both at his question and antics, you nod. “I think so.”
This time, he’s careful as he turns it around, placing the non-covered end gingerly between his teeth. You scoot forward in your seat, mirth fading. Your hands alight on his shoulders for support; Ume slouches a bit, elbows braced on his thighs so he’s at eye level.
“Thanks,” you murmur, suddenly nervous. Being the sole focus of his attention always makes butterflies erupt in your stomach. Those blue eyes sparkle and you have to tear your gaze away, swallowing as you hold your end of Pocky between your teeth.
It’s the unspoken signal he was waiting for. Ume wastes no time, bites small but sure. You follow suit, ignoring the unpleasant taste of orange and chocolate filling your mouth.
You can feel the heat of him as you both grow closer. His hands reach unconsciously for your waist, like the thought of not touching you when you’re mere inches away is simply too much. Your fingers curl tighter around his shoulders.
The tips of your noses brush. Soft strands of hair tickle your cheeks. You keep your head angled, bites turning tentative. Ume senses the shift; he purses his lips around the Pocky, barely skimming your own right as the stick snaps.
Pulling back, you lightly smack his arm. “Cheater!”
He pouts, throat working as he swallows. “How is wanting a kiss from my beautiful fiancé cheating?”
Why does he have to be so sweet and so annoying at the same time? “You can’t purse your lips like that! We have to meet in the middle, naturally.”
He shrugs, one hand sliding up your side to wipe a piece of chocolate off the corner of your mouth with a thumb. “We’ll call this one a practice round.”
There’s no real heat behind your glare. “Fine. New rule: No trying to force a kiss.”
He shifts and suddenly he’s close again, pecking you square on the mouth before you can react. “Deal.”
“You’re a menace,” you retort as he leans back, satisfaction evident on his face. Huffing, you scrabble blindly for the next box of Pocky, pleased when you land on cookies and cream.
The hand still on your hip squeezes you lightly. He’s enjoying this far too much. “Wait! Before we move on: what’s your verdict?”
Oh. Right. The taste test. Shaking your head to clear it, you frown. “Not my preferred seasonal flavor. What do you think?”
“I don’t mind it, but I don’t think I’d buy it again.”
Nodding, you open up the box with a muted crack of cardboard. “Alright. For real this time.”
Wanijima Yugo (1.3k)
A little bell dings as the doors slide open, announcing your arrival. The clerk sitting behind the counter gives a slight bow. “Oh, good afternoon! He should be out momentarily,” she says with smile.
You return both the bow and her smile. “Thank you.”
Wanijima has never learned how to sit still, how to enjoy the simple pleasure of having no responsibilities pressing down on his head. You admire his work ethic, though you can’t claim to fully understand what drives it.
And if he won’t pause, you can at least get him to slow down. Be it thirty minutes or fifteen, meeting him on his break is your favorite part of the day, because it means you can pretend time doesn’t matter when you’re by his side. (Until the peaceful chirping of birds reminds you otherwise. You really do hate that alarm of his, sometimes.)
The faint squeak of shoes against tile pulls your attention off the row of onigiri you’d been eyeing. Wanijima rounds the row of shelves, fiddling with the cuffs of his button up.
Your lips part; he looks up before you can make a sound, entire face brightening once he spots you. “There you are.”
“Hi, Yu,” you say, slipping your hand into his once he’s close enough. Rising up onto your tiptoes, you press a soft kiss to his cheek. “I brought you some food. I know you haven’t eaten much today.”
It’s true; he’d picked up an early morning delivery shift to cover for a sick co-worker, therefore missing breakfast, then went straight to the convivence store in the afternoon. Hastily scarfing down an egg salad sando and two pieces of onigiri hardly make up for an actual meal.
His answering smile is warm; he squeezes your palm once, twice. Says goodbye to the clerk over his shoulder and leads you towards the exit. “What’s on the menu today?”
“It’s a surprise!” You adjust the strap of the lunch bag hanging off your shoulder.The bell chimes again. A few streetlamps begin flickering to life as the sun continues descending over the horizon.
Amusement radiates off him, lips twitching at the corners. He appreciates your ceaseless efforts to make these fleeting moments together special; he knows it’s no easy task balancing a relationship and his packed schedule.
There’s a park a block or so down from the konbini. You tell him about your day on the walk there, lightly swinging your joined hands. He laughs at your description of your little brother’s latest schoolyard antics, wonders if the boy is still washing mud out of his hair even now.
Your smile is wide, carefree, profile limned in golden sunlight. Wanijima runs his thumb along your knuckles and misses half of your next story because all he can focus on is memorizing how your eyes shine when you’re particularly excited.
“Yu?”
There’s a tug on his hand. “Mm?” He blinks. Comes back to the present and finds you perched on the park bench, a puzzled expression on your face.
“Aren’t you going to join me?”
He nods, claiming his spot by your side, missing the heat of your palm when you slide your fingers free from his.
Affectionate, you bump your shoulder into his before slipping the lunch bag into your lap. “Thinking too hard about the surprise?”
“Something like that.”
Heat blooms along your cheeks. Perhaps it’s his tone, or the way his amber eyes linger on every plane of your face. You clear your throat, head bowed in a feeble attempt to use your hair as a shield, removing the small bento you’d prepared with exaggerated care. “I-it’s not much, just leftover karaage from last night. And fresh rice, of course.”
Gentle fingertips reach out, brushing your hair aside and curling it behind your ear. “Sounds delicious.” Wanijima’s touch stays for another heartbeat, then skims featherlight along your jawline, until it leaves altogether. A quiet sigh escapes your lips.
He takes the bento and the accompanying chopsticks with a soft word of thanks. Taps a finger atop the lid, tongue probing his lip ring in thought. “I think,” he begins, tilting his chin towards the lunch bag, “we should start with the surprise first. I’ve only got thirty minutes. Don’t want to rush it.”
Surprised, you freeze, arm halfway extended, a smoothie in your grip. “Oh. Sure! Here, this is from Asuka-chan. She said you have to promise you’ll enjoy it on your break.”
Wanijima’s shoulders shake with a laugh. He takes the smoothie, gathering the bento in his free hand and sets them on the bench, next to his thigh. “I promise. I’ll be sure to send her a picture of the empty bottle.”
“Good,” you reply, unzipping the lunch bag’s small outer pocket. “Ta da!”
The Pocky box gives a muted rattle. One corner of his mouth quirks. “Is that today?”
“Sure is.”
Once more, you feel him studying you, his silence turning analytical, like he’s weighing every thought entering his brain. Your grin turns bashful. “What?”
“If you wanted a kiss, you simply have to ask,” he replies, a faint note of teasing in his voice. His hand returns to your cheek, thumb brushing along the arch of it. Your skin warms. “We have time for one round. I would like to eat some of the bento.”
You forget, sometimes, how he straddles the line between responsibility and indulgence with impeccable grace. Words fail you; you nod, opening up the box on muscle memory alone. His hand never strays from your cheek, like he’s afraid this moment will slip away, sand in an hourglass. Leaning into the touch, you place a piece of Pocky in your mouth, biscuit-end first.
He notices. His eyes flicker, but he doesn’t argue. This is your little surprise, after all, and he knows you’re spoiling him in your own way. Dying sunlight catches on his lip ring as he takes the opposite end of Pocky between his teeth.
You do, in fact, want a kiss. You take slow, small bites, torn between watching the rapidly disappearing treat and the way he angles his head, how he tries blinking hair out of his eyes. Wanijima keeps pace with you—he’s rather adept at reading your intentions, almost always on the same wavelength without any detailed explanations on your part.
His next exhale brushes over you in a puff of air. On your inhale, you catch a whiff of his cologne. It’s light, today, airy and faintly citrus. The last time he wore it was for your aquarium date.
A smile threatens to curve your lips; Wanijima catches it. His final bite is larger than previous ones, meant to close the distance once and for all. The stick snaps just as his lips brush yours.
There’s a moment’s pause as you both process the contact. Then everything happens at once: you, drifting closer. His other hand alighting on your cheek so he’s cradling your face in roughened palms. The sweet, comforting pressure of his mouth moving against yours.
Your own hands move of their own accord, curving around his neck, fingers interlacing at his nape. He tastes like chocolate and breath mints and yours. He makes a pleased little hum in the back of his throat.
A passerby coughs. Your eyes, having drooped closed, flutter open. Wanijima breaks the kiss with a regretful sigh, then rests his forehead on yours. Impulse makes you daring—uncaring of who’s watching, you place a little kiss to the corner of his mouth, right atop his lip ring.
“Sweetheart,” he chides, though there’s no warning in it.
Pressing your lips together, you nod, hands sliding down to his chest. His heart beats steadily, if a little rapidly. “Did you like your surprise?”
“Very much.”
