I CAN'T BELIEVE I MET MY SELF-IMPOSED DEADLINE?! I tried to make something that's in-tune with the holiday season but you can barely pick up on the Christmas vibes here. Sorry lol. Hope u all enjoy the shameless childhood best friends to lovers trope which I can never resist indulging in when I write my IwaOi for what it's worth, though.
Merry Christmas [Eve] to everyone! Hope you all enjoy the holidays :)
Disclaimer: I don't own haikyuu!
It all goes to hell at the start of their winter holidays — the last day of the school term.
"You love him, don't you?"
Takahiro says it to him once, over lunch, tone casual as though he were pointing out a mere observation like Oh, the sky is blue again today, isn't that nice? or something of that sort, like an aphorism equally mundane by nature. Seijou's captain has gone off to speak with their guidance counselor regarding his future plans and responses in his career ambition form – an annual consultation service that their high school is mandated to provide – and so Hajime's break is spent in the company of two tall, mischievous middle blockers who are apparently ruthless assholes but who, coincidentally, also happen to be Hajime's best friends— second, at a tie, to a certain Oikawa Tooru. By the manner of his speech, it sounds more of a statement and less like a question and Hajime blanches at the enormity of prospects presented to him, words as plausible as a term so broad and vast and heavy as 'love'.
Sure, he loves Tooru. That much is easy. Hajime's loved him since they were five, when Tooru was the only person in kindergarten who agreed to go out with him to catch bugs during recess because nobody else agreed to come with – even when he later found out that Tooru was grossly terrified of insects when the latter bit his wobbling lip and cried while gently cupping the stag beetle Hajime had asked him to hold on to while trying to find a good enough container to house his new pet.
He's loved him in the moments that they stand together on the court, vessels of power and adrenaline; ambition coursing through their veins as Hajime calls out for one more toss, one more point, palms itching for one last spike and Tooru, as skillful as ever, never fails to deliver as he gives him just that.
He's loved him in the good days – proud and invincible on the throes and thresholds of victory– just as much as in the bad – hesitant and apologetic and terrifyingly fragile – and Hajime is grateful when he gives Tooru the reprieve of letting down his guard and Tooru does the same for him in return; when Tooru grants him the space to allow himself to be weak in such trying times, an image he has never allowed himself to reveal to anyone else, much less to their team.
He's loved him in hoarse phone calls at half past three in the morning, on nights when Tooru is plagued with anxiety and Hajime hangs up with the promise of opening his window wide enough to let the other boy crawl in; when, after two hours of binge-watching alien movies on repeat; in a quiet snore that echoes in his bedroom when the lanky teen rolls around in his sleep, the kind of rest that never comes easy to the younger boy except when in the presence of his best friend.
He's loved him in–
"You're thinking too loud again," his friends scold and interrupt his train of thought. "Make it a habit to not do that in front of the captain or else you'd be screwed. Or anyone else, rather. It's all fluffy and sweet and cute things now, but if you keep letting yourself get away with this it won't be long before you venture into TMI-territory and nobody – do you hear me? Nobody – would want to hear you live-broadcast that."
"You'd be more than just screwed at that point," Issei amends. "You'd be fucked, Iwaizumi."
"So fucked."
"Very fucked."
"Immensely fucked."
"Thoroughly fucked."
"Yes. There we go, thank you, Issei," the pink-haired boy agrees, and settles on the term with great enthusiasm. "Thoroughly fucked."
Takahiro winks and Issei wriggles his eyebrows suggestively.
Then, as if on cue, Takahiro raises his arm and waves it with a flair of a miserable attempt at theatrics. He pretends to faint and lands in a gentle catch of the larger boy's open arms.
"Oh! Woe is thee, Iwaizumi Hajime, for his dignity as a man has been mercilessly and irreparably wrecked to the point of sheer devastation and desolation! Let his memory live on, unforgotten! Alas, his reckless valor has been overpowered by the allure of the grand king Oikawa Tooru – the thieving monarch who has bewitched the emotions of many a fair maiden, just as he has so nimbly stolen both this poor fool's brave heart and his virgini—"
"Fuck off."
A gasp. Takahiro makes an ostentatious show of disproval. "Did you hear that, sweetheart?"
"I most certainly did, honeybunch."
"He must be in his rebellious stage," he concludes. Issei nods sagely.
"Perhaps. They grow up so fast, don't they, 'Hiro?"
"The age of adolescence always did ignite the fighter in all of us, as how puberty has always sparked the embers of an uprising."
"I knew it was a good idea to read him Marx as a child. It was a milestone when we upgraded his bedtime stories from Das Kapital to the Commu—"
"Oh my god, you two." Hajime rolls his eyes. "Shut up."
"You wound me, Hajime. How dare you talk to your mother that way?" Takahiro cries, aghast; his voice goes shrill. Issei regards Hajime sternly.
He reprimands, "You apologize right now, young mister."
"Where did your manners go?" the pink-haired boy nearly screeches. "Your father and I did not teach you to speak so uncouthly to your elders. We raised you better than that."
"The hell? You didn't raise me."
Another cry. Takahiro raises a hand to dab at the corners of his eyes. Issei offers him his handkerchief to wipe away what Hajime imagines are supposed to be tears. It is, all in all, an embarrassing display.
"He's disowning us, Issei," he says in between exaggerated sobs. "I'm…appalled. Speechless, even. I just can't believe it. Our son, whom we've so carefully brought into this world and then lovingly and painstakingly brought up over the past seventeen years of our shared existences in this union, disowning his own parents."
"Such a shame…after all we've done for you," the taller man frowns and shakes his head in sympathy. "Tsk, tsk. How ungrateful."
He shakes his head and rises from his seat. "I give up. I'm done here. I hate you both."
"Indeed you do," Issei replies, and Hajime watches as he supports the weight of his boyfriend and lifts him back up. "But you never said we were wrong, Iwaizumi. You're in love with him, aren't you?"
"I—"
"You're in love with Oikawa," Takahiro tells him, as simple as that.
"I'm in love with Oikawa," Hajime agrees. The syllables roll off his tongue smoothly, words well worn and familiar as though it were a fact he had always ever known.
Across the table, with a two-ruler distance between them, Issei smiles knowingly.
"Whipped," Takahiro reminds him with a grin, speaking over a mouthful of his shogayaki bento, and Hajime turns his head to give the middle blocker an odd look. This is rich coming from the boy who always saves his last three cream puffs for Issei and sends good morning and good night texts on a religious basis to the so-called 'love of his life.'
Still though, he doesn't deny it. Hajime doesn't have the heart in him to lie to his friend's face. Even more so when he's well aware of the entire Seijou team's irrefutable belief that nine out of ten times Iwaizumi Hajime looks at Oikawa Tooru like he thinks the sun shines out of his ass. Their captain could be clad in alien-printed boxers and crying ugly tears as he marathons reruns of the X-Files on training-free Monday afternoons — sobbing over the fact that the series had been discontinued and how it was an utter disgrace and imprudent decision on the part of the media to terminate the golden franchise and I am upset, Iwa-chan, because clearly these media moguls have failed to see the potential in its artistry and how it has marked the ingenuity of the human mind despite the unstimulating conditions presented to us in this bleak postmodern era —and Hajime would still think of his best friend as nothing short of beautiful.
"I know," he sighs mournfully, just as he hears the rattle of the sliding doors and spots a familiar tuft of brown hair out of the corner of his eye.
"Ya-ho!" a voice chirps, a cheerful wave coupled with the greeting. Tooru makes his way through the student tables and scoots to the side of his friends. "Why does Iwa-chan look so upset?"
"Beats me," Takahiro shrugs before slinking away to position himself closer to his boyfriend's now presumably napping figure, the shift in his motions rousing the taller brunet up from his brief 'slumber'. Hajime wonders what sorcery had been inducted for the two of them to get into their positions, readying themselves to stage this act mere seconds prior to their captain's arrival.
"Why don't you try asking him about it?" Issei suggests, rubbing the sleep from the corners of his eyes.
"You're right, Mattsun!" Tooru gasps. Tooru nods at him, almost sagely. "Come now, Iwa-chan, tell Oikawa-san your troubles."
"Yeah, Iwaizumi. Tell him. We all know that communication is key to fostering a healthy relationship after all," Takahiro grins, leering, and Hajime represses the urge to use his fist and wipe the smug look off of the other boy's face.
"Precisely, Makki!" he affirms. "You have nothing to fear, Iwa-chan. The great Oikawa Tooru is here."
God help us all, Hajime thinks, and promptly slams his head onto his table.
.
"Excuse me, Oikawa-san?" a voice calls out as they make their way towards the gymnasium for after-school practice. Its owner stands by the school gates – a short girl with loose chocolate curls and a checkered blue headband, large amber eyes encased by thin-rimmed glasses. Dusk casts a sheer glow of orange over her form, light bouncing off the beige of her coat and the lens of her spectacles.
"Yes, Shirota-san?" Tooru responds with a breezy smile, the kind of smile that Hajime's seen him practice in front of the mirror since their second year of middle school, the one he'd always use for the so-called 'benefit of his fans'. Hajime stands in place as Tooru takes three steps forward, shrinking the distance between himself and the brunette. "Good afternoon, by the way."
"A-ah, yes. Good afternoon," the girl – Shirota-san – stutters and shuffles closer. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, dark locks a stark contrast to the maddening red that abruptly paints her cheeks. "Uhm, I'm sorry to interrupt you, Oikawa-san, but if it would be alright…I would like to speak with you for a moment…" Her eyes dart to the side, a flicker of a gaze directed hesitantly at Hajime before once again regarding Tooru almost shyly.
Hajime waits for the inevitable.
"Uhm," the girl flushes again and mumbles, "in private…please."
There it is: the dismissal.
(Hajime is far too familiar with this routine.)
Tooru feigns surprise before acquiescing to her request. He runs a hand through his hair and gives a light laugh,. "Sure, Shirota-san," he replies with a quick shrug, voice cool and easy."No problem."
Hajime watches as Tooru offers to speak with her at the left wing of the campus, watches as Tooru slides a casual arm around her petite shoulders and guides her towards their destination. Tooru turns to his ace, and mouths a quick Sorry Iwa-chan, I'll meet you there in ten! and Hajime takes it all in stride as he calmly accepts the request to take the taller boy's bag with him to the locker rooms without much complaint. He waits for their figures to fade further away from view.
(In two minutes, Shirota-san will stage her confession.)
(In three minutes, Tooru will smile softly, scratch the back of his neck, and look at her with a sheepish expression. I appreciate your feelings but I'd like to concentrate on volleyball first, he will say, ruefully, it wouldn't be fair to either of us if I dated you while trying to juggle everything else, I'm sorry.)
Hajime takes his time trudging to the rear entrance of the gymnasium. If he paces himself right, Tooru will be back at his side in eight minutes, tops.
.
He makes it to the locker rooms, alone. By the time Seijou's wing spiker finishes changing into his jersey, the setter still hasn't returned.
Hajime panics.
.
"Yeah, okay. Chill, Iwaizumi There's no way he's gonna date her," Takahiro tells him in between stretches. Tooru is late, at least by Hajime's standards, but he does make it to practice in enough time before their coach decides to give him the If you bothered to come late then don't come at all sermon for his usual misgivings. The pink-haired middle blocker hums for a moment, thin brows furrowed in deep thought, searching for the right things to say, "The person he likes–"
"–is you, obviously." Issei supplies, almost-helpfully.
It's an attempt of consolation, reassurance. Probably empty words, or a cheap farce at best. Still, however, Hajime cannot help but pit himself against fate, hoping above all hope for his desires to come to light. For a moment, he ceases breathing.
"What? No," he forces out of himself, after his cognitive functions resume their operations. He tries to think logically. "No way."
"Clearly someone hasn't been paying attention." Takahiro huffs in mock-disdain.
"Ha ha," Hajime drawls. "It isn't good to joke about these things, Hanamaki. It isn't funny."
"...I wasn't joking?"
"Ha. Na. Ma. Ki."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
Hajime scratches his head.
"But, I…don't even think he's into…guys?"
The pink-haired middle blocker regards him flatly. To his left, his thick-browed boyfriend mirrors the same deadpan stare.
Takahiro groans.
"Cut the crap. Have you not seen the eyes he looks at you with during practice, Iwaizu—…Iwa-chan?" he very nearly hollers. Hajime spares a quick glance to see if the outcry has warranted Tooru's attention, but he is fortunate that their team captain is preoccupied with giving a one-on-one lesson to his underclassman setter. "Those are the eyes of a lovesick fool…those are the eyes you look at him with! It's mutual, you muscular dunce. How the fuck are you two not dating? You love him and he loves you. Easy. The both of you are practically married at this point, all you need to do is put a fucking ring on it."
"We're not dating — or, uh…married."
"Maybe not yet," Issei amends. "But you will be."
"Exactly. You aren't together now, but you will soon. You two are meant to be!"
"No," the ace shakes his head. "Really, we aren't…"
"Okay, really. Then Issei and I aren't either," Takahiro throws his hands up in the air in exasperation. "For fuck's sake, Iwaizumi...please. Spare me."
Takahiro turns to his boyfriend, seeking his support. Issei promptly delivers and returns his gaze with a stoic expression. Unmoved. Unfazed.
"Spare us."
Hajime immediately shuts up after that, but makes sure to have the team do thirteen extra laps of running during warm-ups in latent retaliation. There is, after all, beauty in subtlety.
.
"Iwa-chan?" Tooru calls out to him the next evening. Hajime looks up from his desk to make out the figure of his best friend lingering by his own windowpane. The tall brunet peers closer. "What are you up to?" he enquires.
At this, Hajime ducks his head back down, returning his gaze to the notebook that lay open in front of him. He'd meant to write out his feelings, to draw up a strategy and plan out his confession, as he had begrudgingly agreed two days earlier after a calm suggestion of Issei and much prompting from Takahiro. It'll help, they urged him, You need to get those thoughts out of your system, Iwaizumi, before you accidentally blurt out your feelings in front of Oikawa unprepared. Majority of its pages are bare, sans for the faint blue lines that traverse from end to end of every leaf. The spaces for today's entry remain unwritten. Like his mind, Hajime thinks sadly, as he draws up another blank.
"Uh…"
"Well?"
"Homework," the boy answers lamely.
"Bullshit," the other boy says. "We're on holiday, Iwa-chan, or did you forget?"
The wing spiker sticks out a tongue at his best friend. Tooru laughs, and his voice sounds thin against the chill of the winter air. "What's up with you lately?" he asks.
Hajime shakes his head.
"Nothing,, I—"
His neighbor cuts him off: "You've been grumpier than usual and you made the team run thirteen more laps than the norm last Friday. Thirteen, Iwa-chan! It was crazy. My feet are still in pain."
"Bullshit," Hajime echoes. "You can hardly call that crazy. I distinctly remember a time when you made us run thirty laps in revenge, Shittykawa. My thirteen does not equate to your thirty."
Tooru huffs and sticks his chin up in the air. He explains pointedly, "In my defense, it had been a cumulative thirty, so that's only twenty extra runs for the team, plus five extra ones exclusively for Makki and Mattsun because they were being mean."
"It's always the two of them, isn't it?" Hajime chuckles. "And I'm sure, by 'being mean' you were referring to them simply teasing you for your obsession with Ushijima, am I right?"
Tooru gasps dramatically. "It's not an obsession!" the setter hollers. "It's called a rivalry, Iwa-chan, and I'm taking tall, dark, and ugly Ushiwaka-chan down!"
"Pretty sure rivals don't go so far as to sacrifice their health to watch each other's courtside matches play on video at least fifty times, or attempt to recruit them to their school after every meeting. Oh hey, what do you know? Looks like it's mutual, Shittykawa."
"Your implications are disgusting. Iwa-chan," he pouts almost childishly. "As captain it's only right that I stay meticulous about analyzing the plays of our opponents. Watching reruns of matches is standard procedure in coming up with a strategy to beat them. So. You take that back."
"Alright, Tooru," Hajime placates him, voice honeyed thick with sarcasm, "whatever helps you sleep at night."
"Rude!"
Hajime makes a show of an off-handed shrug. Tooru scoffs at the display.
"I'm beginning to think you're spending too much time with Makki and Mattsun. They're rubbing off on you."
"Ugh. Tell me about it."
Hajime rolls his eyes and slams the notebook closed in front of him. He watches as the young brunet props his arms on the ledge and leans against the windowsill. The pale blue of his cardigan makes for a wondrous complement against the snow piling up on the ridge surface, he thinks just as Tooru moves closer.
"Hey, Iwa-chan?"
"Hm?"
"You know you can tell me, right? If something's…wrong."
"I know," Hajime mumbles.
"Iwa-chan," he calls out once again, hesitant. Tooru's voice draws softer, nearer. The distance of five meters hangs almost insignificantly in their midst. He asks, "Is something bothering you after all?"
"Yeah."
"Do you want me to give you some space?"
"Yeah."
"Do you need me to come over?"
"…Please."
.
(A conversation in the shadows:
"So? Are you gonna tell me what's bothering you yet?" Tooru wonders aloud.
"No."
"Please?"
"No."
"Even after all I've done for you?"
Hajime grumbles, rolls to his side and pulls the duvet around him closer. Outside, the snow falls wordlessly around them.
"Go to sleep, Oikawa."
"But Iwa-chan, I—"
"Sleep. Now."
A whine.
"Iwa—"
"I'll tell you in the morning," he grumbles, voice gruff, "…maybe."
It's as much of a promise as it isn't, but the older boy's words are enough to appease the other. Tooru wraps his arms around the ace's stockier frame, thick cotton sheets in between their forms, and Hajime feels the gentle pressure of the other boy's weight at his side, lips curling into a lopsided grin pressed warm against the small of his back.
"Okay," Tooru whispers in the quiet of the dark. "Good night, Iwa-chan.")
.
"You whispered my name in your sleep," Tooru says with a smile, chin propped above folded fingers as his elbows rest atop the table.
Hajime stills momentarily before going back to slave over the stove. He flips the egg mixture over the pan. Shit.
(In the far recesses of his mind, Hajime imagines Takahiro and Issei snickering in the sidelines; Takahiro most especially, with his infuriating grin that looked more like a half-sneer than anything else. This must be it, the wing spiker thinks with great remorse, the feeling of being 'thoroughly fucked' — exactly what they'd warned him about before. Hajime takes a moment in between the panic to consider the repercussions of cursing the heavens for his fate.)
"Did I …er,— did I say anything?"
"Only that I was the most beautiful creature to grace the entire galaxy and that you, a lowly sub-evolutionary heathen, were worried if you were worthy enough to bask in my presence. Don't you worry your boorish little head, Iwa-chan, you've just barely passed the standards of qualifying for my company but I can't blame you for—"
"Stop feeding me with deceit or else I'll refuse to feed you breakfast."
"Fine," his best friend sighs. "You just said my name, and then mumbled a bunch of other incoherent things. I could make out the word 'idiot' somewhere along the way but they were probably just prattling insults. Still, it's cute you were thinking of me even in your dreams," he resumes his teasing.
I'm always thinking of you, Hajime imagines. He fights back the creeping blush, bites back the words before they let slip. He drizzles the ketchup over the yellow of the omelet.
"Anyway," Hajime says, clearing his throat. "Thanks for coming over last night. These past few days have just been…tough, but uh, I think I'll manage. You can leave after you finish your food, by the way. I wouldn't want to keep you."
Tooru blinks. "Keep me…?"
"Yeah," Hajime nods. He carries the plate of omurice to the dining table and pauses, the ceramic hovering about an inch above the wooden surface. "Don't you have plans?"
"Oh wow gosh, I didn't expect us to have this conversation first thing in the morning. Are you my mom, Iwa-chan?" Tooru remarks. Hajime sets the plate down and promptly takes the seat across his friend from the table. He watches as the setter picks up his chopsticks and gestures with them dramatically. "Well, if you must know, I don't want to waste my youth wandering around our Earth without so much as a purpose. Of course I'd have plans! I plan to win at Nationals and help us all get recognized. Hopefully, get scouted by then. Afterwards, I'm going to ToDai or Chuo, depending on which university accepts me, and then I'll pro—"
"Wait, what the fuck? Slow down. I was referring to your plans for the evening, Oikawa, not for your whole future."
"Okay…" Tooru takes a moment to blow onto his dish to cool it before stuffing a piece of the omurice into his mouth. He chews thoughtfully, and swallows. "Well, I've got nothing planned for tonight so I'm free the whole day. Why, though? Is something happening this evening?"
"What the hell do you mean 'is something happening this evening'? It's Christmas Eve, you pompous moron," Hajime reminds him with a tired sigh. "Go contact Shirota-san as soon as you can. I thought you of all people would pay attention to these kinds of things."
"Why should I conta—o…oh.. You. You thought...Shirota-san… and I—" his voice trails off.
A snort. Wheeze. Guffaw.
"S-Stupid Iwa-chan. Shirota-san and I aren't dating; I turned her down properly. I thought you knew." Tooru attempts to recompose himself, struggles to hold back the peals of laughter bubbling beneath his calm veneer, "Is that what you were so worried about?"
"No, I—"
"Oh?" Tooru turns to look at him, properly now, this time. His voice lilts up in question, "It was something else…?"
Hajime makes something short of a choking sound and rises from his seat abruptly. The silverware clatters with the force of his movements.
"Iwa-chan?"
"Wait, just give me a sec—" he releases the words in a single breath, rushing from the kitchen back to his bedroom to scrounge up his notebook from his desk drawer. The young athlete returns after a minute's notice, panting, as he shows off a navy spiral notebook up with a trembling hand. He flips the notebook open. "I wrote it down here so this wouldn't come out wrong. Sorry."
"What's going on, Iwa-chan?" Tooru inquires, worrying at his lip. Hajime tears through another page. "You're not dying, are you?"
"What—no? No. I'm not dying. Nobody's dying," Hajime shakes his head adamantly, shrugging off the concern that laced the other boy's tone. Hajime resumes shuffling through the leaves, a flurry of blank pages mostly revealing themselves as the universe taunts him with another brief episode of misfortune. He remembers having scrawled out at least one entry during the initial phase of this 'experiment' during a self-study period two days ago. "Well, wait okay, nevermind. Yeah. That was insensitive. I'm pretty sure that someone probably is. Every six seconds and all that but – right now, it's no one you know of. Or I know of. Just…don't worry about it, okay? Rest assured it's no one we know. That I know about."
"You know, I've never told you this before because I usually complain about your mannerisms a lot but the truth is I think it's really, really cute when you start rambling."
Hajime loses track of his notes a second time. His skin goes hot.
"What?"
"I've also never told you this before but the truth is that I'm in love with you. I'm sorry I took so long to say it. I mean, I never meant to tell you this at the start because I didn't want to ruin anything for you. There will never be a best time for this, I know, but I thought I should probably just tell you now and get this all off my chest before I implode. Or fuck up. Or both. So here it is: I knew I've loved you since you first showed up on my front yard that spring before I turned four; since we went beetle-hunting when I was five; since you stayed with me through the night that time I was sad when I was six and every other night I felt down after that. I've loved you since we first played volleyball together when we were seven, and since you came to visit me when I fractured my shoulder after I fell from a tree when I was nine. I've loved you since that time I discovered that we wrote down the same wishes on our ema boards praying for each other's happiness during that Hatsumoude in Kashimakatouri shrine back when we were fourteen; since we last stood on a court two weeks ago and fought together side by side, and every other moment in between. I know I always said never to put yourself down and think that you have to carry the burden of responsibility all on your own, to always believe that the team with the better six is stronger, but you know, whatever team we go up against doesn't matter to me as long as we're on the same side, because losing has never crossed my mind when we played together. Because you're the only person who ever makes me feel invincible. Because I'm strongest when I'm with you. You're the best partner that I can boast about. And well…what I wanted to say is that you are enough. At least, to me— you are. You will always be enough."
Hajime feels his cheeks burn and wonders briefly why nobody warned him that the sensations of love would be this painful.
"Shittykawa," he mutters in near disbelief. "Did you just read my notes upside down?"
Tooru stares at Hajime owlishly. Hajime stares back. The young brunet whistles and slumps back down against his seat, wisps of his chestnut bangs flop with the force of the sudden movement.
"I changed my mind, Iwa-chan," the taller boy grins cheekily. His voice is earnest. "I guess I do have plans for Christmas Eve after all. Tell me, where do you normally get your chicken?"
"Uhm. At a little restaurant nearby, near Kindaichi's neighborhood."
"All on your own?"
"Yes, of course."
Tooru rises from his seat and Hajime meets him halfway. He presses their figures closer. The two-millimeter space shrinks between them.
"Hajime," he says and he smiles, "will you have dinner with me tonight?"
-The only reason why this fic managed to complete itself is thanks to dialogue. Cheap banter was the only manner by which this fic was able to propel itself into its full existence. I was inspired by an otp prompt I found on tumblr (I'd post a link but I found that prompt a looong time ago and just saved it in my notes so I can't find the original url anymore huhu sorry) plus a couple themes from Femme Fatale and a brief exchange in Laid to Rest - both classic works written by Guy de Maupassant.
-Christmas is more of a romantic holiday in Japan, and Christmas Eve is often reserved for couple celebrations. Plus, another weird Japanese Christmas fun fact is that Christmas is just an excuse for the Japanese people to buy chicken. KFC branches in Japan apparently cater to a specific Japanese-only Christmas tradition by offering fancy deluxe meals and whatnot for the Christmas season. It's really weird but also really cute.