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Somehow, in all of Yamaguchi and Tsukishima’s years of living together, Yamaguchi was delegated the task of doing laundry. It wasn’t a task he particularly minded, some would say he even liked it; there were other tasks he much preferred that Tsukishima do, such as the heavy duty cleaning in the bathroom and kitchen. The potential of mold made him a little too frightened to do it…but washing and hanging the clothing was pretty straight-forward. Though water was heavily involved in the task, dampness being an agent of mold, Yamaguchi didn’t mind it at all. Perhaps fabrics scared him less than hard surfaces.
Every Sunday was laundry day. Some households prefer to do their laundry separately every day, but Yamaguchi and Tsukishima were a little, one could say, lazy, in that regard. Tsukishima defended themselves to friends by saying they were saving water, therefore saving money on their bills; besides, the couple shared everything, so why not their washing? Yamaguchi defended by saying it was a peaceful reset task he could do every Sunday to start the new week and it felt overwhelming to wash and hang to dry every single night, especially when both of them were exhausted by work and just wanted to take a calm bath. He was truthful in those regards, but there were definitely some other reasons for doing the laundry he wasn’t saying out loud…
Quietly humming to himself, although Tsukishima was out running errands that morning, Yamaguchi picked up the battered laundry basket that held his partner’s athletic-related laundry from the bottom of their closet, tucking it underneath his arm. Their regular clothes were tossed in the same basket together; workwear, pajamas, relaxed clothes…them being mixed together didn’t particularly matter. Workout clothing, however, was a different story. The sweat felt a little bit too contaminating for their pressed slacks and nice jeans, so Tsukishima insisted on separating them. It was mostly Tsukishima’s clothing anyways, since Yamaguchi found himself actively working out less and less as work became more and more involved and Tsukishima still had volleyball training multiple times a week with the Sendai Frogs.
Working his way through their apartment and to the wash closet just outside of the bathroom, Yamaguchi’s house slippers slapped rhythmically against the floor, much akin to the beat he was humming. His shoulders and the basket bumped into doorways, but they each had grown thick skin through years of this routine. With his volleyball background, Yamaguchi was used to bruises anyways.
He set down the basket with a thump against the tile flooring, gently pushing it to the side with one foot as he swung open the washer door. The wet clothes inside tumbled to rest, metal clasps and polished buttons clanging against the metal drum. Quickly, Yamaguchi disposed of the freshly washed clothes into an empty basket, the smell of laundry detergent filling his nose. Mentally, he made note of any clothes that needed to be wrung out before hanging, squishing the damp clothing in between his hands as a quick pass of judgment.
Washer now emptied, he pushed the basket of wet clothes aside and dragged the battered basket in front of the washer. He picked up each article one by one, taking care to turn things right side out, unless there was a graphic on it. Graphics meant turning the item inside out if it wasn’t already. He pulled out sleeves and pant legs from inside the main body, removing socks caught within as well. Pockets were checked, just in case. Didn’t need Tsukishma losing another set of earphones to the wash. Another reason Yamaguchi was delegated laundry: he was actually careful with the clothes.
Reaching the end of the basket, he picked up the final shirt: Tsukishima’s Sendai Frogs jersey, only worn on game days. Last Sunday was a game day. And there it had been for the past week, collecting more sweat in its fabric on top of the sweat already collected there from the game.
Before continuing his usual laundry routine, Yamaguchi sat down on the floor, clutching the jersey in his hands. It slipped easily between his fingers, sliding gracefully along the tops of his fingernails. He hugged the jersey close to his body, burying his face in its chest. Oh, how lucky he felt in these small moments while doing laundry. The sweet, musky aroma of Tsukishima’s sweat filled his nostrils, bringing a small smile to Yamaguchi’s face.
It reminded him of hot late summer nights after days spent swimming in the creek as children. It reminded him of hours and days of volleyball practices and games in gyms across Japan, from Karasuno to nationals. It reminded him of limbs tangled together and hot breath against his lips. Most importantly, it all reminded him of Tsukishima.
He began to pivot, facing back towards the washer and lifting his head from the jersey, when he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, his tall, blond partner standing in the door frame, a teasing smile across his face.
“Enjoying yourself?” Tsukishima teased.
“T-Tsukki! I was just…” A flustered splash of red growing underneath his freckles, Yamaguchi rushed to turn the jersey inside out, there were still graphics to be protected, and popped out the sleeves before tossing it into the washer. He slammed the door shut and reached for the detergent, not wanting to look at Tsukishima. They’ve had plenty of vulnerable moments between them, sure, but even after all these years, this still felt like a pretty embarrassing vulnerable moment to share with him.
As he measured out the detergent into the cap, he felt Tsukishima’s hands wrap around his waist. His face found itself in the crook of Yamaguchi’s neck, lips and nose placed against exposed, freckled skin. A shiver sent its way up Yamaguchi’s spine, butterflies dancing in his stomach. The air against Yamaguchi’s skin grew goosebumps as Tsukishima took in a deep breath, lungs and nose filling with all smells of Yamaguchi .
“Y’know, Tadashi, I like your scent, too,” Tsukishima smiled against his freckled skin. Feeling a rush of relief, a bloom of wanting growing in its place, Yamaguchi tilted his head back against Tsukishima’s shoulder, his free hand cupping the side of his partner’s face.
“Yeah?”
“Mm, yeah,” Tsukishima said decidedly. His nose drew its way up Yamaguchi’s neck, his lips following to plant kisses along clusters of freckles. It felt as though butterflies were blooming right from the site. He drew back, then firmly planted a kiss on Yamaguchi’s cheek. “I’ll help you finish laundry.”
“Okay,” Yamaguchi poured the detergent in and started the machine. He turned back to Tsukishima, a teasing smile across his face. “Wet laundry’s heavy. Sure you can help carry it?”
Tsukishima wrinkled his nose, but his smile never dropped. “Of course I can.”
He grabbed onto one handle, Yamaguchi the other, and they began to stumble their way into the living room and onto the balcony, hitting door frames and sturdy furniture as they went, laughing and joking the whole way.