Work Text:
Arakita Yasutomo 09:55
hey
are you free
Izumida Touichirou 09:56
right now?
Arakita Yasutomo 09:56
yes
Izumida Touichirou 09:58
yeah... why?
Arakita Yasutomo 09:59
i need a huge fucking favor
Izumida Touichirou 10:01
isn’t it like, 1am-ish for you?
Arakita Yasutomo 10:02
yes and no
i need you to like
come get me
Izumida Touichirou 10:02
FROM WHERE?
Arakita Yasutomo 10:05
okay so first of all this is and is supposed to be a surprise, ive been planning it for fucking months, ive already talked to his mom (dont ask) but it turns out she cant get me like we thought and u were the next person i could think of
Izumida Touichirou 10:06
WHERE ARE YOU
Arakita Yasutomo 10:08
the international airport like 30 minutes away from your town come fucking get me asshat
Arakita Yasutomo 10:09
and fucking tell him youre running errands for your grandma or some shit if he asks you to come over today
Izumida Touichirou 10:10
ok!
-
Arakita stares down at Izumida's response for a few seconds, then scoffs and closes the messaging app. Maybe it’s the atmosphere of being in an airport lobby in an unfamiliar country, but he feels giddy excitement curling in the pit of his stomach.
-
“Listen, Touichirou, he’s been ignoring me!” Kuroda yells down the phone. “I’m gonna fuckin kick his ass when he gets online next!” Izumida sighs softly, flicking on his turn signal to pull into a parking spot. “And now you’re out with your batshit grandma, so this Sunday is officially wasted!” Izumida can almost hear the frustrated eyeroll accompanying the distant noise of Kuroda flopping back onto his bed.
“I wouldn’t say wasted,” Izumida replies, shutting his car down and climbing out. “It’s just barely started.” The beep of his car locking as he walks away from it echoes through the parking garage.
“Your fucking optimism,” Kuroda says, tone jarringly fond compared to the ranting he’d been doing moments before.
“Yeah,” Izumida replies. “Love you, Yuki.”
Kuroda makes a choked sounding noise, strangles out an, “I love you too, Touichirou,” and hangs up on him.
Arakita is asleep in one of the weird faux-leather chairs in the waiting area by baggage claim, suitcase and carryon by his legs and cheek propped on a precariously balanced fist when Izumida finds him. “Hey,” Izumida calls, tapping Arakita’s foot with one of his own. Arakita startles and straightens up with a jump and a snort. “Let’s go!” he says.
The car ride is quiet, save tinny pop filtered through shitty speakers and the occasional, trailing, warbling lilt of Izumida attempting to sing along.
Fifteen minutes into the trip, Izumida’s phone rings. He glances down and swipes the call open and hits speaker. Arakita fumbles the volume down on the radio--the knob comes off in his fingers and he almost drops it in his haste to turn the stub the knob had come off of. “Hi, sweetie!” Izumida greets brightly. Arakita drums his fingers on the curved sill of the open window, then drops his hand out of it. The wind drags at his hoodie sleeve and pulls his hair even messier than it was when he got off the plane.
“When are you coming home?” Kuroda demands, tone whiny. Noise filters through the background; it sounds like someone shouting for Kuroda from the opposite end of the house. “Can it!” he shouts back, clearly pulling his face away from the mouthpiece of his cellphone. “I’m on the phone!”
Izumida smiles, then glances at Arakita. Arakita nods. “Well, plans got changed around. Memaw didn’t need me anymore. I’m coming back now, actually! Want me to come over?”
“God!” Kuroda sighs. “Yes, please! Save me from this hell. Pick me up a soda on your way over too.”
Arakita rolls his eyes and bites the inside of his cheek to keep from spoiling his own surprise. He shifts his feet through the empty fast food bags and soda bottles and candy wrappers in the floorboard and props his chin on his hand.
“Bepsi, right?” Izumida asks. Kuroda makes an affirmative noise. “Okay! I’ll be there in about twenty. Love you.”
“Love you too, Tou-- No, you shut up, Shizu, you’re nasty, you’re worse! ” Kuroda hangs up.
“We chose that,” Izumida says, aiming Arakita a soft look and then glancing over his shoulder to change lanes.
“Are you gonna get his soda?” Arakita asks, raising an eyebrow. He pulls his arm back inside the car.
“Nah,” Izumida replies brightly. “He’ll forget all about it once you get out of my car.”
-
“I live on the other side of town,” Izumida says, turning onto a road between a gas station and a church. “We passed by my neighborhood when we drove by the middle school.” Arakita makes a noncommital noise and watches houses start to filter by.
They drive by an elementary school, a second church, and a high school before they pull onto another, windier road, lined with quaint-looking houses. The one Izumida pulls up to is two stories and has three cars in the two driveways on either side of it--one a dingy white, one light blue, and one mossy green. Izumida considers a moment, and then parks in the driveway behind the white car, putting Arakita on the side away from the house.
The door--painted an ugly pumpkin orange that Arakita sneers at--swings open, and Kuroda sticks his head out. “It’s about time, asshole!” he shouts. Izumida sticks his hand out the driver’s side window and flips off his boyfriend, then rolls up the windows, shuts off the car and climbs out.
“Where’s my soda?” Kuroda demands, stepping out onto the sidewalk and making his way to the driveway on bare feet. He glances down at the phone in his hand and scowls.
All Izumida can do is laugh awkwardly. Arakita opens the passenger side door and slides out. “Hey, open the fucking trunk,” he says. Izumida clicks the button on his key fob. “Thanks.”
Arakita barely has the trunk open when Kuroda lets out a wordless scream.
An upstairs window flies open. “Yukinari! What are you fucking screaming for!?” Kuroda’s sister shouts out the window.
Kuroda gestures at Arakita. “I told you I wasn’t getting catfished, bitch !” he shouts back. The window slams shut, and then Kuroda turns to Izumida. “I’ll come back to you,” he says, shoving an accusatory finger at him.
Arakita hauls his suitcase out of the trunk and pulls the trunk shut--and then finds himself knocked off balance when Kuroda all but tackles him. His arms come around the other, as tight as he can hold him. “Hey, you punk, let a guy get inside first before you knock him over,” he says into silver hair.
“I can’t believe you’re here ,” Kuroda wails into his shoulder. “You’re real , you exist , you’re here ,” he blubbers thickly.
Arakita’s eyes well with tears, unbidden and uncontrolled. He blinks them back. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I can’t believe it either.”
Kuroda lifts his face from Arakita’s shoulder and stares at him, eyes wet and cheeks flushed and chin quivering. His fingers tighten in Arakita’s jacket.
Arakita cups the back of Kuroda’s neck and kisses him hard on the mouth.
Behind them, Izumida wolf-whistles.