Work Text:
day one (to four)
When Kindaichi knocks on his door more hesitantly than usual, Hajime already knows what's coming.
"It's the Prime Minister." A statement, not a question. "Is he on the line?"
Kindaichi shakes his head. "He wants to... have afternoon tea?"
Huh.
"He said tomorrow's okay if you're too busy for him today."
Huh.
When he arrives at the room fifteen minutes early, Prime Minister Oikawa is already there. The conference table around him is scattered with documents and devices in a rough semi-circle. From the doorway, he looks like the center of their orbit.
Hajime takes a moment to study the man, girding himself for what's sure to be a long afternoon with a man he hasn't seen in person since he was first appointed to his position. Back turned and bent over his work as he is, the head of state doesn't seem to have the steely gravity he has in Parliament. He looks... delicate, almost.
It's not a thought he should entertain, not now. He raps on the door.
"Ah! Iwaizumi-sensei." Oikawa jumps to his feet, offering a warm smile alongside his hand. Iwaizumi clasps it, firm and brief, then settles into the nearest seat.
"Oikawa-san. Let's get to business, shall we?"
Oikawa's smile falters, just a little. "Ah, of course! Let me just — I promised you a drink, after all."
He turns, still standing, to the personal assistant with the art-student bangs who'd shown Hajime in. "Makki, do you mind running down to Seijoh for us?"
Hanamaki grins. "Issei's on his way back up already. I got Iwaizumi-sensei's usual coffee order from Kindaichi on the phone."
Oikawa pretends to swoon, a gesture unexpected enough that Hajime nearly knocks his drink bottle over.
"What would I do without you," he murmurs.
"Get to work, probably!" Hanamaki chirps. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do." The PA winks and shuts the door behind them, leaving them be.
Well, this is certainly going to be interesting, he thinks, pulling up the threat models he's prepared.
They spend the next three days working with increasing urgency as the news from overseas pours in.
By the time the aide he now knows as Matsukawa has returned from a seventh coffee-and-pastry run on day four, Oikawa's leaning against his shoulder where their chairs have gravitated together, gesticulating absently at an invisible audience while briefing the increasingly irritable Minister of Health via speakerphone.
It's alarming how quickly they've gotten used to each other and the entire situation they're facing, Hajime thinks, handing Oikawa a document he seems to be reaching for and watching him repeat the projections down the line. He's been corresponding with the microbiology labs affiliated with universities across the countries, but even his favorite infectious diseases specialist has clocked out for the day by now. Good for her, she'll need it with what she's signed up for.
While he's wrapping up, he hears Oikawa bid Yahaba a good night and hang up. The taller man sighs, slumping further against him.
"Hey," Hajime nudges him gently with his shoulder. "Let's take a break. You should probably eat something that isn't filled with pastry cream." Watching Oikawa begin to object, he adds, "Doctor's orders."
"Well," Oikawa says, stretching as he stands, "your treat then, Sensei."
"As you wish... Prime Minister-kakka."
"Ugh, gross!"
They end up pressed together shoulder-to-hip on rickety stools in an all-night ramen joint tucked behind the massive construction site for a major new public transport hub Oikawa's all too happy to tell him about in great detail.
"Iwa-sensei." Hajime looks up from idly stirring the dregs of his broth around his bowl, scowl already in place before he remembers who he's talking to.
"Nicknames already? I'll tolerate that one, I suppose."
Oikawa brightens. "You'd better! Your name is too long." His smile softens into something more weary and fond. "We'll be spending a lot of time together, you know."
"I know," Hajime mutters.
"Don't look so glum about it. Plenty of people would kill to be blessed with my radiant presence, you know. Tobio-kun for one..."
"Ah, Kageyama Tobio?"
"Of course. We'll have to watch out for him, you know. Iwa-sensei doesn't have experience with clever little journalists yet, not like this."
"Ugh, that's right. Who knows how many press conferences there'll be." More, if they fuck this up even a little. Five million lives are in his hands now. God.
"Hey." Oikawa's hand is warm and tentative against the small of his back. "You've got me. I'll be right next to you. Trust me."
"I do," Hajime says, raising his head to meet Oikawa's gaze, and realizes he believes it.
There are many more long nights ahead, but he knows he won't be alone.
day thirty-one
"Iwaizumi-sensei, what do you make of suggestions by some leaders overseas that people should be injecting themselves with bleach to kill COVID-19?"
Iwaizumi Hajime has never hated his job more than he does at this very moment. They're weeks into a schedule of daily 1PM livestreams which millions across the country tune into like clockwork, and he thought he was doing well with inane press questions, but this one just has "what the fuck" pinging around his brain like a Windows XP screensaver.
The journalist, mic still raised, stares blankly back at him. He can feel his face contorting into some kind of horrified rictus on live television. What the fuck.
Beside him, Oikawa laughs, light and disarming. It's clearly meant as a cue. He still has no idea what to say.
"I, ah. I don't think I need to comment on that, do I, Prime Minister?"
"Yeah, we'll let your silence speak for itself." Oikawa's press smile is as polished as ever, but he can see the strain around the edges. He's scanning the press gallery for another raised hand. "Tob— uh, Kageyama-san."
"It is worth asking about, though, isn't it, because there were cases—"
"Is it?" Oikawa snaps.
Kageyama's continuing with his question undeterred, dark eyes fixed on the Prime Minister, so Hajime takes a moment while the cameras aren't trained on him to gape at Oikawa himself. He's never lost his composure before. Given the contents of the Reddit and Twitter screenshots Hanamaki seems to take great joy in printing out after every livestream, this one's going to become a meme in the next ten seconds.
He braces himself and turns back to the cameras with a smile he hopes doesn't look like a wince. Kageyama's still going, rattling off cases of fucking bleach injection.
"I know you don't want to dignify this with a response, but can you just send a clear message that obviously it's not the thing to-"
"Indeed," Hajime cuts in, finding his voice. "Under no circumstances should they even think about doing that."
Oikawa steps in smoothly and picks up the thread from there, and he's about to sigh in relief when he sees a dozen more hands inch up, attached to faces which seem far more engaged than they were two minutes ago.
This is going to be a long afternoon.
When the conference closes, Ennoshita giving them a thumbs up before powering down his rig, Hajime drops his head to the lectern and groans low and long.
"Aw, Iwa-sensei, it wasn't that bad." Oikawa teases, slinging an arm around his shoulders.
"Actually..." Matsukawa drawls, heading onstage from behind them.
Oikawa narrows his eyes. "What is it this time? Makki, are they shipping us?"
Hajime has no idea what that means, but Hanamaki's cackle can't mean anything good.
"Spit it out, Matsukawa."
"Well, there's no shipping this time, but it's kind of gone viral internationally."
"It?"
"You know." He thinks he does, unfortunately.
Matsukawa hits play on a Twitter video. It's... twenty seconds of Hajime trying not to look too apoplectic at the bleach question, hands clenching uselessly on the lip of the podium, mouth working furiously but silently. That's it. It has a boggling number of retweets.
"People think you're hot when you're angry," Hanamaki pipes up helpfully. "And apparently an example to the leaders of the free world, or something! Oh, Oikawa, the Guardian and a bunch of other outlets want to talk to you about Iwaizumi and today."
"Nope, I'm done. I'm out. Bye." Hajime hollers over Hanamaki going on about late-night interviews and time zones and other shit he thankfully doesn't have to care about.
As the elevator doors slide closed, he catches a final glimpse of Oikawa. While he's hemmed in by his still-talking aides, his gaze is fixed past them on Hajime, his brow furrowed.
day fifty
Really, all of this is little Shōyō's fault.
It's not the first time they've met, naturally. The entire nation's been contained to household "bubbles" of necessary contact for months, now; being that Hajime and Oikawa are spending at least the 1PM livestream and surrounding prep time together every single day, he's found himself part of Oikawa's vibrant and unconventional inner circle. Hanamaki and Matsukawa share a flat up here in the city they all call home, as well as a bedroom in Oikawa's secondary apartment when the three of them have to spend long stints in the capital; Asahi's been bringing Shōyō by the office for some time now, especially since lockdown has meant he's moved into Oikawa's home full-time. He misses Kindaichi, who's very reasonably opted to take the opportunity to work from home.
All of this somehow means, of course, that he's found himself in a recliner in Oikawa's living room, three-year-old attempting to intercept his tablet while he's ironing out a media campaign, babysitter hovering over him anxiously.
"Really, Asahi, it's okay."
"A-are you sure?"
Hajime gestures at his screen, where Kiyoko and Yachi are waving back at Shōyō.
"Nobody minds, do we?"
Kiyoko shakes her head, lips quirked. "You know, maybe Yachi-san's next set of lockdown example illustrations should include your bubble. Five unrelated adults and a ginger toddler."
Asahi somehow manages to look even more panicked, so Hajime shakes his head with a laugh. "Ah... maybe not for public consumption."
"Speaking of consumption," Oikawa calls, emerging from the kitchen with several bowls of snacks. Shōyō rolls right off Hajime's lap with an excited shout that masks Asahi's squawk, making a beeline for his father.
Oikawa looks good in his own space, Hajime takes a moment to think. Everyone does. Away from the public eye and around the only people who know intimately what their whirlwind lives have been like for months, they're all loose-limbed and content. Matsukawa's on the floor, turtleneck riding up around his hips as he holds his phone over his head, muttering at his rapidly deteriorating game of Plague Inc; Hanamaki's intercepted Shōyō and is spinning him around in a blur of lavender plaid and bright hair. Asahi has his hair down, its waves softening his entire face. Oikawa is radiant. Between the fluffy mint green sweater and the full-bellied laugh he's directing at his son and PA, he looks a decade younger, a man without the weight of a nation's wellbeing on his shoulders. It makes something twist in Hajime's chest, to think that his buttoned-up self has been welcomed into a family like this.
"Oh, Hajime." Kiyoko murmurs from the forgotten call, studying his face. Before he can apologize, she shakes her head and continues. "This is a tough time for us all — I'll sleep for a month once I'm not needed on TV and Twitter, I think. But it's brought us all closer together, hasn't it?"
He nods, throat tight.
"I'm glad to have gotten to know you properly," she says too quietly for the rest to pick up, cheeks pinking. "And, of course, Yacchan is a delight I'd never have met at all otherwise."
"Yacchan, eh?" he teases, then straightens in his seat. "Seriously, though, you're a wonder. Thank you."
Raising his voice, he flips the tablet around. "All right, everyone say goodbye to Shimizu-san and Yachi-san!"
By the time they're done with The Lion King, Shōyō is dozing off in Hajime's lap, worn out from the excitement of having so many people around for the first time in a long time. It's nice. Maybe he's getting all the attention only because he's the newest person in Shōyō's life, but he's fond of the boy.
"Come on, Chibi-chan," Oikawa half-whispers, attempting to pry him off. "Iwa-sensei's a comfy bed, but not as comfy as your real bed."
Shōyō bursts into tears, tiny fists gripping Hajime's shirt with impressive strength. "I want to stay with Iwa-chan!"
Iwaizumi freezes.
"Ohoho?" Oikawa grins at him, eyes dancing with mirth. "Well, Iwa-chan can carry you to bed, can't he? So big and strong, that Iwa-chan."
"Doesn't sound like I have a choice," he grumbles, already hefting Shōyō with one arm. "All right then, beansprout. Let's go."
The toddler presses his little face into Hajime's shoulder, nose cold against his neck, and hiccups tearfully as they head upstairs.
At the top of the stairs, Oikawa turns and watches Hajime make the last few steps. The space-themed lamp in Shōyō's bedroom just beyond sends stars dancing across his face like effervescent freckles, glinting across the glasses sliding low on his nose. His gaze is luminous and unreadable in the near-dark.
"You're good with him," he murmurs.
You're good with me, Hajime thinks.
day sixty-three
The days just don't stop getting longer. Hajime's apartment has long since stopped being a safe haven from 3AM phone calls flagged as urgent enough to bypass its silenced mode. He's saved so many files to his desktop that eventually he had to drag them into folders which still take up the entirety of its screen real estate. With grocery deliveries restricted to the vulnerable, and no restaurants, takeaways or deliveries available, he has to drag himself to the supermarket, wait for an hour and a half in a socially-distanced line, and stock up on enough for another week of setting the documents scattered across his kitchen bench on fire while trying to rustle up the energy to cook.
He did this to himself, he thinks. The rest of the country at least has a scapegoat.
He tries to stop himself getting too bitter, though. Nobody will know if he's living off instant mac and cheese (sliced sausages and frozen vegetables thrown in to appease the nutrition lecturer from 20 years ago still living rent-free in his head), and he's doing a sight better than the essential workers forced to deal with COVID-positive jerks repeatedly entering supermarkets against orders until they're arrested.
It's a funny way to deal with being told to self-isolate, he muses, to escalate until you're self-isolating in jail.
Enough of other people's failings. There's a million people he knows he's letting down, in one way or another: the people already in prison who're now on 23-hour lockdown with no visitations; the disabled and their care workers who don't have PPE and may not be able to come to work; the infinite others for whom the health system as it stands was already utterly inadequate before a national state of emergency. There's no capacity to help them now. He's been the Director-General of Health since 2018, and he wonders if he could have made changes that would be saving lives in the present.
Well. He can atone later. He's been up for far too long, and he can't afford to lose any more sleep or he'll be even more likely to make fatal mistakes. He rinses his dinner dishes and goes straight to brushing his teeth, scrubbing a little too aggressively despite the instructions on his electric toothbrush encouraging him to "let the brush do the work for you".
Tch. He's never been very good at delegating, for someone who's gotten where he has.
Hajime can't sleep. He refuses to prescribe himself any sort of sleeping aid, partly out of fear of missing calls, so he sighs and picks up his phone. His carefully-locked down Facebook is pretty much just his close family and some inoffensive sports fanpages, so its feed is usually easy to mindlessly trawl until his eyes get heavy.
Except that Oikawa, inexplicably, is doing a live broadcast from bed.
He maximizes the video. Oikawa's in bed, alien-print pajama shirt collar barely visible over the neckline of the faded grey sweatshirt he's wearing on top. He looks exhausted, dark circles made more hollow by the poor lighting, but his tiny smile, even composed of pixels, feels real and warm.
"—just put Shōyō to bed, so forgive the attire. There were some bodily fluids involved this evening. Anyway, I thought I'd answer a couple of questions I've gotten frequently tonight. I'll start with those, but if you've got anything you need answered, pop it in the comments, yeah?"
What is he doing. Sure, it's only 9PM, but Iwaizumi's certain Oikawa's been working nonstop for the last fifty or so hours just like he has. Either way, the media is bad enough that he can't comprehend opening himself up to questions from literally anyone on Facebook of all places.
Oikawa's voice is soothing, though. He's running through a few softballs they have official answers to, about lonely grandparents and supermarket wait times and the drive-through testing stations, and his eyes crinkle with every perfectly-charming, tasteful joke he makes. It's making Hajime sleepy, in the content sort of way he imagines cats always are. He wonders if it has that effect on Shōyō as well.
Before he can overthink it, he sends Oikawa a text.
Oikawa falters for a moment, squinting at his screen, then grins as he finishes his thought.
"I had one more thing to cover before I took questions, but this actually works out pretty well. Here's the first comment, from fan favorite Iwaizumi-sensei. Yes, I know, you all love him too."
What?
Oikawa clears his throat, and puts on a deeper monotone. "Next time you do one of these, at least let one of us put Shōyō to bed. We'd all be happy to help." He grins, too pleased with himself.
"What did you think of that impression? Pretty spot-on, right? Anyway, I've received quite a few questions about what my bubble and that of other essential workers in government looks like right now. As you can tell, Sensei is in mine, because we spend a lot of time in close contact by necessity.
"Our bubble doesn't all live in one place. Shōyō's amazing babysitter, who prefers to stay out of the limelight, very kindly offered to live with us while daycares are closed. My wonderful aides, Hanamaki and Matsukawa, chose to join our bubble and don't have any other flatmates at the moment who might object. Everyone else we're working closely with, we talk to online — Sensei's personal assistant, for example, lives with immunocompromised family, and is working from home at the moment."
Here, Oikawa pauses for a moment, eyes wide and intent.
"Now, I know a lot of you are feeling lonely. I'd be falling apart as well, if it was just Shōyō and I on our own. He would be too. I want to make sure everyone knows that multi-house bubbles like mine aren't just allowed because I'm the Prime Minister. If you're living on your own or with only a dependent, you can find someone else who's covered by the same District Health Board and in the same situation to visit. If you've got shared custody of a child, those arrangements still hold where at all possible within the other circumstances COVID-19 has introduced for us.
"Maybe you don't really have anyone. Maybe you're usually too busy with work to socialize outside of it, and now that you're working from home, there's needs you didn't know you had. Or maybe you're an essential worker — shout out to you guys, you're doing amazingly — but you also need some company when you're exhausted and off work. I think both of those are kind of true for me."
Oikawa's smile wobbles.
"I miss everyone else in my Cabinet. The press gallery will make fun of me for this one tomorrow, I'm sure, but I miss having coffee with journalists instead of shouting across a barrier. Now that Shōyō and I are spending a lot more time at home, too, I miss inviting others into that space.
"Remember, we're a team of five million. If you live alone and are doing okay, but you think a colleague or neighbour might need some human contact or help with a dependent, consider talking about forming a bubble together. If someone is doing extremely badly and needs you to be there for their ongoing survival — and I'm sure Iwaizumi-sensei will agree with me when I say that this means mental as well as physical health — I trust your judgement and compassion to help you make the right call. Just remember the vulnerable people who are already in your bubble when you do, and keep that one expansion the only one you make.
"Finally, those of you with little ones in good health, it's best if they're still able to socialize with at least two people at this time. If you're a single parent like I am, consider taking one of the steps I have. Form a regular arrangement with your babysitter, if they have no other bubble contacts. If you're a doctor or other health sector essential worker, we can provide contacts for childcare willing to integrate into your bubble. Or if you're still working out of the house, well, Shōyō loves having his favorite people Makki and Mattsun and Iwa-chan around, and it's good for me, too."
Fuck, Hajime's getting weepy. He's not sure if he's imagining it, but Oikawa's eyes look a little moist too, even with the mischievous quirk to his lips.
"And Iwa-sensei — next time, I'll get you to come over and help put Chibi-chan to bed." Oikawa looks at his watch and feigns surprise. "Oh, it's 10PM already though! Iwa-sensei is an old man at heart, so he might be asleep already. This video will still be here in the morning, if he feels like watching it.
"If any of the rest of you need some sleep, go to bed! I'll be answering questions for another hour. If I don't get to your question, one of my team will in the morning."
God, he's so fond of this ridiculous man, stunts like this and all. Closing Facebook, he thinks, I'm so glad you're Prime Minister right now. Then, as an afterthought, he sends another text:
Getting some rest now. Sleep well when you do, Oikawa.
day seventy-one
"Hashtag Iwa-chan is the top trend on Twitter in this country right now," Matsukawa intones.
Hajime sighs. They'd announced that today would be a day off from the interminable daily 1PM briefings a week ago, now that they've stepped out of lockdown to limited business-as-usual, and he's not sure why he ended spending his day off around these troublemakers.
Well, that's a lie. A good 80% of the reason has his feet propped in Hajime's lap, half-submerged in a corduroy beanbag and looking entirely unapologetic.
"What can I say, my son is the cutest kid ever. So of course he's given Iwa-chan here the cutest nickname, ne?"
"More like he's going to win more hearts than you ever have when he's grown up," Hanamaki smirks, yelping when Oikawa throws a pen at them.
They're not bad company, the three of them, even if they joke about his cold, dead heart. Even if what they're doing is probably worse than doing work. From where he's slumped against the armrest of Mattsun and Makki's incredibly ugly couch, he can see Hanamaki coming back from the printer with another stack of what appear to be memes.
"There's fan merchandise," Hanamaki declares, far too pleased for their own good.
"What?" Oikawa grabs a wad of paper, lapsing into slack-jawed silence for a few moments before dissolving into peals of near-hysterical laughter. "Holy shit, Iwa-chan, look at this!" He brandishes a few sheets in Hajime's direction.
It takes him a couple of blinks to figure out what he's looking at. Someone's done him up as... that one famous picture of Jesus, his sacred heart replaced with a coronavirus particle wound with the same thicket of thorns. His halo is yellow-and-white striped like the government awareness campaign, bordered by a second corona (ha) made of more virus particles. His hands and face have been lovingly rendered in realistic detail, surrounded by delicate flowers. His mouth is open in one of the half-grimaces he always seems to have on in every screenshot people love.
"No."
"I think it suits you! I've had people selling t-shirts with my face on them ever since last election, you've got a long way to catch up before you have as big a fanclub yet." Oikawa taps his chin, wiggling his way back into a more upright position. "Not that I've been compared to the Christian God, mind. Yet."
"I don't want-"
"Oi, Oikawa, he might not be as far behind as you think."
Matsukawa fans out a veritable sheaf of printouts between them. Hajime doesn't want to look, but he does anyway.
"Why are they putting my face on tote bags?"
"Oh, the proceeds from that one go to the Women's Refuge, for all the women displaced during lockdown."
"Oh. That's... still weird."
Hanamaki's grin is suspiciously wide. "In the listing, they call you the 'Curve Crusher'." If their tone wasn't enough, the obscene gesture they're making with their hips would certainly get the point across.
"That's-"
"How come I've never gotten such a manly nickname from my adoring public??" Oikawa cuts in. "Iwa-chan, they've made you out to be such a brute!"
Hajime doesn't know whether to throw a cushion at him or smother himself with it, so he opts for both.
"Hey, Oikawa, is calling Iwaizumi 'Iwa-chan' workplace harassment?"
Once they've had their fun running him through a dizzying array of Warhol-esque screen prints, coffee tins, aprons, tarot decks and enamel pins all emblazoned with his face, Matsukawa stacks the pages back into what looks like it once was an entire ream of paper and dusts his hands off.
"There's more."
"Hmm."
"The stuff that's, y'know, not justifiable by keeping small businesses afloat during an economic crisis."
"Don't remind me about the economy," Oikawa whines. "I've had to sacrifice so much good doctorly advice from Iwa-sensei to placate the opposition already. They all think I should be like Ushiwaka—" Ugh, okay, maybe there are some things that aren't preferable to looking at stained glass art of his own fucking face. Talking about the parts of politics he never signed up for is one of them.
"Ushijima-san has a very different population to work with," Hajime cuts in before Oikawa can get properly started. "I bet he wishes they were doing as well as we've been doing."
"You're the only person who actually calls him that," Oikawa mutters. "But of course we are! We're the best."
"You're such a child in private. Fuck knows how you managed to charm a majority of our population into voting for you."
Before Oikawa can retort, Hanamaki clears their throat. "Anyway! On to the juicier stuff."
"The stuff that definitely involves more fluid transfer than we're recommending, if you get my drift," Matsukawa chimes in.
"Ooh, give us the dirty details." Oikawa's certainly perked up quickly.
"Well, Iwaizumi has a fan Instagram or two..." Matsukawa holds up a tablet so they can all see, scrolling through a dizzying array of fanart, kids' drawings and cross-stitch and Lego alike. "Oh, here we are!"
It's. A nude. Clearly drawn with absolutely no knowledge of what lies under Hajime's clothes. He follows the contours of too-heavy pencil lines down toward his fictional groin, and finds it obscured by yet another fucking virus particle. Holy shit.
"Mm," Oikawa muses, suddenly leaning over Hajime's shoulder. "Interesting anatomical decisions on the part of the artist, I think."
"Is this one any better?" Hanamaki asks, sliding over another printout from god knows where.
Hajime... recognizes this picture. He must have been seventeen in this, the grain of the ancient newspaper scan making his jaw even sharper. He's about to spike a ball, limbs coiled with power, captured mid-jump with more than a sliver of abdomen visible between his shirt and his low-slung shorts. It's part of a collage with another pencil sketch and a bunch of "daddy" and eggplant emoji stickers, but he's captured by the photograph itself.
"Wow," Oikawa breathes. "I mean, I know you played volleyball in high school like I did, it's on both our Wikipedia pages, but—"
"Where did they get this?"
"Eh, it's not unusual. There's entire op-eds about how Nekomata used to be hot in his prime, y'know?"
"Oh, there's one of those about Iwaizumi too!" Matsukawa butts in, already switching tabs. The page he brings up has a blocky, sans-serif title that reads Erotica: Rock-hard Hajime. "Except people think he's hot right now, too."
"This is a news site?"
"Student journalism, yes. Though the first five hundred words are some kind of elaborate fantasy about, ah..." Matsukawa clears his throat and pitches his voice higher as he reads off the screen. "With that, my medicinal man-beast arms himself with the proper prophylactic equipment (also size XL), and plunges into me like a deeply satisfying syringe."
"Oh my fucking god."
"It does become an interview after that, though!" Hanamaki protests, failing miserably at keeping a straight face.
"With who?"
"It's 'whom', and the answer is the people who run that fan Instagram, of course. How else would they have gotten permission to reprint that nude?"
Ah. Now that he looks at the article again, that pencil-shaded virus-dicked doppelganger does hover solemnly toward the right of the page like a harbinger of his demise at the hands of thousands of people who clearly resent him for not deeming adult stores an essential business.
"Whatever's actually in your pants, I'm sure it's an improvement," Oikawa muses nearly directly into his ear, and Hajime startles so hard he elbows him in the face.
"Better not let your fangirls hear you say that!" Hanamaki grins. "Right now, only the most ardent shippers and the right-wing conspiracy theorists think the two of you are secretly engaging in a torrid romance, but that could change."
"That's it. I'm going to call in a few favors and join the witness protection program. I'd make a great dairy farmer."
Oikawa tilts his chin a little, resting it on Hajime's shoulder. He's so close that Hajime can feel the gust of his exhale against his jaw. "You wouldn't. You love me," he says simply.
Hajime's breath catches for a moment, but his mouth's already moving. "You wouldn't survive without me, you mean."
"Perhaps so," Oikawa murmurs.
The rest of the afternoon is... nice. Languid, almost lazy. It's Matsukawa who suggests getting takeout, now that's a thing again; it's Hanamaki who reveals Mario Kart and a Nintendo Switch with a flourish for the estimated ninety-minute wait. Hajime's not sure where they got it, given Switches have been sold out nationwide since the first whispers of an impending lockdown.
No matter. It turns out all four of them have bitterly competitive streaks, which he probably should have expected. Maybe it's what makes the public policy they've formed together so potent.
He thinks, then, about Vietnam. About the international media's "fangirling over Oikawa", as Hanamaki had put it, and his own relative fame as a public health official who should never have reached the international stage, and the way a first-world country which got very, very lucky is getting all the glory.
Maybe they've been playing with smart steering on. It's still a win, Hajime reckons, having gotten to where they are now.
Matsukawa's leaning back against his knees, relaxed posture entirely at odds with his increasingly creative cursing; Hanamaki, contorted sideways into a compact armchair, has managed to kick Oikawa in the head twice this Grand Prix; Oikawa himself, of course, is vibrant with laughter, throat one long line as he throws his head back at Hajime's side.
Like many other people in the country who keep up with the international news, right now, he wouldn't want to be anywhere else.
When Hajime’s crushing paper takeout containers to throw out, Asahi and Shōyō having just arrived for a final round of Mario Kart, his phone lights up with a new notification.
It’s an email from Yachi.
Sensei, hello!
My contract with the Unite Against COVID-19 media campaign is about to end, so I thought I’d do one last piece ^^
Thank you for all of your hard work! Please look after yourself! I hope you like it! It was a pleasure working with you!
Smiling fondly, he opens the attachment. It’s an illustration in Yachi’s signature style, with the yellow and white stripes that have become shorthand for this government’s pandemic-related advisories.
A bubble can be:, it reads at the top, then at the bottom, Five unrelated adults and a ball of sunshine.
In between, there’s a little doodle of them. Hajime’s standing in the middle, arms folded, a gruff but warm smile on his face; Oikawa’s leaning heavily against him, throwing Shōyō in the air, Asahi reaching out for the toddler with a nervous grimace. On his other side, Matsukawa appears to be holding a phone just out of Hanamaki’s reach.
A bubble can be, he thinks, a found family.
