Chapter Text
Hajime will never forget the Halloween of his first year teaching. God. He wasn’t prepared to walk into the principal dressed in a cow onesie, nor was he prepared to be barraged by his students for candy. Trick or treat! they said.
He got tricked, alright. None of his kids spoke to him the rest of class. Ms. Hernandez saved his life that day—by giving him a headband with bunny ears attached to it. Bunny ears. Bunny ears!
Never again.
So, Hajime is making a trip to the grocery store at two in the morning the night before Halloween. For candy.
Hajime runs a hand through his hair as he looks at the assortment of sweets left. Nothing with peanuts in it. No Twizzlers, Keiji had told him as he’d left their apartment. Hajime didn’t have to be told twice.
At least there are sales. Hajime looks down at the basket he grabbed when he walked in, then looks back at the aisle. He grabs one jumbo-sized pack of chocolates and one pack of candies. Takes two bags of Ghirardelli for himself without looking, as if it’d make him feel better about his sweet tooth this time of year.
He trudges over to the party section with his eyes half-closed and one hand in the pocket of his hoodie. He picks off two packets of paper goodie bags with pumpkins decorated on them, throws them in his basket, and makes his way over to check-out.
Hajime racks his brain to figure out if there’s anything else he needs as he empties all the things from his basket to the time-worn yellow of the counter. He glances down at the boxes lined full of gum, picks out a packet of spearmint, and throws it in as well.
Hajime drums his fingers on his thigh as he waits—but the guy at the cashier is fast asleep.
Hajime blinks.
His golden-brown hair is artfully unkempt, the middle bits pulled into a small bun with a bead-accented bright pink hair tie. His cheek is smashed against the bend of his arm atop the counter, the pink-soft of his lips curled into a pout. He huffs a little and his brow creases, lashes shivering with the movement. Hajime shoves both his hands into his pocket before he does something crazy, like pinching his nose. His heart screams familiar. How silly.
Hajime clears his throat. “Um—” He shakes his head and grimaces at himself. “Excuse me,” Hajime says, hesitant. Nothing. “Hey,” he says, harder this time. “Hellooo.” The man shifts and Hajime straightens. He sighs, shaky and sleep-laden, but doesn't wake up.
Impatience flares at the back of Hajime’s mind. He unclasps his fists from his pocket and taps the brunet’s shoulder. “Excuse me.”
He snuffles against his arm but blinks his eyes open, staring in confusion at Hajime’s hand on his shoulder. His eyes go round, and he sits up, Hajime’s hands falling back into his pocket. Hajime clasps his palms against each other, feeling like he shoved it into ice-water at the loss of contact.
The man twists the string of his hoodie, his eyes glancing to and away from Hajime. “Ah—sorry. Let me just—check your stuff out for you. Sorry.” He begins scanning Hajime’s things, each of them popping up onto the display. “I happened to fall asleep, I’m so sorry if I kept you waiting. It’s been a long day. My co-worker got sick and I had to cover for him and—”
He continues on rambling, tucking the same strand of his hair behind his ear over and over again. His ears are so red. They’re so red. Hajime bites down on his lip to keep himself from smiling and decides to cut him some slack. He looks quite embarrassed.
“Hey,” Hajime interrupts. The man’s fingers clench down on the bag of Ghirardelli. “You’re alright. I get it, you were tired, so—”
“It’s not alright, and these two—” he holds up the two bags of chocolate, “—are on me.”
“Woah, you don’t have to—”
“Hush.” He puts a finger to his lips and puts away his chocolate into a bag without scanning them. “I feel guilty for keeping you.”
“But those are the most expensive…” Hajime mumbles but doesn’t protest. They are the most expensive.
He finishes the rest without a word, looking significantly livelier. “Would you like your receipt?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He gives Hajime the receipt and clasps one hand under Hajime’s to pass over the change.
Unnecessary, if you ask Hajime, but—he won’t complain.
“No problem!” He glances at his wristwatch. “Have a nice… morning?” the cashier says, unsure. Hajime raises a brow. “I mean, it’s two forty-seven AM.”
Hajime chuckles, grabbing his bags and going for the door. “Have a nice morning, then. Don’t pout too much in your sleep.”
“Excuse me? ”
The door shuts closed on his squawking and Hajime’s pleased laughter. A glance through the window only makes him laugh harder—he’s buried his face in his palms, and Hajime can almost hear him groaning.
Hajime slips the bags onto the handles of his scooter, making sure both sides are even before he kicks off into the street. Hajime stops when he turns on the block, bending over and slapping a hand over his mouth to catch his bark of laughter. He’s so giddy it burns the back of his neck. How stupid, he thinks.
Hajime feels so stupid, so lame, and his hands feel too big as he steadies them on the scooter and—fucking turns back down the block to the store. He doesn’t think the poor motor can go any faster, nor can his legs.
Hajime’s just in time. He’s closing the shop, it seems. “Yo!” Hajime calls. The guy scares so hard the shop keys fall out of his hands. Shit. Have I gone insane? “It’s almost three in the morning. Let me—can I walk you home?”
He gapes at Hajime. Hajime doesn’t blame him. He’s expecting a punch in the face any moment now. Seriously, what has gotten into him?
“Oh. Sure, I guess?” He bends over and picks up the keys from the ground. He turns the door handle to make sure it’s closed. “Is that a scooter?”
Hajime just stands there, slightly shocked as he walks over to Hajime. “Wait, you’re seriously just… accepting? I could be a murderer or something...” Hajime trails off. The guy snickers, now standing right by Hajime. He kicks at his scooter.
“Well, are you?”
“No. But… I met you ten minutes ago…”
“If you were a murderer, wouldn’t you have murdered me while I was asleep?” he reasons and starts walking. Hajime follows him.
“What if I wanted to get you away from the security cameras?”
“You could’ve easily swiped the footage if I was dead.”
“Cleaning up would be a lot of work, though.”
“Do you think murderers care?”
“Why would I even want to murder you? How do you know so much about what murderers think?”
“My incredible hair is reason enough to want me dead,” he says, tugging it out of the bun— and holy shit, maybe he’s right. It’s curly and thick and the light seems to catch at its ends just right. He runs his pretty, pale fingers through it and gives it a shake so it falls out of its stiffness and over his eyes. “Hmm,” Hajime remarks and looks away. “Possibly.”
Hajime looks back at him as soon as he looks away, and smiles at the blotchy pink of his flush. Familiar.
“Haha… what if I was a murderer?” he says, looking at his feet and clutching the strap of his bag.
Hajime hums, and spreads one arm out, and keeps the other holding his scooter at his side. “Then murder me.” He blinks at Hajime, who smirks back at him. His flush has gone past his neck, and he sputters. “Ah… Nah.”
Hajime swallows down the itchy feeling in his throat, rubbing absently at his chest. How silly.
“Oh,” he says, “This is me.”
Hajime looks over his shoulder at the—house. It’s quite nice. There's a staircase that leads up to the door, painted a light blue, from what Hajime can see. Each step carries its own flower pot, and the outside is painted white. The windows are incredibly tall, the inside of the house kept secret by the blinds.
“Do you rent it?” Hajime asks, looking back at him. He shakes his head.
“It’s mine. Just a two-bedroom, but it’s spacious.” He looks proud.
“Hmm. How old are you?”
He looks caught off guard by the question but shakes it off.
“I’m twenty-six.”
“Oh. Same.”
“Hmm.”
He looks off to the side and steps away from Hajime, tugging the strap of his bag higher as he climbs the steps.
He reaches the top and Hajime is still staring at him, trying to figure out the odd feeling in his chest. “Bye-bye,” he says, with a wave and a peace sign.
“Wait. What’s your n—” Hajime feels a cold jolt at his temple, then again on the back of his neck, and again everywhere. Stares up at the sky, blinking against the rain. “Shit. See you!”
Hajime kicks off the concrete and makes his way to his apartment as fast as possible—without looking back. The feeling of sticky, wet, cold clothes isn’t pleasant, and he has goodie bags to organize.
He gets there in under five minutes, throwing his hood off his head and shaking off the rain from his hair. He dodges the rear end of his scooter making a jab at his ankle because that pain is the last thing he needs right now. He steps into the elevator and peeks into his grocery bags to make sure everything is intact and salvageable, pressing the button for the twelfth floor.
Hajime attempts to quietly open the door, in case Keiji’s fallen asleep, which—not likely.
He takes his shoes off at the entrance, and grabs his bags, placing them on the counter to the left. A glance to the living room shows that Keiji is awake, his back bent at an awkward angle over the arm of the couch. Book held in front of him, his face upside down and his hair falling away from his forehead.
“Keiji,” he calls, stepping into the kitchen and pouring a glass of water. “Have you had water in the past… three hours?”
“Ah, Hajime, you’re home. Did you get caught in the rain?” Keiji asks, eyes not leaving his book. Hajime waves the glass carefully in front of him before putting it down on the table in front of the couch.
“Yeah, I’m gonna go change, real quick. Promise I brought no Twizzlers.”
Keiji straightens with grace—not of someone who has been studying for over seven hours—and curls his fingers around the glass of water. The eerie blue of his lamp casts light on his back, and glints around the rim of his glass. He glances at Hajime, and the way his gaze sharpens when it lands on his face makes Hajime—scared. Of what he might say.
“Well,” Keiji starts, taking a sip of water. “Try to get some sleep. You may tell me what happened in the morning.”
Hajime’s fingers curl inwards. He turns to the hallway. “I’ll get some sleep once you get some sleep, Keiji.”
Hajime clicks the door to his room shut, thanks God that he has his own bathroom, and changes out of his wet clothes. Washes up. Runs a towel through his hair, because his mother's voice still rings in his head. Sleep with your hair wet, you’ll catch a cold.
He flops face-first onto his bed. Damn it, he has to get a more comfortable mattress. He feels like he’s laying on stone.
He closes his eyes. Thinks of the cashier’s palm against the back of his hand. The clink of the coins.
Maybe, maybe —maybe Hajime would’ve preferred a kiss and some change.
Oh, God. Hajime groans into his pillow. I never got his name.
🂱
That night, Hajime dreams of home. Of Miyagi. Of being fifteen, the rain a caress against his back—of a gentle grief.
🂱
“Hajime.”
“Hmm.”
Hajime slumps against the kitchen wall, throwing the last bag of candy over his shoulder in hopes that it lands in his duffel bag. It is in vain.
“I’ve found it. Are you ready?” Keiji pats his shoulder.
Hajime groans for the fiftieth time this morning. “Shoot me. Just do it.”
“You still have to get into your… uhm… costume. If one can even call it that.”
“Nooo. Please.”
“Well—if you say so—”
“No. Wait... Shit. Okay. Let me sit down.”
Hajime takes a seat on one of the stools placed haphazardly beside the kitchen island. Even the damn stool yells at him. Hajime closes his eyes.
“Okay. Do it,” he says, mournfully, and immediately feels the dull edge of the eyeliner tickle the corner of his eye. He refuses to flinch.
“Will you—”
“Listen. There was— this guy last night. At the store. Saw him when I went to check out, or whatever. He was asleep, the fucker. Woke him up, and he started rambling and apologizing for five minutes straight. He—he paid! For my Ghiradelli. Fuckin’—”
“Please refrain from moving.”
“He paid for my goddamn chocolate. And when he gave me my change, he—listen to this—he grabs my hand. Gives me my receipt and my change. And then let's go. Who does that? Give it to me like a normal person, bastard!”
Hajime takes a breath. Keiji does this thing with his wrist and then Hajime’s got his make-up done. My God. Keiji takes a seat next to him, leaning his chin on the crook of his palm.
“—right. And I—shit. I fucking… went back! God, don’t smile. I went back and he was closing and he let me walk him home… we had this conversation which led to him letting his hair out of his bun—his fucking bun! His hair, oh my God. Saw God for sure. Like… you know those goddamned Pantene ads, you know—yeah. It was like… an amalgamation of all things made by the hands of some divine being.”
Hajime drones on in a disastrous mix of Japanese and English, and Keiji looks closer and closer to choking him. Or bursting into laughter, either one.
“Keiji,” he says, pressing a hand to his eyes. “I didn’t get his name,” Hajime finishes.
Keiji snorts. “That’s… worrying. Now, get your suspenders on and channel your inner panda, Iwaizumi-kun. Your students are waiting.”
“It’s six in the morning,” Hajime groans, and stalks off to his room.
Keiji grins. “That it is.”
🂱
“Mr. Iwa.”
Hajime turns to face the voice of Shalinie, who’s dressed as a ladybug. Her hair is curled and pulled up into two pigtails, and she looks up at him with her hands behind her back.
“How can I help you, Shalinie?” Hajime asks, dropping the stack of papers and bending down to meet her gaze.
“What are you dressed as?”
Hajime flicks one of the ears attached to the headband he has on. “A panda.”
Her eyes widen and her mouth twists into an ‘o’, and she twirls around to display her ladybug wings proudly. “I’m a ladybug!”
“I see! Very pretty.”
“Thank you! Did you know,” she cups a hand on her cheek, “that ladybugs aren’t really bugs?”
Hajime gasps. “No.”
“Yes!”
Shalinie continues listing off facts about ladybugs, gesturing excitedly with her hands. Hajime makes a note of her love for them at the back of his mind and listens rampantly.
“Now,” Hajime says. “You know so much about ladybugs—you know… I just remembered.” Hajime walks behind his desk and opens a drawer, looking for the thing he needs. “Aha. Here.” Hajime outstretches his arm, and nods for Shalinie to take it. She gasps as she looks down at the pen in her hands.
“No way… is this a ladybug pen?! Whaaat.” She clutches it to her chest. “Thank you so much! I love it!”
“Of course. I have one more thing though.” Hajime shuffles through his duffle bag and checks the names until he finds the packet he’s looking for. Shalinie. Nut allergy, eats halal. “Here. Happy Halloween.”
“Oh my God. Best day ever.” Hajime chuckles. “Alright, now. Shoo, get to class, ladybug.”
“Awww. Bye Mr. Iwa!”
“Bye, Shalinie. See you later.”
She walks (fashionably) out of the room with her flats clicking against the floor.
Hajime throws himself back onto his chair, the wheels rolling him backwards a bit. He teaches variety of grades, and is often told he’s not a “real” teacher, whatever the fuck that means. He is probably better suited to teach kids than half the teachers at this school, and that is speaking humbly.
Whatever. Fuck that. Hajime has his own office.
Another lousy spin around his chain, and a tiny figure peeks into his peripheral vision. Hajime recognizes the face as soon as he has a full view of it, and feels a smile tugging at his lips already.
“Morning, Kaito.”
“G’mornin’.” Kaito swings his bag that is three-quarters the size of him and drops it onto the chair by the desk. He digs around it for a minute, his tongue stuck out. When he seems to have found what he was looking for, he exclaims with a small aha! and smacks the sheet of paper right in the middle of Hajime’s desk. Hajime anticipates.
“What I am presenting today—get yourself prepared, Mr. Spiky—my most recent masterpiece… okay. You told me you were gonna be a panda yesterday, so I got to thinking. If Mr. Iwa gets to be a panda, then a panda should get to be Mr. Iwa. Tada!”
Hajime doesn’t know exactly what to expect when Kaito lifts his hand from the paper, but holy shit. This is the funniest kid I’ve ever met.
He’s drawn on a piece of orange construction paper with what looks like crayon. It’s a panda wearing a button-down and slacks. Two of the buttons by its stomach seemed to have popped.
“Oh man. He can’t be comfortable like that.”
“I dunno, Mr. Iwa. You tell me.”
Hajime barks a laugh and shakes his head. “Kaito. Please.” Hajime claps his hands together. “Please let me keep him. I promise to take good care of it. I’ll frame it. Put it on my desk.”
Kaito presses a finger to his chin, contemplating. “Only if you let me make the frame.”
Hajime pumps his fist in victory. “Yes.”
“Guess who I am.”
“Superman.”
“What gave it away?”
“The ‘S.’ Your hair.”
Kaito runs his fingers through his gelled back dark hair, and puts his hand on his hip. “My dad did it for me. He’s a master of hair gel.”
“I can imagine.”
Kaito fidgets with his fingers before taking a seat and changing the topic. “You should see our garden, Mr. Iwa. My parents don’t even tend to it, those cheaters. One of their friends wanted to use the side yard and now there’s vines running up and down the wall. There’s like—twenty-three cucumbers, the size of my whole arm, just there.”
“Twenty-three? Incredible.” Hajime pulls out a blank sheet of paper. “Can you draw the twenty-three cucumbers here, for me?”
“Oh! Sure.”
Hajime watches carefully as Kaito scribbles on the paper with a green colored pencil. When Kaito’s finished, he counts them over one last time and slides the sheet over proudly.
“Ooh. Very nice. Are the cucumbers good?”
“So good. I eat ‘m with rice.”
“Can I have some?”
“Of my cucumbers? C’mon, Mr. Spiky. You’re askin’ too much.”
“Just three. How many would you have left if I took three?”
“Mm… if I have twenty-three…” Kaito glances at the paper, then looks up resolutely at Hajime. “I’d have twenty left. I guess that’s alright.”
“And what if I took five?”
“The heck would you do with ‘em?
“Well? If you have twenty-three and I took five, would you still have some left?”
“Of course I’d have left! I’d have… nineteen left. Plenty for me.” Kaito picks himself off the chair and reaches over Hajime’s desk—plucking a bag of candy that he’d spotted with his name on it from Hajime’s duffel. Kaito grins at him. “Do the math, Spiky.”
Hajime snorts and messes up Kaito’s hair. “Out of my room, kid. Go to class. Enjoy the chocolate.”
Kaito whoops and steps gallantly out the room.
🂱
When Kaito comes and sees him before the day ends to boast about how he didn’t even get one question wrong! during his math class today, Hajime tosses him an extra chocolate and lets the warm feeling spread to the tips of his fingers—letting himself be reminded of why he teaches.
🂱
Hajime waves goodbye to a couple of students before walking up the hill by the side of the school building, scooter beside him. He’s happy with how today went and just wants to go home and beg Keiji for some sort of make-up remover.
Walking back to his apartment via this specific route up the hill is the thing Hajime looks forward to after a long day. The looming buildings disappear out of sight, the block lined with quaint houses—every one decorated differently and painted different colors. The extravagance of the main street and center of the town has sort of worn off over time, too crowded and grey and not enough oxygen.
Maybe Hajime’s been spoiled. Miyagi—he does not want to think about Miyagi. The place so worn and his long forlorn house—trails behind him once in a while.
He calls his mom.
She picks up no more than five seconds later.
“Hajime!”
His chest warms, and his gut clenches. Nobody says it like she does. He takes a deep breath.
“Hi, Mama.”
Some clattering filters through the speakers, followed by a soft curse. Hajime slows his walking.
“Ma? Are you alright?”
“Oh—I’m fine! You call me so rarely that you’ve caught off guard, boy. I’m getting old over here. All my joints ache. Come give me a massage.”
“Buy me a plane ticket, and maybe I will.”
She gives an annoyed groan. “Evil child.”
Hajime misses her so much. “Face the truth.”
“Why have you called me so late?”
Shit. “Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot. You sound like you’ve been awake, though.”
“Well, we have Choco to blame for that. Damned dog.”
Hajime chuckles, feeling a bit sorry. “Give her a kiss for me.”
“For what? Waking me up this late at night? Just listen to what I got out of bed to.”
“Okay, shoot.”
Hajime keeps the phone pressed to his ear as he walks, listening but not really to the mess Choco has caused. Hajime would love to keep a dog here—his apartment doesn’t allow it, though.
He adds commentary and laughs a bit rudely when he needs to, but comes to a hesitant stop when his gaze falls upon an intriguing scene.
Two men are standing by a garage door, one sitting crisscrossed on the concrete and another holding a paintbrush perched on a ladder.
The garage door is—shockingly pretty. It seems like the man has probably been working on it for a long time, a variety of flowers trailing from the corner of the door before fading by the center where he’s working. He’s wearing overalls over a sweater, which keeps slipping off his shoulder.
The man turns around—Hajime jolts.
It is the cashier man. His hair is tied back in the bun and Hajime is all of a sudden very aware that he’s been standing there for a good minute or two, staring. The man is waving his paintbrush expressively at the other one sitting down, successfully butting splatters of paint over his clothes and the concrete. Hajime winces.
Hajime vaguely hears very fast footsteps pattering towards him, but with the boy grinning unfortunately not at Hajime and his mom in his ear he’s expectedly surprised when someone bumps into his shoulder. His scooter clatters to the ground, and the area of contact hurts.
“Shit,” Hajime curses, gripping the spot with his phone still in hand.
“Holy crap, sorry man.” The voice comes from above him, and Hajime again is wishing for a couple inches of height. The stranger’s hair is all over the face and covering one of his eyes, and his breath is falling like he’s run here. He runs a hand through his hair, the sleeve of his red hoodie slipping down his arm.
“It’s alright. I wasn’t watching, that’s my bad.” Hajime glances from the tall dude to the pretty dude, and the tall dude smirks at him like he knows exactly what Hajime’s thinking.
“Impressive, right? The guy in the overalls, he’s—”
“Tetsurou!” comes a shout from below. The man—Tetsurou, he assumes—waves.
“Oikawa! I got the stuff!”
Hajime’s blood runs cold.
Oikawa. Undoubtedly Oikawa jumps down from the ladder—
“I’m gonna go,” Hajime mutters, quickly.
Tetsurou blinks at him. “Alright… sorry again.”
Hajime leans down and picks up his scooter in a sort of daze, lifting the phone back to his ear.
“—jime. Hajime! Did I just hear someone say—”
“Sorry, Ma. I have to go. Get some sleep, okay?”
“But—”
“Bye.”
Hajime hangs up, and he realizes belatedly that it was a little cruel of him.
Hajime's mind is foggy and his legs are moving solely on muscle memory. He finds himself in his apartment slumped on the couch, legs stretching all the way under the coffee table, half his body slipping down the leather. He slaps a hand to his face. Hajime groans and flips himself over.
He tries at closing his eyes but is only met with that fucking smile—the one he’s convinced as the abilty to cut the universe in half. Hajime wants to bang his head against a wall.
His chest feels so tight he palms at it. Hajime squeezes his eyes shut hard enough that pressure pricks at the backs of them, and he feels a little like crying.
The couch creaks as someone sits down beside him.
“Are you alright?” Keiji asks, voice laced with concern. Hajime can’t bring himself to feel embarrassed—his roommate has seen him like this a handful of times, as much as he’s seen Keiji the same way. Coming to America has dealt him a number of situations accounting for the terrible feeling accompanying culture shock, and dorming with Keiji helped the both of them in unamable ways.
They’ve lived together for practically a decade. Hajime is as honest as he’s always been.
“Fuck.”
“Quite the answer, Hajime.”
Keiji pats his shoulders and beckons him to sit up, giving the most delicate of snorts when he sees Hajime’s probably wrecked face.
Hajime stares blankly at the TV.
“Your mother texted me a bit ago,” Keiji says, jostling him out of his reverie.
“Wow. How unexpected.”
“You are being quite testy today. She only said to check up on you.”
Hajime bites his lip. “Sorry. ‘M being an ass.”
Keiji hums as a response, getting up from the couch and wading over to the kitchen. He brings back a glass of water and a bag of chips, along with the pack of chocolate—Oikawa.
Hajime groans out loud. Keiji simply takes a seat beside him again, sipping at his own glass of water.
“Keiji.”
“Yes?”
“Have you—” Hajime swallows, scratching the back of his neck. “Do you think about how weird it is? Knowing that there are people who’ve seen you at five, but never at twenty?”
Silence. The clink of a glass being set down.
“I suppose I haven’t, really,” Keiji says, finally. “Though, it is strange. People you’ve gone to school with, spoken to, but never really seen.”
“What if…” Hajime pauses, tapping his finger against the side of his glass, glancing at the chocolates, then back to the glass. “What about the people you did see, though?”
“What do you mean?”
“Those you knew you. Knew your favorite color, your birthday.” Keiji shifts at his end of the couch, bringing his knees to his chest, gaze steady on Hajime. “How weird is it that they don’t know if your favorite color changed?”
“Has it?”
“What?” Hajime turns to face Keiji.
“Has your favorite color changed since then?” Keiji asks, seriously.
“I… no?” Hajime downs the rest of the water, forcing the lump in his throat away. “I don’t know if his has, though,” Hajime adds, quietly.
“His?” Keiji asks in a way that’s—knowing. Polite.
“Cashier guy,” Hajime admits. “Dunno how I didn’t recognize him.”
Keiji smiles, and Hajime’s composure—it was never really there.
“Hmm. Old friend?”
Hajime exhales a shuddering breath, and it’s so dumb. He’s too old for this.
“Yeah. We were close.” Hajime stands, a little nauseous, too tired. “My best friend. Was a little in love with him, he moved away when we were fifteen, you know the deal.” He scratches his head, making way to his bedroom—not sparing a glance at Keiji. “Have some food. I’m gonna take a nap.”
🂱
Hajime doesn’t know why he’s here.
Keiji: Vegetables, Hajime. We need vegetables.
He scowls down at the text.
Keiji: It’s not my fault you ended up over there. Please get the shopping over with
Hajime pockets his phone in his sweatpants, huffing and striding over to the bell peppers glaring at him.
He wonders if Oikawa is here today.
He mentioned he was covering for his coworker the other night, though. Maybe it’s wishful thinking to hope Oikawa’s here today, too.
Fuck. Maybe he shouldn’t have come to this store.
Hajime looks down at the assortment of greens he’s picked out, nodding his head. He doesn't think he missed anything.
He walks slowly over to the checkout.
The steps Hajime takes are deliberately slow, like he can delay seeing him—when the only thing he wants to do is, well, see Oikawa. Hajime’s discovered not being able to see a person for almost two fucking decades does that to someone. Not that Hajime didn’t try. He tried, his parents tried, hell—his grandparents tried. Not one phone call was answered, from anyone.
So Hajime’s a little pissed, too.
He’s also pissed at himself. How didn’t he recognize Oikawa? All he used to do until he was fifteen was look at him.
Whatever. Whatever.
He peeks from behind the aisle, wanting to see who was at the desk.
The scene before him is so unbelievably him that Hajime laughs, nearly.
The sun is starting to set—the whole store blending in flecks of orange and purple and pink through the tree outside. Oikawa himself is leaning forward on his forearms, black turtleneck tucked by his jaw. He has his bangs pushed back with a cat-ear headband, revealing the skin of his forehead and a clear view of his eyes, brown and fairy-gold.
He even has whiskers painted on his cheeks.
Hajime closes his eyes and forces the flush away from his cheeks, thinking up a relatively insulting comment about Oikawa’s costume.
He steps forward. Oikawa turns his head towards him, blinking.
“Um. Hi,” Hajime says, instead. I’m just insulting myself, at this point.
Oikawa smiles dazzlingly. “Hello again!”
Hajime places his stuff on the counter, and Oikawa begins measuring them up.
“I like your—” Hajime gestures and the general area of his face. “—ensemble.”
He giggles. “Thank you. Your eyeliner… is a bit messy, but—”
“Oh shit,” Hajime curses, reaching up to wipe it off but stopping halfway. If it survived somewhat in his sleep, there really is no going back right now. “I fell asleep with it on by accident.”
“Ah. Happens.”
The only sound in the whole store is the rustling of plastic and the beep of the scanner. It’s a bit unsettling.
“Thanks for paying for the chocolate the other day. Those were my favorite.”
Tooru glances up at him and smiles. “Well, I’m a man of taste, after all.”
A smile tugs at Hajime’s lips. “I wouldn’t expect any less.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“Ah, I couldn’t ask the other day ‘cuz it started raining, but—what’s your name?”
Oikawa looks pleased that Hajime asked. “I know. I laughed about when I got inside.”
“Oh, so you’re an asshole.” Still. That shouldn’t make Hajime happy, but it does.
He grins. “Certified.”
Hajime raises a brow. “Who’s name is…?”
Oikawa doesn’t answer until he’s done bagging the last of Hajime’s groceries. He places the bags on the counter and outstretches a hand with a smile. “Tooru Oikawa.”
Hajime huffs, clasping his palm against Oikawa’s. “Nice to meet you, Tooru. It's Hajime.”
Ohh, man. I should have just stuck with his surname.
No recognition shutters in his expression, not one that Hajime can see. Oikawa slips his hand back to his side.
“Alright, Hajime. My shift ends in five minutes. Let me ride your scooter home.”
“What? No.”
Oikawa gives Hajime a look, like he’s never been told no in his life.
Hajime is a weak, weak man.
“Whatever.”