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Yaku can’t believe he has any hair left with this job. Between the vomit, the petty squabbling, the crying, the vomit, the soiled pants, food that goes everywhere but in a mouth, and the vomiting, Yaku is questioning the sanity of his desire to run a day care center.
And his newest hire is probably going to drive him up the wall.
“Nishinoya!” Yaku bellows as he finds stray juice boxes strewn all over the main play area. “Are you allergic to work?”
Nishinoya, the current bane of his existence who is not five years old, darts into the room with a small trash bag in his hand. “Sorry, Yaku-san. I was starting on clean-up, but Shouyou-chan threw up.”
Rubbing his temples, Yaku grumbles, “Again? What does that kid even eat? Rat poison?”
Nishinoya flutters his hand and gives a theatrical bow. “Only the best for Shouyou-sama. Organic peanut butter, gluten-free crackers, and celery washed only in bottled water.”
“I kind of want to vomit just thinking about it,” Yaku says with an eye roll. “Get that play area cleaned up, and we might survive this day yet.”
Shaking his head, Nishinoya sighs. “Not likely. The triplets are coming in twenty minutes. The dad just called.”
Yaku groans loud and long. “God, I hate the triplets. The one is okay, but the other two bicker All. Day. Long.”
Nishinoya nods vigorously in agreement. “The worst part is that the one — Tobio, I think his name is — keeps pulling Shouyou-chan’s hair. Onion-kun cries when his dad leaves, and the other one is a perfect angel. How are they even related?”
“Who the hell knows. Kids are evil. Every last one of them.” Yaku scowls. “I need coffee. So much coffee.”
The thought of caffeine lying in wait, Nishinoya runs off to complete his task, and Yaku pours his co-worker a mug, as well. Maybe Nishinoya isn’t so bad, after all. Just a bit enthusiastic.
By the time they gulp down an entire pot of coffee, Iwaizumi-san arrives with his three young boys, all four years old and aching to wreak havoc on the uncharacteristically quiet daycare center. “I’m sorry about the last minute drop-off, guys,” Iwaizumi gasps as he wrangles a struggling Tobio out of his jacket. “My husband’s got the flu, and I need to go into work for an emergency department meeting.”
The earnestness in Iwaizumi’s voice is part of why Yaku hates dealing with him. He hates the guy because he’s impossible to hate and eminently reasonable. “It’s fine, Iwaizumi-san. Give our best to Oikawa-san.”
Iwaizumi smiles gratefully. “Will do. I should be by to pick them up in a few hours. They’ve all eaten and had a nap, but Akira didn’t sleep well so he might be a bit cranky.” He takes a deep breath after saying all of that in one go before bending down to kiss each of his boys on the forehead. “Now, you be good for Yaku-san and Noya-san, and Daddy might take you out for ice cream later.”
The tallest one, who Nishinoya refers to as Onion-kun due to his hair that stands up in a point and looks like a vegetable, lights up at this. “Ice cream!” he cries as he bear-hugs his brothers.
“Lemme go, Yuutarou!” Tobio hisses. “Hugs are gross.”
“You’re gross!” Yuutarou shouts before leaping onto his brother. They rolled around the floor while the other one, Akira, watches with mild disdain.
Yaku can’t help but think a kid that age shouldn’t even know how to make a face like that, but he doesn’t say as much. He waves at Iwaizumi, who is running out the door already. Nishinoya is trying to break up the fight between two-thirds of the triplets.
With a sigh, Yaku resigns himself to having one of those days.
“Oh, god, I think I am actually going to melt into this chair,” Nishinoya groans. The tuft of blond on his forehead is sticking straight out from his hairline, mostly due to Shouyou tugging on it, but it’s squashed down and Nishinoya thunks his forehead on the table.
Yaku doesn’t blame him for his exhaustion. Shouyou had puked all over Yuutarou, who ended up crying until Tobio attempted to beat up the tiny redhead boy. That little squabble had worked into Yaku’s first, second, third, and last nerve until Iwaizumi arrived a half hour later to collect his children, who were more or less unharmed. Well, there was the smell of vomit on Yuutarou, but that couldn’t be helped.
“I need a drink,” Yaku groans as he realizes that it’s finally Friday. Blessed, blessed Friday.
Nishinoya makes an almost sexual sound as he says, “Yes! My friend Asahi tends bar at a place not far from here, and he’s on tonight. The man may be afraid of his own shadow, but he makes one hell of a mojito.”
“If I can get my ass out of this chair,” Yaku muses. “First round’s on me.”
The two of them stumble to the little joint Nishinoya’s friend works at, called Aces High, and sit at the bar with no intentions of getting up in the near future. Asahi smiles warmly at his friend and shakes Yaku’s hand. Yaku likes this guy very much, who is as different from Nishinoya as one human being can possibly be.
“I’ll take the largest Long Island Iced Tea you are legally able to sell me, Asahi-san.”
Eyes wide, Nishinoya gapes at Yaku. “That will kill you, Yaku-san! Can you actually drink that much?”
Yaku sighs. “It’s been a long day, and I have until the bottom of a very large glass to find out. Oh,” he calls to Asahi, “and a mojito for our friend here.”
Four mojitos, one Long Island iced tea, and a hurricane later, Yaku and Nishinoya are standing on the small stage in the corner of the bar, arms thrown over shoulders as they ready to assault the karaoke machine. If only they can settle on a song.
“I am not singing Backstreet Boys, Noya,” Yaku slurs. “Do you even hear how dumb that sounds?”
Nishinoya shakily slaps at Yaku’s arm. “Dude. If you are a guy who sings and can’t do a BSB song, you shouldn’t be allowed to sing another note for the rest of your life.”
“No, man. Josh Groban. He’s got . . . the best voice. So mellow, so smooth, so hot.” Yaku hums to himself. “So hot.”
Laughing, Nishinoya shakes his head. “Dude, that is the gayest thing I have heard in my life.” His expression sobering quickly, he spreads his arms. “Let me love you, Yaku-san!” The resulting cannonball disguised as a hug knocks them both off the stage.
Almost visibly squirming, Asahi approaches Yaku and Nishinoya, who are sprawled out in a pile on the floor. “They’re closing up the karaoke machine for the night. Sorry, guys.”
Yaku struggles to his feet, and the room spins like a top. “Yeah,” he murmurs to no one in particular. “I need to go home.”
“You drank half your weight in liquor, man. I’m surprised you even know your name.” Nishinoya laughs at his own statement and belches loudly. “I’m not sure I remember mine.”
Leaning on the bar, Yaku whines, “I think I’m gonna throw up.” He barely makes it to a potted tree before unleashing the contents of his stomach. A hand rubs his back and whispers soothing things he can’t understand in his ear before steering him into the night. He vaguely recalls being herded into a cab and a door unlocking, but the rest of the evening passes into black.
The sun is blaring through the window as Yaku awakens with a murderous headache. “Jesus,” he gasps as the mere act of opening his eyes was nearly as painful as the light itself.
There is a groan next to him, and out of the corner of his throbbing eye, Yaku spots a bare shoulder and finds himself fully alert. “What the —” Glancing over, he sees a muss-haired Nishinoya, naked from the waist up, sprawled out and sleeping on top of the covers.
Knowing exactly what this looks like, Yaku tries desperately to recall what had happened the night before. There was the bar, then the Long Island iced tea. The Hurricane. Then . . . nothing. He doesn’t know how a mostly-naked Nishinoya came to be in his bed, but he does know that a number of things are possible, maybe even probable. “Crap, crap, crap, crap!”
“Too early,” Nishinoya mumbles into the pillow as he loops his arms around his head. “Stupid sun.”
“Noya, wake the hell up,” Yaku says, full panic setting in as he slithers out of bed and to the bathroom. He drinks water from his cupped hands and splashes some on his face for good measure. His vision un-blurs for a moment, and he sees something he will never un-see.
Little purple blotches line his collarbone, which he has just now noticed is unclothed. In fact, he is wearing nothing but his boxer-briefs. His distressed brain doesn’t need to be in full operation to know what this means. “Noya!” he shouts.
Nishinoya pads into the bathroom, scratching his wild hair. “What the hell is your damage, Yaku-san? It’s seven in the morning.”
Opening his mouth to retort, Yaku finds himself unable to string together a sentence that won’t make his face burn, so he just points at the spots on his neck.
“Wow, so that wasn’t a dream, then,” Nishinoya hums. “For the record, Yaku-san, you are really good with your hands.”
“Argh!” Yaku cries as he sifts through the drawer to find some headache medicine before his head explodes. “Why is this happening to me? I’m a good person.”
He hears Nishinoya hiss behind him, and Yaku turns to look. “What?”
Nishinoya frowns. “Are you upset? About what happened?”
“I don’t even remember what happened!” Yaku groans. “My head hurts, I drank enough to kill a Russian sailor, and I don’t even know where the hell my pants are. Please tell me what it is I’m not supposed to be upset about.”
His eyes shooting open, Nishinoya asks, “So, you don’t remember . . . us?”
“What did ‘us’ do, exactly,” Yaku wonders warily out loud.
A shudder passes through Nishinoya. “I don’t know for certain, but I’m pretty sure I put those marks on your shoulders. And there may or may not be a bite mark on my butt. That . . . that was you.”
His legs no longer willing to hold him up, Yaku sits heavily on the toilet lid and stares fixedly at the shower curtain. “All right, then,” he says to himself.
The laugh comes out of its own accord. Softly, at first, but soon, Yaku’s aching head vibrates with the sound of it as he howls at the ceiling in front of a very confused Nishinoya. Tears start to stream out of his eyes until his lungs are too tired to continue and he wheezes.
“Nishinoya Yuu,” he starts, the lunacy of the previous night still foremost in his mind. “I’m apparently very attracted to you, and you’re not half bad to hang out with. Would you go out with me?”
Nishinoya gapes before launching himself at Yaku, climbing into his lap. “I would like that very much, Yaku-san. Maybe we might actually get around to the karaoke next time.”
Shaking his head, Yaku declares, “Not in a million years.”
Clutching a fist to his chest, Nishinoya sings, “Quit playing games with my heart.”
“You’re an imbecile,” Yaku groans as Nishinoya’s awful singing voice assaults his already hurting ears. He hates that it’s actually adorable.
Nishinoya brushes his lips against Yaku’s and groans. “But you know what, Yaku-san?” When Yaku raises a brow, Nishinoya cants, “You raise me uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuppppppppp —”
The serenade is interrupted by an elbow to the ribs, and Yaku is blushing furiously as he says, “I will kick your ass right off that mountain, Noya. Right. Off.”
But no more games are played nor mountains stood upon as Yaku yanks Nishinoya in for the first real kiss between him that he remembers, and he thinks to himself that maybe he had good instincts when he hired Nishinoya, after all.