Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There's a ring, a picture, and a business card.

Hajime supposes there are other things. They’re less tangible, but still present. The vague imprint under twisted and tangled silken sheets. A wisp of jasmine, lemon, and thyme stuck on the pillowcase Hajime didn't use. A scorched memory of soft lips pressed joyfully against his skin leaving a layer of glitter on Hajime’s cheek. An echo of laughter. He feels the memory of it shaking in his diaphragm. Full bellied like a child who has learned a new trick. These are all harder to organize and Hajime has relied on his ability to organize for most of his life. He starts again with something more solid: a ring, a picture, and a business card.

The ring is silver and fashionable in its simplicity. It hasn't left any green behind. It has a small braid design that appears and disappears. It’s a peek-a-boo effect that Hajime feels sure he wouldn't have chosen but feels oddly endeared towards. It surfaces a hazy thought, like a vision seen through a desert heat wave. There's a surreal-ness to the flash of chestnut hair and the glint of a smile that hides and reveals multitudes of meanings from moment to moment. It's snug on his slightly swollen finger. He vaguely thinks that the dehydration is making his limbs swell already and the flight will only make it worse. He should take it off, but something prevents him. He stares at it instead, squints through his excruciating hang over as if the braided pattern will reveal some further information.

It doesn't. He sighs and moves to the picture.

When Hajime had first woken up with a dry mouth and a taste of something awful on his tongue, he had pulled the extra pillow to his face to try and bask in the regret of drinking more than he ever had before. Damn Makki and Matsun. They'd pulled the "you're my best man" excuse too many times. Even after he pointed out that he was both of their best man. That only made his situation worse. Then there had been the mysterious man added into the mix... When Hajime brought the pillow to his face it came with the picture and the business card.

The picture has the mysterious man in it.

He's fashionable: white pants cuffed at the ankle elongate his already long legs and highlight brown boat shoes. His shirt is some breezy pink fabric and tucked into a brown belt that matches his hair and his eyes. He looks otherworldly. Ethereal even in the morning light with Hajime’s hangover. He has his left hand held up to the camera showing off the black ring. Hajime thinks black is closer to his own style, but in his dream like memory there's a debate on ring styles. It ends with a compromise of buying each other rings and a teasing tone muttering "Iwa-chan is a romantic," before it blurs away into black again.

Hajime is in the picture as well. He’s wearing the same outfit he woke up in: a button up olive green shirt with the top two buttons undone. It's rolled to his elbows. Hajime’s struck first by the expressions in the picture. His smile is so broad and joyous that it makes Hajime cringe at the cheer of it. He’s never seen a picture of himself like this. He looks as if he's been laughing all night. As if he had been laughing for eternity. The happiness looks both foreign and natural. It almost looks as if the man making him so happy were his lifelong friend or lover rather than a man he met a mere hours earlier. The happiness in the picture ignites a warmth in Hajime’s chest somewhere close to his heart.

But definitely not his heart. That's just heartburn from drinking. He's positive.

They're standing in front of what looks like some kind of Christian chapel. He thinks he sees Elvis as the officiant. Hajime looks from the ring to the picture to the bed with tangled sheets and smells that aren't his own and he thinks, do I have a husband? Even though he knows the answer.

His stomach lurches and he rushes to the bathroom to relieve himself. There's no rest for the wicked because as soon as he lets out a shaky exhale over the toilet there's a knock on the door. It sends Hajime scrambling. He stuffs all the evidence of this potential Vegas situation away with the speed and efficiency of a man who hides most of himself from the world except his closest friends. Hajime manages to stuff the business card into his shirt pocket with a bit more gentleness just as said closest friends walk in.

"Iwa Iwa Iwa," Makki practically sings at a very particular pitch that resonates unpleasantly with Hajime’s currently hung over and addled brain. He scowls at his friend, but before he can snap about manners, he's cut off by the friend in question. "Where did you disappear to last night?"

Matsun joins them then, his arm snaking around his pink haired fiancé with the confidence that comes from being in a city in a country where public displays of affection are more common for all, even if not respected equally. Hajime doesn't like the look on either of their faces. Something about the arch of the eyebrows and tilt of the chins are too knowing. Hajime feels his left ring finger twitch. It feels slightly naked and exposed without the new ring that's been shoved somewhere in his haste.

"We left you with that gorgeous shithead pestering you and then you ghosted us," Makki continued.

"We were very concerned," Matsun adds, though his tone sounds more bored than concerned. "You could have been killed."

"Good point, babe," Makki agrees. "Then I'd have to get interviewed as the distraught best friend. I haven't practiced crying on command for years. It's rude not to warn me."

"Sorry.” Hajime knows it's easier to agree than fight it. “Next time I'll warn u before I'm murder by a serial killer you left me with."

"That’s all I ask. Common courtesy."

"Did anything happen with that guy?" Matsun asks. He speaks casually but his eyes are moving across the room with a hawk like precision. Hajime is mentally tallying everything his friend might be taking into account: messed up and tangled sheets, a smell of jasmine, lemon, and thyme. Hajime remembers the glitter on his cheek at the exact moment Matsun’s eyes fall on it. His expression barely changes, but it's enough for Hajime to take note. "You were out pretty late. I heard a lot of giggling when you got back."

"We just hung out," Hajime states like he's being interrogated by the cops instead of his friends. He's pretty sure he's never giggled in his whole life, so Matsun is probably just trying to rile him up to get answers. Then again, Hajime never met and married a man in the same night either.

He refuses to contemplate that further.

"Rock out with your cocks out," Makki says.

"Is there a reason why you're here," Hajime demands. He’s actually pretty sure they didn't have sex. His memories are limited but he remembers kissing and touching and a distinct promise of next time. That's also just a gross way to ask. Again Hajime refuses to engage with it.

"Yeah," Matsun says simply. They stand in silence, waiting for elaboration. When it doesn't come Hajime rolls his eyes, a vein on his forehead pulsing.

"And what is it?"

"Our flight leaves in three hours so we need to start heading to the airport. International terminal and customs and all that,"Matsun says.

"You don't remember?" Makki asks. There's a smirk on his lips. "No way you're that hung over. This guy's got you all hot and bothered. Let's invite him to the wedding!"

"Is he still here," Matsun asks. "Is he literally in the closet? Bad form, Iwaizumi."

"I hope so," Makki says. He throws the closet door open and is disappointed to find it empty except for an ironing board.

"Get out so I can pack," Hajime huffs. Makki makes an aghast expression, clutching his chest.

"You haven't packed? Who are you?"

"Get out," Hajime demands, throwing the nearest pillow at the pink haired devil. He catches it easily.

"This guy's got nice cologne, huh? I see why you like him."

This time the pillow smacks Makki so hard in the face that he nearly stumbles into the closet himself.

More than twenty hours later Hajime's hang over is completely cured, though he's still groggy. He only checks for the ring and photograph in his wallet thirty-five times before he gets to baggage claim. He's not sure where the business card is, but he knows it’s packed somewhere. If he can remember to find it. It doesn't matter any way, Hajime tries to tell himself. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, right?

Hajime closes his eyes as the metro pulls away from the stop at Tokyo International Airport and his mind’s eye sees chestnut brown hair and matching eyes and a smile that shows pearly white teeth and a laugh that bubbles out into the air and into Hajime’s ears the way champagne bubbled down his throat just a day prior.
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Shiratorizawa conglomerate has offices and acquisitions across Japan. All these acquisitions work to design and manufacture innovative software platforms for workplace efficiency and culture building. Sejoh Inc. is much smaller by comparison with only one office headquartered in Tokyo. It's grown from a four person start up to something a bit more traditional, but still focuses on creating a user friendly communication portal for companies that rely on creative and collaborative work. It's no surprise to anyone when Shiratorizawa begins the process to merge the companies. It's a natural take over that the CEO of Sejoh was happy to agree too.

Unfortunately, Hajime's department is tasked with facilitating it. Between the usual business and bureaucracy, plus the chance of a promotion on the line, Hajime finds himself working crazy hours as soon as he returns. It's no wonder that Hajime compartmentalizes. He takes his memory of brown hair and bubbling laughter and whispered I dos and folds them up neatly before pushing it down for safe keeping somewhere behind his right lung.

The ring is sitting on his dresser table and the picture is in his drawer. He seriously contemplated the fridge, but something about it felt too permanent and exposed. The Hajime in the picture is open and honest and accepted, but the Hajime working 13-16 hour days is not. Hajime is too tired to unpack that so the picture is in the drawer. The folded memories poke his lung with a pinch, but Hajime continues on his way.

He finds the business card by chance two weeks after his return. He's doing laundry out of sheer necessity when it falls out of his suit case. It’s more of a QR code than a business card since it doesn't have any name or contact info. However the back has scrawled writing, elegant and simple even in its tiny scrunched characters. Clearly the otherworldly man (his husband? Hajime still feels the word on his tongue, but he swallows it) had more to say and not enough space.

Sorry. I was happy. I hope you were too. I was happy, but I have to leave. Sorry.
There's something else scribbled out but it's too dark to read and Hajime isn't sure he could handle it if it were still there.

He rereads the note again and again and again. It's oddly touching. Two apologies. Two confessions of happiness. A wish for the same. Hajime feels a brightness through his exhaustion. A sliver of sun after a heavy rain. He feels suddenly younger and freer even though he doesn't even remember his hus- the man's name. He puts the card on the dresser, next to the ring like he's making an altar piece by piece. He stares at the two offerings so far: the ring and the business card. Then he goes to sleep and doesn't prevent his mind from wandering the streets of Las Vegas, his hand intertwined with a chestnut haired man who tugs him closer and teases him about his scowl.

His co-workers don't know anything about his trip except that it was for a bachelor party for his friend that he's known since high school. Hajime thinks he could be more honest with them, but it's easier this way. He vows to be friendlier after the merger is completed. Not that he's ever received negative feedback on his attitude and teamwork. It's made even clearer that he's well liked when his coworkers insist he take a day off.

"Seriously, Iwaizumi," Yahaba tells him earnestly. "You've been going nonstop since your trip. We'll be fine tomorrow without you."

"You'll get sick if you keep this up," Kyotani snaps gruffly.

"I've already moved around all the meetings," Kindaichi agrees.

"You sure know how to make a guy feel unwanted," Hajime jokes, even as he fails to stifle a yawn.

"Get out or Mad Dog will throw you out," Watari says.

"Don't fucking call me that," Kyotani manages to bite out. It won't change anything.

The day off is unexpected, but appreciated. He could use the evening and day to sleep and relax and watch TV. Maybe go for a jog. Instead he finds himself watching the dresser. He’s been avoiding it for two days and now he has ample time. He’s watching as if something about the objects will jog his memories of the man's name. Maybe his staring would make him appear in the room as if summoned. Hajime cringes at that. He doesn't want the man to see him now: tired and smelly and with the look of an officer worker on the brink of burn out. He wants the man to see him happy with his smile so big it pushes his cheeks up and makes it hard to see.

He scans the QR code with his phone. Immediately after he remembers the news report about identity thieves using QR codes to access personal information. He holds his breath, wondering if this Vegas man is about to steal everything he owns. Instead a website for a podcast called The Beauty and The Brain pops up. The summary is a bit random: join Kuroo Tetsuro and Oikawa Tooru as they deep dive into all cultural phenomenon: the good, the bad, and the ugly! The thumbnail is a picture of two animated figures: one with shaggy black hair that looks like a rooster over his cat like eyes. The other is Hajime's hus- Hajime's ma- it's the man from Vegas. He has one eye closed in a wink, his tongue poking out as his hand makes a victory sign. It's objectively the dumbest pose Hajime's ever seen.

Unrelated, his left ring finger itches.

He scrolls through the page. There are over three hundred episodes with a variety of topics from Star Wars analysis to prank war reactions to volleyball. One of these names must be the man from Vegas. He click on a recent Q&A episode. An unfamiliar voice starts the show.

"Okay, Oikawa. I have a good one. Why did the golfer bring two pairs of pants?"

There's a long suffering exhale in response. It freezes Hajime in his spot. He can practically see the beautiful man, rolling his eyes with the corners of his mouth downturned, eyebrow’s tilting together in what could be a pout or a scowl. The line is vague in Hajime’s memory. If the exhale wasn't enough, the voice that follows nearly makes Hajime fall off the bed. A flash of the same voice whispering into Hajime’s ear to follow him. To dance with him for one more song. To stay for a bit longer.

"I give up, why?"

"In case he got a hole in one. Get it?"

"Tet-chan, I don't want this to be our permanent cold opening. I've suffered enough by knowing you for so long."

"You love me. Besides today's different because we get to answer listener questions and give dubious advice."

"That is my favorite kind of advice," Oikawa agrees, a slight teasing lilt back in his voice.

That's my husband, Hajime thinks despite his best censorship efforts. Oikawa Tooru. Vegas guy. Hajime falls back onto his bed as Oikawa continues.

"First question comes from Ami who says dear Kuroo, why is mackerel good for you? First of all Ami, it's a bit rude to exclude me. I know stuff too, you know? I’m the brain this podcast is named after."

"So I'm the beauty," Kuroo teases.

"Impossible," Oikawa snips. "I'm the beauty too."

"What am I?"

"Honored to be in my presence."

Kuroo releases a hyena like laugh. "Okay, Mr. Brains. What's the answer to Ami's question."

"Mackerel is good for you because its fish and fish is good for skin and hair."

"But why? Ami probably doesn't know much more than she started with."

"She knows enough."

"Galaxy brain Oikawa over here. Can I answer now?"

"Fine, but explain it so I understand."

"So, like you're five?"

"Why are you like this? I am so kind to you and you are a heathen."

Hajime listens to them banter as he falls asleep, unsure of what to do with this new information about his no longer completely mysterious husband.
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Hajime's always been responsible. He was captain of his volleyball team, a top student, an excellent senpai (once the first years got over his naturally intimidating facial structure). He started helping his mom with groceries by getting side jobs in high school and continued until college. He helped balance accounting books for the old women in his neighborhood, watched neighborhood kids. He’s a model employee. Hajime can't explain why. He's just always been that way. Putting others before himself and putting 100% of his efforts into everything he does. He's the last person you'd expect to get drunk out of his mind in Vegas and it feels even less likely that's he'd marry someone he met that night. Maybe all the stress of work and hiding his romantic life (or lack thereof) and feeling like he's never giving enough to the people around him led to a crisis of identity or existential dread or stress induced fixation. That’s the only explanation he can think of when he looks at the wedding ring sitting on the dresser next to the business card. The picture has also migrated from the drawer to the dresser. Now the altar has three artifacts and Hajime is no less baffled by his own behavior.

Maybe it's this same crisis that has Hajime listening to Oikawa’s podcast. Two episodes a day no matter what the topic. He’s been moving through the episodes from oldest to newest, but last night his phone updated as it's designed to do. He awoke to find his "sort by" tab reset to its default with a new episode posted on top of the list. Soul Crushing Soul Mates and other quandaries of the universe.

It's obviously a title chosen by Oikawa because Kuroo has mentioned in multiple episodes that he's the worst at naming. Hajime privately likes those episodes the best but he's sure it's unrelated to the way his eyes drag to the dresser with its ring, picture, business card and now the folded shirt from the night they married. Hajime's starting to think he has a problem.

He plays the episode on his headphones as he goes to work. As he boards the train he hears Kuroo complain about the title and Oikawa brushing him off as he always does.

"Tet-chan, the day I care about your opinion is the day I end it all."

"Oikawa, babe, this is literally just a podcast of us sharing our opinions. You already care."

"I'll shoot myself into the sun after lunch then. Thanks for the update."

"I hope you miss and float in the void of space for eternity."

"Jokes on you! I'm into that!"

The ride to his stop is mostly filled with Kuroo’s long diatribe about someone he felt was his soulmate, even in a past life. They bleeped out the name for privacy ("and because he'll kill you with his bare hands," Oikawa teased). Hajime feels Oikawa’s being awfully quiet, but he barely knows the man. He reminds himself of this daily when he looks at their wedding picture over a morning cup of coffee.

Finally Oikawa does speak as Hajime clocks in at work, unpacking his bag and putting his lunch in the shared fridge. Oikawa’s voice is slower and significantly more measured than usual. It's as if he's weighing each word on his tongue before presenting them.

"I don't know about soulmates in the sense of one person. If there's seven billion people in the world than only one soulmate seems impossible. Maybe you have a billion people or more who could fit with you, but then timing and fate come into play, you know? Maybe you're the soulmate you need and anyone else is supposed to make you overflow."

Hajime pauses with the fridge open. Before he can stop himself his mind is wandering across the internet. Are you thinking of us? Did I make you overflow? Could I be one of the billion?

"Morning, Iwaizumi," Hinata calls as he practically hops passed the break room. It jars Hajime from his thoughts. For now, but not forever because he's obviously having some sort of repressed crisis.

It's probably this crisis that leads him to interrupt Kindaichi’s long rambling lunch time story to ask a very un-Hajime like question.

"Do you think it's possible to both know someone like the back of your hand and not at all?"

Kyotani blinks, opens his mouth then closes it again with a humming sound that sounds oddly distressed.

"Everything okay, Iwaizumi," Watari asks. "Is the merger getting to you?"

"No it's fine," Hajime says. He considers dropping the subject since his co-workers look equally confused and Kyotani may have ascended from the shock. Instead he finds himself rephrasing the question. "Do you think if you met your soulmate it would feel like that?"

"Oh-ho," Watari teases, nudging his elbow into Hajime’s side. "Who’s the lucky lady?"

"No lady," Hajime says hurriedly shoving rice into his big mouth. Which is true. "Nevermind."

"I think you can feel a spark with someone you don't know well," Yahaba ponders, tapping his chin. Hajime tries not to seem too interested. "If the conversations and the chemistry are really good then maybe it feels like you've met before."

"Or if you have a type," Kindaichi nods. "Then it can feel like you just date the same people over and over."

Hajime hums in acknowledgement but neither of those are what he's thinking about. He's listened to Oikawa for a hundred episodes now and each one feels like listening to an old friend. Even in Hajime’s splattering of memories he remembers feeling at home with the man, a feeling he'd attributed to the buzz, but was starting to think might be more serious.

"All I know is if you feel that way about someone you should make sure not to let them slip away," Watari said. "We know not everyone can melt the great Iwaizumi's heart."

Hajime glares at his co-workers (friends?) teasing. The conversation naturally moves towards work and office drama. Where they think the company celebration will be once the merger is completed and how Shiratorizawa and Sejoh will need to meet for final details like job title transfers. That extensive but dull job will certainly fall on Hajime’s shoulders, so he listens in thoughtfully, trying to consider the upcoming work instead of the memory of the bubbling laughter from an attractive man who intertwined their fingers as they walked down the Vegas strip.
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The task of job title transfers and reorganization of departments does fall on Hajime, but he’s not alone. Shiratorizawa is also sending someone from their Kyoto office to assist as needed. Hajime checks his watch again.

The guy from Shiratorizawa is late. Hajime knew he was coming from Kyoto for the week, but he assumed the man had arrived last night, so there was no excuse of a late train. Now Hajime doesn't feel so bad about not knowing the guy’s name. Hinata was supposed to get it, but he forgot and was in such a panic Hajime didn't have the heart to scold him. The silence in the conference room is only broken by Hajime tapping his pen against the table as he runs through all the work they need to do. They'll need to discuss what positions transfer directly and which will need title changes. They'll need to account for all employee performances and pay rates. Hajime wonders briefly if he'll be able to get Yahaba a title and salary raise in the move. He'd like to do it, but isn't sure how Shiratorizawa might work with it. He's done his research, but there is only so much a non-employee can access.

He's contemplating calling the number Hinata gave him when the guy in question walks into the conference room. He's relaxed with a nonchalant swagger for someone with his height. He's in a black suit with a colored red shirt (no tie) and the black matches his hair which seems to be stuck in an unruly bed head. Almost rooster like. Hajime stands up to greet him, ready to bow and provide a cordial smile (no use getting off on the wrong foot so early) when he makes a startling realization. The world is a surprisingly small place and the universe has a strange sense of humor.

Kuroo Tetsuro has entered the conference room.

"Sorry I'm late,” Kuroo says sitting down in the seat closest to Hajime. Hajime feels uncomfortably off balance. He wants to ask Kuroo questions like is Oikawa wearing his ring? Does he mention me? Did he tell you tell about what we did in Vegas? Did he sound ashamed? The weight of these potential answers (both bad and good) make Hajime have a hard time breathing, so instead of speaking he clears his throat and sits. He has a job to do and he needs to focus on that. The folded memory tugs at the space behind his lung, but he ignores it.

"Got a bit lost from the station,” Kuroo continues. “It's been a while since I was in Tokyo. Feels like it somehow got even more crowded."

"Let's start by outlining the merger goals and our final to dos," Hajime offers. His voice doesn't come off shaky at all. He is reliable and solid and if Kuroo’s eyebrow quirks slightly, then that's fine because this is business and they have things to do before Friday.

They break for a late lunch having outlined the roles and positions and structures in both companies. Sheets of paper are sprawled across the conference table in organized chaos. Hajime knows part of his job is relationship building so he casually suggest a ramen spot near the office, far enough to walk off some of his restless energy. He feels more level headed when the food arrives but Kuroo throws him off almost immediately when he levels a stern gaze at Hajime across the table.

"You're a good looking dude and a nice guy, Iwaizumi, but I gotta tell you that I'm taken."

"What?" Hajime chokes on his egg. Kuroo raises a skeptical eyebrow.

"You were staring at me all weird as we worked. Honestly even if I wasn't taken you're not my type, but I am flattered."

"I'm not-" Hajime begins, eyes darting around the restaurant. It's farther from the office but still a regular haunt for his coworkers.

"Not gay," Kuroo clarifies, completely uninterested in the look of anxiety taking over Hajime's face. "But you turned down that assistance offer for drinks later and she was definitely asking as a date."

Hajime scowls. "Maybe she's not my type."

"Yeah, cause she's a lady." Kuroo seems to finally pick up what Hajime is tense about. "Oh! They don't know. You're still closeted."

"I'm not interested in you." Hajime feels that's the easiest way to end this, but Kuroo just smirks knowingly.

"Impossible. The staring, remember?"

"I listen to your podcast," Hajime snaps and Kuroo’s expression drops into surprise that is almost comical in how exaggerated it is.

"No way. You're a fan?"

Hajime's ears are burning so red that he's sure passing drivers would stop at the sight of them. "No."

Kuroo doesn't look convinced but he decides to move back to the other concerning topic. "Are your coworkers homophobic or something? That's why you don't wanna tell them?"

"I just always felt it would be easier," Hajime admits scratching the back of his neck. He transitions his hand to running quickly through his short hair. "Can we jump back to small talk?"

"Alright," Kuroo agrees. "So are you single? That assistant definitely thinks you are unless she's a known homewrecker or something."

"I'm married," Hajime says and the answer is out of his mouth before he can stop it.

"Oh, I didn't see a ring. My bad," Kuroo hums. He slurps up a particularly long noodle watching Hajime with a new level of curiosity. Hajime just blinks back before turning to his own ramen and stuffing his face.
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Turns out Kuroo in person is almost identical to Kuroo on the podcast. He's quick with a snarky comment and random pun (usually science related) and rarely seems to want to do work in an overly efficient manner, although all the work on their list gets done each day. Hajime thinks by their third day together that Kuroo isn't so bad, even if he's convinced that a robot rebellion is on the way any day now.

"Any day? Like tomorrow," Hajime challenges shuffling a personnel file from the Sejoh "to assign" pile to the Shiratorizawa "assigned and transferred" pile.

Kuroo furrows his brow, an almost pout appearing at Hajime's pushback. He pushes his phone screen closer to Hajime. It has a meme of a millennial bragging about going to a party where the Roomba has a charcuterie board on it. A Roomba butler. He points at the picture as if this explains AI coding in all its intricacies. "Maybe not tomorrow, but this disrespect an only be tolerated for so long."

Hajime looks back at the image just as a notification pops up on the phone. It cuts off the end of the text but Hajime is able to see the first part. Still it clobbers Hajime over the head with a techno club the way Kuroo warns the Roomba will one day.

His Majesty Tooru: you don't even need to stay all day, slacker! Just record your part and ....

"Ah sorry. That's my friend. He's being ridiculous." Kuroo looks legitimately embarrassed for the first time since they've met. Hajime should be able to predict what's coming next because even after only knowing Kuroo for such a short time it's obvious he won't be embarrassed alone. "Oh! You know him since you're such a fan of the podcast. He's the co-host!"

Hajime feels his left ring finger itch. A jab in the space behind his rib. An explosion of statements lining up in his throat to spill out of his mouth when given the chance: he's my husband. I think I'm in love with him after literally one night. I want him to miss me the way I miss him even though it's the stupidest thing I've ever felt or thought or done. He isn't sure what his face is doing but whatever it is makes Kuroo pause in his typing to say, "oh-ho-ho."

Hajime quickly turns back to the file in his hand to distract himself. It’s for a Shiratorizawa employee named Kageyama Tobio. The man is super young to have so many successful accounts open, but he doesn't seem to be able to close as effectively. Maybe Hinata would help with that?

Kuroo ignores Hajime's obvious signals to drop the issue and get back to work. Instead he leans back in his chair. Hajime's eyes dart to the wheels half out of concern that he'll fall backward and half hoping it'll happen just to change the tone entirely. Kuroo doesn't fall back. Even worse, he continues to talk.

"He's bugging me because I told him to do tonight's episode alone. We usually release every other week and this is a release week."

Hajime just hums and decides Kageyama and Hinata would make a good pair. He makes a note to himself on a post it before paper clipping it to Hinata file and moving it to the "assigned and transferred" pile.

"He's never done an episode of The Beauty and The Brain alone so I think he's nervous, ya know? Not that he'll ever admit it. The guy will talk about anything before he admits he has regular feelings."

Hajime hums again as he reaches for another file, but he's not reading the information inside. He's thinking about the dresser with his ring, picture, business card, and shirt on it. Of hot desert nights in a city that lights up like it's eternal day. Of a bubbling laugh and a call of "Iwa-chan" and a smile that pulls the edges of his mouth wide. Of questions he thinks about every time he hears Oikawa’s voice on the next episode. Can you feel me listening? Do you wish I'd contact you? Why did you apologize twice in your note? Are you scared like me? Are you happy? Would you be happy with me?

"You know that reminds me," Kuroo continues, now giving up on Hajime entirely (or perhaps distracted by his messaging since his phone has vibrated three more times since the last reply to His Majesty Tooru. The vibrations sound annoyed. Hajime can tell. He just can. "He still refuses to explain that stupid wedding ring! But he wants me to break my back-"

"Wedding ring?" It's out of Hajime's mouth before he can stop it. Cards on the table more than ever before.

Kuroo tilts his head, hands poised over his phone mid-text. It was looking like a long one based on how his thumbs had been moving across the screen. "Yeah, he came back from a trip to America with a ring that he refuses to take off. Not at all his style either and it's on his left ring finger which obviously really cramps any free drink action I'm trying to get because everyone assumes he's married. Maybe that's what he should talk about on his episode. A confessional about this ring."

Hajime's hands are trembling so he puts the file down and excuses himself for water and the restroom. He's not sure what he's feeling entirely except for explosive and he's not sure if it's good or bad. He can't even really process anything except that those folded up emotions and memories are suddenly too big for the space behind his lung and they're growing enough to make it hard to breathe. He splashes water on his face until it drips on the collar of his shirt and his hands stop trembling. He takes a deep breath and when he exhales it comes out as a chuckle, soft at first then a bit louder. It shakes his shoulders and makes him look insane to anyone who might come to release their bladder but it relieves the pressure on his lungs. When he finishes he wipes his eyes, shakes his head, dries his hands, and returns to the conference room.

Kuroo doesn't mention Oikawa or the podcast again and he doesn't ask about Hajime's quick break, but he does throw Hajime a few concerned looks throughout the rest of their day. They finish early and Kuroo treats Hajime to lunch at a tofu house nearby.
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Hajime's not going to mention the new episode. He hasn't listened. He woke up, re-sorted the podcast to newest on top and saw the episode titled: the one where kuroo abandons me because apparently I don't share enough (confessional or whatever). It's long and awkward even for Oikawa’s titles with only half the cheekiness. It reads to Hajime as a warning: more truth than jokes in this one. It may have things he doesn't want to hear. Even worse, it might have things he does.

He resets the episodes to oldest on top and picks up where he left off. Episode 219: Kuroo against the world (Witcher world). It's about gaming and how Kuroo is terrible at it, specifically in the type that have lots of side quests. He's losing interest but his person (the name still bleeps for Kuroo’s protection) is insisting he finish on his own.

"No cheats," Kuroo whines.

"Cheaters don't prosper," Oikawa agrees.

"You don't even play video games."

"Wrong-o," Oikawa says. Hajime can tell he’s smirking, he’s not open to discussing how. "I play single player shooter games online to let off steam. Catch me as a Sniper on the balcony. Pew pew!"

"I'm shaking in my boots. I bet you spend most of your time choosing character outfits instead of pew-pewing."

"How about you say that in my discord, Mr. Can't-beat-a-royal-gryffin."

There's a pause before Kuroo practically breaks Hajime's ear drum as he yells, "he told you?!"

"I have a video, actually. Maybe I'll share with our listeners online."

It's a safer option so Hajime falls into the banter and ignores the discovery from the day before and the potential discoveries in the podcast today. However, this becomes more challenging when Kuroo shifts every few minutes, throwing sideways looks at Hajime as if he wants to discuss something, but doesn't want to bring it up. Hajime's not going to bring it up. He's going to let the rooster headed man suffer because it is none of his business anyway. His resolve lasts until the end of lunch.

"I saw the new episode but I haven’t listened yet," Hajime says matter-of-factly. Almost stern. The natural scowl helps.

"Okay," Kuroo replies nodding eagerly. "Well, tell me when you do."

"I just finished episode 219 where you suck at that Witcher videogame."

"The newest episode is like 307."

"Yeah. You might be waiting a while."

Kuroo makes an expression that is a combination of indignation and exasperation, but it ends up looking mostly constipated. "Could you maybe skip ahead? I leave tomorrow at 5."

"I'll see," Hajime says to be difficult (and not at all because he's scared shitless about a podcast episode). "I'm very busy with work."

Kuroo makes an agonized groan as if he's been stabbed in the gut, but goes back to work.

Later that night Hajime can't sleep. He turns to the left side. He turns to the right side. He lays on his stomach. He stares at the ceiling. He can't sleep and it's because there's a nibbling in his brain about confessional (or whatever) and Vegas and people you meet by fate or soulmates or drunken mistakes that don't feel like mistakes. He sighs and rolls over, pulling his phone from the side table. It rings four times before Makki answers.

"You better be in jail or dying in a ditch." Makki’s never been good at being woken up.

"I got married in Vegas."

The silence on the other end is so complete that Hajime can hear Makki blink. He contemplates hanging up but doesn't. He's gotten this far. Finally Makki speaks.

"I'm sorry, can you repeat that?"

He wants to say I didn't even remember his name and I doubt he remembers me. He wants to say I can't stop thinking about him and hoping he's thinking about me. Instead he says, "I got married in Vegas. To the guy we met."

"Is this for real? Is this a cry for help? Be honest with me cause I'm a bit slow at... Fuck, Iwa. It's like 2 am."

"I'm going to listen to a podcast and I think he talks about it."

"Right now?"

"Right now."

Makki swears so much that he starts coming up with combinations Hajime's never even heard before. "Okay send me the link and I'll listen as well."

Hajime feels an embarrassing wave of gratitude. "You don't have to do that."

"No, I'll do it. But if it's the worst thing I've ever heard, you'll owe me."

"Alright," Hajime agrees. They hang up and he turns on the podcast. He finds himself standing then sitting then standing again as the pre-show sponsors startup. He can't seem to stay still so he ends up pacing and listening instead.

"Yahoo~! I'm Oikawa and as always I'll be both the beauty and the brains in our episode tonight. As you can tell from the suspicious silence from our peanut gallery, Kuroo has abandoned us. I tried to convince him to stay, but he said he hates me personally and hopes I perish. Which is rude. An absolute betrayal that I'll never recover from."

Even with his anxiety heightened Hajime can't help but feel some of the stress in his shoulders release at the sound of Oikawa’s lilt.

"I apologize in advance that there may be a few more pauses tonight since I'm use to some back and forth. I know you loyal listeners won't mind, but its super weird doing this alone. I've known Kuroo since high school and I haven’t been able to get rid of him once. Do we need music? I feel like we need some kind of music. Let me see..." There's the sound of clacking like random buttons being pushed harder than necessary for effect. An accordion comes on briefly before being cut off abruptly.

"For the record, I know how to turn on the music and sound effects, but I didn't realize we programmed accordions into some of these. I am truly baffled. Accordions? Really? I know they're surprisingly popular in kids’ shows and different music genres, but I didn't think our podcast was one of them. Roll with me on this: what if we, as a collective of podcaster and podcast listeners, learned accordion. Then we meet up outside Kuroo's house, I'll supply the address free of charge, and play for twenty-four hours straight? Thoughts? Critiques? Compliments? I prefer those."

There's a pause again and this time Oikawa chuckles, not the bubbly laugh from the Vegas strip. This is a quieter one.

"Okay, that's dumb I admit it. But you know sometimes dumb stuff is dumb dumb and other times its dumb good, you know? Like dumb dumb is wearing suede shoes and a wool coat when you know there's going to be a downpour or trying to pet a wild bison because it looks fluffy. But dumb good is like.... um.... I dunno. Meeting a super-hot funny guy in Vegas and marrying him and then having to leave to catch your flight without exchanging names."

Hajime freezes, arms dropping to his side. He's sure he looks as stunned as he feels. He's really glad he didn't listen to this before work. He didn't need a cardiac arrest in the middle of a crowded train. His eyes dart to the dresser. Oikawa continues to ramble.

"Okay, hear me out. I know you might think that one sounds dumb dumb because who meets someone and gets married? That's already a lot, but then you leave on top of it? I mean, for arguments sake, put yourself in the new husband's shoes: you wake up probably with the hangover from the lowest level of hell and find nothing but a note and a ring and a picture. You're probably thinking, what kind of asshole just leaves without even discussing the huge potentially life altering choice of a marriage license? Oh man. What if they were already married in Japan? He didn't have a ring and didn't mention a wife, but you only knew each other for one night! It seemed like he was nice in a mean sort of way and he made you laugh and feel seen in a very specific way no one ever has before, but he could literally be a serial killer. Maybe he woke up and stole your whole identity and is committing crimes in America under your name. Wow!"

Hajime's eyebrows scrunch together. There's a lot to unpack there. He's not sure where to start.

"Okay, I know all that sounds dumb dumb," Oikawa concedes. "And I got a bit off track, so that didn't help. Let's rewind to why it's actually good dumb, wait... dumb good? Whatever. It’s positive despite being dumb because... It just is? Hmmm. Okay. Look, it's hard to explain."

Hajime knows. He really does. Even with the terrible explanation and the fact that he was just accused of being an identity thief and a serial killer, he feels giddy with relief. Giddy with something else as well. The memories unfolding from their place behind his lungs, flowing easily through his chest like air rather than stagnant heaviness. Oikawa, despite all his rational misgivings, doesn't regret getting married. He regrets leaving and that's something Hajime hadn't even hoped to consider. He drops onto his bed.

"Okay, so it's like this," Oikawa says and he's leaning towards the mic, voice dropping low as if bringing the listeners in for a secret. It sends Hajime back into the desert night. Oikawa using the same low voice as they moved off the dance floor laughing at something Hajime said. He’s leaning into Hajime's shoulder as if he were meant to be there and heckling Hajime about something to do with being a best man but also the crankiest man in the whole state of Nevada.

"I went to Vegas and I met a super-hot guy who was scowl-ly and mean but in a nice way. He got all of my jokes and make me laugh so hard my ribs hurt the next day and I didn't want the night to end so we walked the strip and stumbled into getting married. He smelled like shaving cream and sweat from dancing, but he looked me right in the eye when I said I do and squeezed my hand like it was the best thing I could ever say. Oh my god. I should just talk about this with a therapist instead of a podcast. See why I need Kuroo here? This is ridiculous."

Oikawa makes an annoyed sound at himself.

"Any way, I doubt he remembers or is listening because it's been over two months now. On the slim chance that he is listening: Iwa-chan hit me up, I guess. I’m still wearing the ring you bought me. It's hideous. You have no sense of fashion. My silver one was nicer, but I can't take it off and I can't tell if I feel dumb dumb or dumb good every time I think about it."

Oikawa leans back from the mic but Hajime can still hear him reprimanding himself for how embarrassing this whole episode is before moving on to discuss Men in Black (first the actual alien hunting government agents and then the movie series). Hajime isn't listening anymore. Instead he falls back onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. He realizes he has a goofy smile on his face that pulls his cheeks painfully far apart.

When Makki calls he picks up on the first ring. "Hello?"

"What are you going to do," Makki asks. Hajime thinks. It's a lot to process.

"I don't know. Should I reach out?"

"It's your husband and your life," Makki says, strangely diplomatic. "But he basically asked you to reach out if you're interested."

"What if it’s all been blown up in our heads and we meet sober and it's just....nothing?"

"I guess that's a risk, but what if it's something instead?"

Hajime hates it when Makki makes good points.

The next day Kuroo doesn't even wait for Hajime to speak. It's like he already knows Hajime has listened to the podcast. Maybe it's because he looks exhausted or maybe it's because he's wearing the silver wedding ring on his left hand. The metal feels cool and heavy and like it belongs.

"You're Iwa-chan, right," he demands.

"Yeah," Hajime admits. Kuroo lets out his hyena laugh with his head thrown back, arms clutched around his stomach. Hajime waits patiently for him to finish. He uses the time in between to look over their final to do list for the day. This evening Kuroo will go back to the Shiratorizawa offices in Kyoto. That means today's the last day to finalize the merger positions and plan before it gets sent to the higher ups. Hajime's proud he was able to manage that position raise for Yahaba.

When he finally stops laughing he looks Hajime dead in the eye, a mischievous quirk to the corner of his lip. "Come back to Kyoto with me tonight."

Hajime inhales air like he's only just resurfaced from the tangles of seaweed at the bottom of a lake. "Okay."

Kuroo calls Oikawa half way to Kyoto because (in his words) “the brat is mad I changed the settings so he can't delete the episode he posted.” When he sees Hajime blanch, he quickly adds, "it's nothing to do with you. He's just embarrassed at being vulnerable. Honestly, are you sure you're still interested? He's actually a pretty shitty guy."

Hajime knows Kuroo only says this because he knows what Hajime’s answer will be. Hajime doesn't disappoint when he says, "we'll figure it out."

Originally, Kuroo was going to keep the phone call to himself, but Oikawa answers so loudly that he ends up motioning Hajime closer to hear. He's not going to put it on speaker and disturb the other passengers, but it's something.

"What do you want, spawn of Satan and all nasty things in the universe?"

"Don't be mad. I'm headed home. Are you still meeting me at the station?"

"We never agreed to that," Oikawa says and his voice sounds concerned. "I thought Kenma was picking you up."

"I have a gift for you."

"Okay," Oikawa says slowly, suspicion now evident. "Is it a slip of paper with the new password on it?"

"Better."

Hajime personally doesn't think Kuroo should make promises like that because they aren't even in Kyoto yet and his palms are already clammy with sweat. He's not a hundred percent sure he'll survive in solid form to see Oikawa at this rate. Oikawa doesn't sound reassured either.

"Last time you brought me a gift it was a prank and while it made a good episode, I’m not really in the mood. I'm very fragile right now. I can only handle happy endings."

Kuroo wiggles his eyebrows as he elbows Hajime, clearly sending his dirty thoughts towards his companion. Hajime scowls in response. Kuroo isn't deterred but turns back to the call. "I should get in at eight."

"My last meeting ends at nine," Oikawa says.

"Seriously? Why are you working so late?"

"As if you can talk! I'm closing a campaign for a company headquartered in New York. It's seven am their time."

"Reschedule it! I don’t want to wait a whole hour!"

"Suffer in silence or take a taxi like an adult," Oikawa huffs. "I have to go."

Kuroo does not suffer in silence. In fact he suffers very loudly next to Hajime for a whole hour after they exit the train and watch the other passengers leave them behind. He sighs and huffs and grumbles under this breath.

"You don't have to wait," Hajime says. "I can call you a taxi. If you give me Oikawa’s number I can make sure he knows I'm here."

"No way," Kuroo says, shifting to get comfortable on the bench with his hands shoved into his pockets. "I'm invested in the drama. When else will I get to see two husbands reunite?"

"It might go very badly," Hajime admits. His hands are on his lap right fingers twisting the ring on his left hand.

"I guess we'll find out soon," Kuroo shrugs. He nods to the clock on the far wall just as the bells ring to announce another hour passed. It rings nine times before falling silent once more.

Oikawa doesn't show up until 9:45 and he looks downright harassed. One hand runs through his hair which was obviously neat at some point, but that time is long past. His other is holding a phone to his ear. Kuroo has let the vibrating go to voicemail twice already which only increases Hajime's nerves. He's 25% solid and probably 75% liquid.

When Oikawa finally spots Kuroo his face pulls into an indignant look, a distinct scrunch to the bridge of his nose that's hindered slightly by the fashionable but large glasses on his face. He storms over but before he can even begin to tell Kuroo off for ignoring his calls something happens.

He spots Hajime.In a flash everything changes. His hands run across his blazer then behind his back then back to the bottom edge of the blazer. His face morphs from outrage to wide eyed disbelief. Hajime notes soft freckles across his cheek just where his glasses rest.

"You have glasses," Hajime notes aloud. He immediately feels heat rush up his neck and regrets not planning his opening lines on the ride down. Oikawa touches the frames as if just realizing they're there. The station lights flash across his black ring.

"I wear them when I'm tired," Oikawa replies, a bit dazed. Oikawa’s eyes drop to Hajime's left hand as if he can feel Hajime's eyes on his own.

"I like them," Hajime admits and he watches as pink blooms across Oikawa’s cheeks. Their interrupted by a flash of light. They both turn to Kuroo in time for another flash to blind them.

"This was even better than I thought," Kuroo admits, swiping between the two pictures on his phone. Oikawa makes a strangled noise at his picture being taken not once, but twice. He lunges for Kuroo, but Kuroo steps to the side easily before tucking the phone safely away. "I'll let you two kids catch up. Call me if you need anything."

Then he's gone and only Hajime and Oikawa remain. They stand and stare at one another in silence for a moment, just taking each other in. Hajime can feel the air between them still with static electricity. It’s like a red string pulled tight waiting for one of them to do or say something before it snaps apart with a twang. Hajime thinks about saying I heard the episode. I wasn't wearing my ring but I thought about you all the time. I stare at the picture of us every morning and every night and think about the hot desert night. He could say, you asked if I was happy and I was. I've never been happier than I was with you. I think I'm happy right now, even though we're not doing anything at all except staring. This is dumb dumb and dumb good. Do I love you? Is it crazy if I do?

Instead he says, "Have you eaten? I could use a drink."

It cracks the tension, but instead of the string snapping it simply loosens. Oikawa let's out a laugh that bubbles nervously at first but then releases into the air like magic. Hajime's hands don't feel so clammy and his chest feels light. He chuckles along with Oikawa. The string draws them closer. Oikawa’s left hand reaches for Hajime's right and when their fingers interlace all of Hajime's worries evaporate from his chest. He exhales and feels like he's lost two tons of weight in a nanosecond. Oikawa’s smiling, part shy and part excited. Just like in his drunken memory. It shows every layer of emotion and yet remains mysterious. It makes Hajime want to learn his every miniscule gesture.

"How long are you here for," Oikawa asks as they get to the car and he notices there aren't any bags.

Forever, Hajime thinks. Even caught up in their reunion he knows that answer is too crazy. Instead he offers the obvious.

"I didn't bring anything."

"Okay," Oikawa says, but it's an opening, not a closing. "We'll see how it goes then."
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It goes well. Better than well. It’s probably not perfect, objectively, but Hajime’s not in a very objective state of mind around Oikawa.

Oikawa takes him to a small, but trendy fusion restaurant with booths that are lined with succulent and cacti. The hostess leads them to a table with an especially large and prickly variety. Oikawa levels his eyes with it, face serious, eyes squinting behind his glasses. They dart from the succulent to Hajime then back again before he finally speaks.

"This is definitely your twin."

Hajime feels he should be offended, but instead a chuckle bubbles in his chest before being released into the air. Oikawa breaks into a bright smile that makes the dim lighting twenty times brighter. Hajime points at a taller ganglier cactus, more a creeping crawler than an upright plant. It has a single flower blossoming on the tip of its head.

"That's you," he states. Without even looking Oikawa lets out an offended gasp, clutching his chest as if he were clutching pearls. Once he’s satisfied with act 1 of his performance, he leans forward with another serious face. He surveys the plant with the same sobriety as the last one. Finally he nods.

"I accept. Iwa-chan must think I'm beautiful."

It comes out with a teasing lilt, but somehow hangs in the air like a question. Oikawa appears to be nonchalant and relaxed, but Hajime can sense an underlying current of anxiety. We got married in Vegas, but we barely remember it, the undercurrent seems to say. I never took off my ring, but do you feel the same way? Are you here because we could be something or are you going to see me without the haze of Vegas lights and find me less than you’d hoped? Do I disappoint you?

Hajime wonders if he's being presumptuous to know Oikawa this well. That he can hear and see one thing the man displays, but also sense another meaning under the surface. Hajime doesn't know if he's right but he trusts his gut and simply tells Oikawa the truth. "I do. You are beautiful."

A splotch of red dashes across Oikawa’s face as he splutters, trying to regain himself as he turns away, pushing his glasses up. Hajime decides it was the right answer.

The waitress offers them drinks and they both order a beer which they sip on for the rest of the meal, both conscious of the others movements, but also attempting to keep a certain level headedness to their interactions. They talk about what's been happening since Vegas. Since their wedding, Hajime’s brain supplies unhelpfully. Oikawa is mortified to find that Hajime has been listening to his podcast. He’s even more horrified to find that Hajime has met Kuroo and revealed their Vegas escapades, even in a limited capacity. They exchange some hazy memories, filling in some of the gaps. A shared story of volleyball games when they were kids in their separate towns, a brushing of hands and arms on the dance floor, a muttered word of encouragement and "are you sure" before they stood before an Elvis impersonating officiant.

"Why'd you marry me," Hajime asks when they leave the restaurant. He's been wondering it for ages, turning it over in his mind with each new episode and every smile across the table. Oikawa looks torn between embarrassed and harassed, almost pained at the bluntness of Hajime's question.

"I'm not good with this earnest emotional sharing," he says, clutching his chest. "You're making me feel a lot of stuff, Iwa-chan. I think it may be killing me. You're an attempted murderer."

"You don't have to answer," Hajime says with a half-shrug, hiding his disappointment. Maybe it was too early for such personal investigations. It's a fuzzy gray line between husbands and lovers, he supposes.

A hand wraps around Hajime’s wrist and tugs him into the alleyway. Then another pushes his shoulder so he's pinned against the wall. It smells like week old garbage and some kind of kitchen exhaust. Oikawa takes a deep breath, fingers pinching the spot where his nose meets his forehead. It makes his glasses slide precariously down his nose. A strand of chestnut hair falls out of place and Hajime resists moving it. He doesn't because apparently Oikawa is gathering every ounce of thought he can before finally speaking.

"The first thing I did when I got home was look up annulment papers. I filled them out, but I never sent them in. I don't even know where they are. I couldn't bring myself to take off the ring even though the whole first week I felt so embarrassed by the whole thing. I kept thinking, I'm an idiot and this guy probably has a billion families across America, maybe even the world."

"I don't," Hajime assures him.

"Don’t distract me, Iwa-chan," Oikawa says. He makes vulnerability look almost painful, which Hajime supposes is true. He can't think of a time before this that he's allowed himself to be this exposed. There had to be a reason for it. Maybe it was the gut-wrenching idea of being seen transparent and bare that prevented it. It makes what Oikawa is doing all the more admirable to Hajime. Makes his heart swell three sizes, which can’t be good for the organ.

"I couldn't do it because I realized that I liked you a lot. Everything I remembered about you was good and happy. Every joke we made and every time you called me on my bullshit. Which was weird. How do you even know my bullshit? How do you know what I'm really saying or what I really mean? I'm good at hiding it, but I couldn’t hide anything from you. We just met and you saw me and the weirdest thing is I liked it a lot. I like you and I like me when I'm with you."

"Me too," Hajime says. It’s a whisper that nearly gets drowned out by the sounds of the kitchen exhaust and strangers walking passed. Oikawa stares at Hajime with a look that Hajime can't describe, but he understands it in his bones. He feels it as a heat in his blood. Hajime swallows and says it again. "I've never done anything so dumb and spontaneous in my whole life but I don't regret it. I don't regret you. I think its dumb good."

"I'm going to kiss you," Oikawa warns, pulling off his glasses and folding them carefully into his pocket. When his eyes meet Hajime's again it makes Hajime's mouth go dry and all he can do is nod consent. Oikawa’s hands come to touch him gently, fingers carding up his chest until one rests on the center over his heart and the other supports his neck. Hajime's sure the other man, his husband, can feel how loudly his chest is hammering against his ribs, but he forgets all about it when Oikawa’s lips meet his own. Then there's only the scent of jasmine and lemon. There’s only heat and wetness. Oikawa presses closer, hand gripping Hajime's shirt as if it's a lifeline. Hajime's hands move on their own accord to the small of Oikawa’s back, pulling him even closer until their flush against one another in the shadows of the alleyway, their own world separate from the rest of Kyoto.

Oikawa pulls back first for air, but Hajime follows close behind. He uses the opening to prod his tongue into the other man's mouth, tracing the roof as if to imprint every line against his tongue. He wants every ridge of Oikawa imprinted against his chest and thighs.

Oikawa let's out a muffled sound, part surprise and part moan and all of it goes right to Hajime's pants, increasing his desire. Without any conscious thought (which seems to be a theme of being around Oikawa- missing thoughts, missing senses, missing plans), he runs his hands from Oikawa’s lower back to the space just under his butt. He lifts and spins them, pushes Oikawa against the wall. Oikawa wraps his legs around Hajime’s waist as if they've done this sort of thing ten times. A hundred times. A million times. Not like it's the first time.

This new position leaves little room between them and even less when their work clothes are snug and tailored. Hajime moves a leg to support his husband better and the movement makes both of them release a sound that comes out louder than anticipated. A group of pauses just passed the edge of the alleyways opening.

Hajime stills at the prospect of being caught, remembering suddenly that they're very much in public. Oikawa doesn't seem to have the same concerns because he moves his kisses across Hajime's jaw, down his neck. He shifts to suck on the junction between Hajime's shoulder and neck and the movement makes Hajime have to stifle another groan, his eyes staring at the disjointed and slightly tipsy group, willing them to leave or for Oikawa to behave. He can't decide which he wants with lust and heat dizzying his brain. He doesn't know how they managed not to consummate their marriage the night they signed the paper. When Oikawa shifts again, this time with propose, Hajime holds him higher up and away from him.

"Do not do that," he growls, but it's not intimidating at all. At least not to Oikawa who just chuckles as if he's in on a joke Hajime told him. Hajime tries a more reasonable route. "We’re going to ruin our pants like some kind of of teenagers."

"I have other pants," Oikawa informs him, but he nudges Hajime with his hand, motions for him to put his feet back on the ground. Hajime obliges, disappointed even though he was the one to put the brakes on the heated moment. Oikawa’s long fingers intertwine with Hajime and squeeze his hand, anchoring him to the new moment. This one is lighter than the haze from before. He smiles too shyly for someone who had just been attempting to make Hajime some kind of exhibitionist.

"Come over. Let's call out tomorrow. I closed my deal today."

Hajime can't remember the last time he called off work with a temperature under 104, but he finds himself agreeing as Oikawa leads him back through the streets of Kyoto to his apartment. He thinks he mind follow Oikawa almost anywhere. It should be concerning, but when Oikawa looks over his shoulder at Hajime and his face is shining with open fondness. Hajime can’t remember why any of his relationship is crazy after that look.
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It continues like this for some time. Hajime wears his ring, but no one asks about it. His reputation of being level headed and reliable seems to mean they all assume he's simply trying out a new fashion. Perhaps deterring the local aunties from playing matchmaker. None of them think he's gotten married to a man he met one night in Vegas and is now seeing more regularly. Does one see their husband or is that just being married? Hajime's not sure, but Oikawa doesn't seem to care about rushing such discussions.

During the week Hajime goes to work and puts in his hours, usually more than needed. Even with his role in the merger completed there is a lot to do and he finds himself working passed the others a couple times a week. It's exhausting, but even on the worst days he feels refreshed because he does like his job and he likes his coworkers. It helps that Oikawa also works longer hours. After they get off work they call to chat nearly every night. Sometimes it's about nothing special: what they ate for lunch, office gossip, something dumb Kuroo said. Other times they lower their voices and share secrets: people they have been avoiding calls with and concerns about the future.

“I’m sure lots of people appreciate you,” Oikawa says after Hajime ranted to him for twenty minutes about Kindaichi’s crush on his cubicle neighbor and how Hajime’s whole lunch became an episode of the Love Doctor.

“I doubt that,” Hajime says, suddenly bashful for no reason. He knows people appreciate him. They tell him. Kindaichi practically hugged him after lunch. Oikawa makes a disgruntled noise.

“Listen to your wise husband.” Hajime’s heart swoops and Oikawa continues. “Of course they do. You’re always supporting others. Just be sure you take time for yourself as well.”
“That’s pretty bold coming from the guy who forgot to eat lunch three days in a row.”

“Iwa-chan! I told you that in confidence!”

Hajime wants to say, you make me happier than I’ve been. Is this crazy? Instead he teases, “I’m confident you need to take care of yourself better.”

Oikawa’s none the wiser to the small unease curled dormant in Hajime’s spleen. “Well, you know what they say? Birds of a feather and all that.”

The only difficulty they have is the weekend (and isn’t that strange, whispers the insecurity in his spleen). They switch off seeing one another with Oikawa coming to Tokyo for one weekend and Hajime visiting Kyoto the next. When Hajime visits Kyoto Oikawa always has an activity for them to do. It’s visiting the Kyoto Aquarium where he rattles off facts about the 250 species of marine life. They watch the feeding at the African Penguin exhibit and Oikawa insists on naming all of the penguins and telling Hajime their gossip even though Hajime’s sure he’s called three different penguins “junior.”

“They’re our children, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa insists.

“All fifty of them,” Hajime clarifies.

“Don’t worry,” Oikawa tells him, patting his hand comfortingly. Hajime watches the light dance across the black band and he feels like a penguin feather shed into the breeze. Floating. “They have a flow chart on twitter.”

Another time they walk for thirty minutes up the staircase that leads up to the “Koi no Michi” and the Kifune Shrine or they stop by a café along a lantern lit street. Hajime almost feels bad that he doesn’t have nearly as many interesting activities for Tokyo. They usually go out to eat and maybe to a few bars, but none of the sites that Hajime knows are around.

“Do you wish we did more in Tokyo,” he asks late on a Saturday when Oikawa’s lanky limbs are curled against him under the sheets. Oikawa’s faces scrunches in confusion so Hajime clarifies. “Like activities. Like when I visit you.”

“Ah,” Oikawa says. “Is it too much?”

“No, no,” Hajime assures him. Anywhere Oikawa takes Hajime is worth the time and effort. It just takes one bubbling laugh for Hajime to feel like he’s ready to climb a hundred more stairs. His spleen hisses, are you bored of me yet? Instead he asks, “Do you wish we did more of that when you visit me?”

“I like doing anything with Iwa-chan,” Oikawa yawns. His eyes flutter closed so he misses the expression painted across Hajime’s face. “Tell me if you want to slow down in Kyoto. We don’t need an activity to be together, you know.”

It works and even if Hajime is a bit tired on Monday mornings, he likes it. He likes Oikawa and he likes his life and for the first time in a long time he feels contented as if he has a person and a place of his own.

It carries on like this for two months. A honeymoon period that can't last. It doesn’t.

It ends abruptly when Hajime is called into the boss’s office on a Friday. It’s been a slower day than earlier in the week, but with the promise of seeing Oikawa that evening the minutes have dragged on. Hajime's checked his watch three times in the last hour, thinking about his packed bag in the car and his ticket to Kyoto. He should arrive at 7:30, if all goes according to plan.

The office of Hayashi Ren is large with a wall of windows wrapping around two sides that look across Tokyo’s skyline. It's mostly organized with minimalist details: an odd modern steel paperweight like sculpture on a bookshelf, an award for years of service displayed behind the desk. The only paintings are two abstract pieces, both with greens and blues interspersed across white background. It looks like a forest and lake scene but through the eyes of someone who desperately needs new glasses. Hajime vaguely wonders if this is what Oikawa sees without assistance, but pushes it aside. He tried on Oikawa’s glasses last week out of curiosity and the man wasn't nearly as bad as this painting.

Hajime is pulled from his musing when Hayashi begins his rehearsed spiel. He points out how long Hajime has been with the company (five years) and how hardworking he is (staying late three times a week and more if the need arises). He provides compliments and a glowing review of his work on the Shiratorizawa merger, which has finally gone through the last hurdles. Hajime thanks him profusely for the honor.

"I've been thinking for over a year about how to reward your hard work," Hayashi says. "Now that we're part of a larger conglomerate, I think I've found a way. There's a senior level position with an opening that would provide you with a larger staff, more money, and a higher title."

Hajime feels a swell of pride as he thanks the man again. He takes note of how he will reveal this to Oikawa. He can't wait to see the man's face break into a pleased boyish grin, some snappy comment about how "his Iwa-chan" was obviously the best choice.

"I've arranged for you to visit the office and meet the manager and workers next week. A four day trip should be plenty of time to see that the job is a good fit. I think you'll find Sapporo is an excellent fit for you as a city."

Hajime feels his excitement pop like a balloon in his chest. If he looks crestfallen, then Hayashi doesn't notice as he continues. "I envy men who can make such exciting changes without having to worry about a wife and kids at home. You can truly move up the ladder with such ease!"

"Yes," Hajime agrees, but he's only half listening. The excitement of seeing Oikawa and telling him about this development has turned into a cold dread. It was one thing to be commuting between Kyoto and Tokyo, but Sapporo is a 22 hour trip by car and over ten hours by train. What can he do, though? Reject a promotion he’s worked so hard for over a man he’s known for less than a year?

Suddenly, Japan seems like a continent all its own rather than an island nation.
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Hajime knows he's making Oikawa nervous. He keeps shooting Hajime side glances when he thinks Hajime isn't paying attention. Friday night they'd seen the original 1950s Godzilla movie so it was easy to ignore the promotion and trip and what that could mean for the two of them. Instead he was able to focus on Oikawa’s critiques of the film compared to later iterations.

“Maybe I’ll tell Kuroo this should be our next episode,” Oikawa said thoughtfully. Hajime just shrugged. He was more than happy to lose himself to the teasing and soap box lectures of his husband or lover or whatever Oikawa was.

Saturday feels heavier, though. The quiet morning turned quickly into half responses and tense shoulders. Hajime can't stop thinking about the opportunity in Sapporo. He can tell that Oikawa knows something is up and he can see the man trying to coyly figure it out without asking. Hajime can practically see him revisiting the conversations and events of last night, scouring for clues. Was the dinner too heavy? Was the movie too long? Was the conversation boring? Had he said something more insulting than teasing? Hajime wants to comfort him and assure him that he's done nothing wrong. That its life that's thrown a wrench into Hajime’s plans, but then Hajime looks down at his ring and it feels heavier. Maybe it wasn’t the promotion that was the wrench in the plan at all. Maybe it was a night in Vegas and a lilting voice saying “I do.”

By the time they're getting ready for lunch Oikawa looks like he's ready to ask, but Hajime is saved by a phone call. They rarely get disturbed on the weekend, so Oikawa picks it up just in case it's an emergency. It’s an intern from work. Someone desperate enough to go head first into the lion’s den.

"The file should be on the desk where I told you," Oikawa huffs, narrowing his eyes at whatever intern has the audacity to call him for such nonsense. "Well, look again. There is a copy on the desk and a copy with me. No, I cannot look at it right now. I'm busy."

The intern must do some heavy duty begging because Oikawa let's out a long sigh before moving to a desk in the adjacent room. Hajime hears frustrated muttering and shuffling about. Then a call. "Iwa-chan, can you see if I misplaced a manila folder in that room? Maybe it slid behind something when I was reorganizing?"

"Any other details," Hajime calls back.

"It's full of papers, like really full. Maybe it's under the coffee table? Sometimes I forget papers there when I work too late before bed."

Sure enough Hajime finds the folder under the table. He makes a mental note to scold Oikawa about better sleep habits. It's not the only folder under the table and a few stray papers tag along when Hajime pulls it into the light. He flips it over to make sure none of the papers fall out and finds something stuck to the cover by mistake. It's the completed annulment papers Oikawa had mentioned on their first night. It's a single paper, easy to get stuck with others and disappear. Considering the weight of such a decision it almost seems laughably simple.

Last name, first name, mailing address, date of birth, phone number email address. Attorney information is filled in as well, but the section on “children involved in case” is left blank. A check marks the case type as “dissolution: annulment.” The paper is signed and dated just after their wedding night, true to Oikawa’s timeline.

"Did you find it, Iwa-chan?"

Hajime turns to see Oikawa. His eyes drop to the folder, relief splashing across his face, but then the expression turns to concern when he spots the annulment paper.

"I'll call you back, Yam-chan," Oikawa says and he hangs up before the intern can protest. He points to the paper. "Where'd you find that?"

"Under the table with the folder. You should really clean out that area," Hajime replies. He tries to aim for a light nonchalant, but each word seems to way two tons on the air.

"I told you I couldn't send it in," Oikawa says, flicking away his hair. He's better at pretending that he’s relaxed and carefree, but still not good enough. His brows are still too close together, the top of his nose scrunching just slightly in concern. "We can tear it up right now."

"No."

They both freeze. The red string is back, pulled taught between them. This time it’s pulled down by the weight of the ring on Hajime’s finger and the trip to Sapporo. Hajime hadn't meant to say it aloud and hadn't meant to be so firm about it. He sees Oikawa tense from his neck to his feet and Hajime hates that he's the one to cause this uncomfortable moment. Still, he's started it. He needs to finish.

"Maybe you should keep them just in case."

"Just in case of what," Oikawa asks. His eyes narrow. There is danger rising in the air, a static charge revving under Oikawa’s skin. Hajime's never seen him like this: a storm brewing or a predator looking for clues before an attack. It's terrifying and thrilling and at the same time it hones in on the biggest issue: Hajime hasn't known Oikawa Tooru for that long. They're married, by American law, but they've just started dating in reality. Barely over two months. It isn't a long enough time to prioritize a relationship, especially when a once in a life time promotion is on the line. If they weren't married Hajime thinks this wouldn't be as big an issue. If they hadn't married, maybe this would have already fizzled out even with a two hour commute separating them.

Oikawa must be able to read some or all of this on Hajime’s face because his words come out carefully toneless. Questions that seem more an answer. "Are you trying to break up with me? Is that why you've been acting so weird all day? You don't want to do this anymore?"

"It's not that I don't like you," Hajime tries. If Oikawa is growing more unreadable and controlled, a predator waiting to strike, than Hajime is growing more desperate and obvious. He's scrambling for a ledge that's not there, reaching out to grasp a root but finding only barren dusty ground.

"But what?"

"But I got a job offer. A promotion up north and I'm not sure we'll be able to-" Hajime lets the sentence hang in the air, dangling on a red string. He hopes Oikawa will finish it. He's badly hoping that Oikawa will agree with him, but he's hoping even more that Oikawa will convince him to stay. Convince him the promotion isn't worth it. That they're married and this two months isn't just a fluke or over-romanticized fling. Hajime's not sure how Oikawa would do it. He has a strong feeling he's setting them both up for disappointment.

"That's that then, I guess. You already decided." The string snaps with a twang. Two sides frayed from the force of the break. A flash of hurt crosses Oikawa’s face before he hides it again. The second it’s visible feels like hours to Hajime. He can see the chestnut man's shoulders hunching just slightly, his arms crossed to allow his hands to grip tightly to himself in protection, his lips pulled white with the force he's pressing them together. It looks to all the world a stance of anger, but to Hajime it rips his heart out and tosses it between them on the floor.

"I haven't fully decided," Hajime says weakly and it's true, but so is Oikawa’s response.

"You might not have decided on the job, but you have decided I'm not a factor enough to discuss the options with."

Hajime remains silent because it's true. He doesn't think it's unfair to feel how he does, but he knows it's unfair to tell Oikawa this way. He remains silent, even as he knows Oikawa’s waiting for him to say something. When Hajime doesn't step up, Oikawa deflates, not even bothering to mask it.

He moves towards the coffee table and for half a moment Hajime imagines he's going to punch him in the face or yell at him or insult him. Hajime prepares himself for an earthshattering breakup, something that will trigger rage and resentment and end this the way it began: a haze of emotions and passion. Instead Oikawa places a black ring on the table with a quiet clink. When he speaks, his voice is as quiet and small as the ring on the table.

"I think you should leave."

The bathroom door clicks closed. Hajime puts the folder on the table before gathering his small bag of clothes from the bedroom. His head’s buzzing with something but he can't figure out what yet. He feels cold and hot at the same time. He's having a bit of a hard time breathing, which is weird. Before he leaves he stops by the coffee table. He takes off his own ring and holds it in his palm, staring at the silver band with its intricate peek-a-boo braids that his husband picked out for him. His ex-husband, he supposes. Instead of placing it down, he picks up the black band and puts both in his pocket.

He leaves without any further ado. He wonders if getting back to plan is supposed to feel this terrible.
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Bokuto Kotaro had round, golden-colored eyes and spiky white-grey hair with black streaks; certain sections of it are done up as if to vaguely conform to that of an animal, strongly amplifying the uncanny resemblance he bears to a horned owl. He has a solid and muscular build that would have seemed intimidating in his well-tailored suit, if not for the fact that he was practically jumping with enthusiasm when Hajime exited the plane. Closer to a Labrador puppy than a senior level position in a top conglomerate. He pulls Hajime into a back breaking hug before taking his baggage and starting to ramble off well-rehearsed details of the city as if he’s practiced them for ages.

“Sapporo is the capital of Hokkaido and Japan's fifth largest city. It’s is also one of the nation's youngest major cities. In 1857, the city's population stood at just seven people.” Bokuto leans closer to Hajime as if sharing a secret. “Akaashi told me to tell you about that. He said it’s a good way to keep me from overwhelming you with enthusiasm because I am really excited to meet you.”

“Thanks to Akaashi then,” Hajime says tiredly.

The flight hadn’t been too long but his week had been murder. Everything had been normal, but Hajime had almost wished it was crazier. He would have killed to have had so much work that he stayed late and collapsed into bed. The over-work would have been far better than the reality where he came home each night with enough energy for his mind to drift away to his last interaction with Oikawa. The flash of hurt, the look of defeat.

“It’s suspicious that you’re not more enthused,” Watari shared with him.

“I’m enthused,” Hajime assured him.

“You’ve been acting like someone kicked your dog,” Kyotani countered.

“No dog kicking has occurred,” Hajime scoffed.

“You could just share with us so we can help,” Yahaba offered.

“I promise I’m fine,” Hajime lied. The two rings now sat in Hajime’s dresser drawer on top of a business card and picture. Hajime can’t bear to look at them now. “I'm not a factor enough to discuss the options with,” Oikawa had said. Then Hajime had left and he hadn’t called and he hadn’t texted. He thought maybe he was a bad person. Not because of any sort of anger or resentment to how it ended. Rather, it’s some other emotion that whirls in Hajime’s chest and its cold and it feels almost like regret.

He thinks he’ll get over it. Maybe.

Bokuto continues to ramble off stats and tour facts as the car takes them to the office. Hajime will be working here for Thursday and Friday to get to know everyone and make sure it’s a good fit. Hajime’s sure it will be. A promotion like this doesn’t come around every year and he would be a fool to pass it up with or without a hus- a lo- an Oikawa. Whatever he is to Hajime now. Hajime supposes nothing, but that sounds like the least accurate option of all.

The office is larger and Hajime’s theoretical team takes up two floors. They introduce themselves one by one before going back to work. Hajime sets up in the corner office. Its shelves are empty but there is single painting sitting above the desk. It’s a desert scene that makes Hajime think of hazy nights and bubbling laughter. He takes the picture down and leans it against the bookshelf. He gets to work lining up some accounting.

“Not a fan of Americana decor,” Bokuto asks when he comes to collect Hajime for dinner. Hajime is confused for a moment before he realizes Bokuto is talking about the desert scene.

“Not a fan,” Hajime agrees because it’s the simpler answer.

At dinner is fancier than necessary, clearly an attempt to show Hajime the finer side of the city. Tempura Araki has designer doors that open to reveal a splendid hinoki Japanese cypress counter as the centerpiece in a comfortable space designed to highlight a sort of austere beauty. The chef has a youthful enthusiasm as he greeted them before falling into easy conversation with Bokuto. Hajime can tell this isn’t Bokuto’s first visit by how quickly they move to chatting about their hobbies and work and general concerns in life. They join a small group already assembled, some who introduced themselves earlier in the day. They seem like nice enough guys. Sawamura is reliable and collected. Tanaka and Nishinoya are a bit chaotic, but still charismatic and effective. Azumane is a bit more timid and quiet, but Nishinoya is quick to bring him out of his shell by asking him about a podcast he was listening to.

“It helps me relax at the gym,” Azumane explains.

“Nothing wrong with podcasts,” Hajime shrugs. “What do you listen to?”

“It’s really not that intellectual,” Azumane assures him. “Just two friends talking about random stuff, really."

“That sounds perfect for the gym,” Bokuto agrees. “Just tunes everything out! What’s it called?”

Azumane scratches his neck embarrassed by the attention but he’s no match to Bokuto’s enthusiastic interrogation and easily yields. “The Beauty and the Brain. This latest episode they were talking about romantic comedy tropes which doesn’t sound very funny, but I was chuckling the whole time I was warming up.”

“Like how there are so many architects,” offers Nishinoya. “I’ve literally never met a real architect. I think they’re made up. Like fairies.”

“It’s the dramatic declarations of love at the airport for me,” Tanaka adds, chewing a particularly tough piece of meat as he spoke. “Also everyone’s cranky at the airport, so not the right way to set the mood, you know?”

“You alright, man?” Sawamura’s hand lands heavily on Hajime’s shoulder, bringing him back to the conversation. They’re all staring at him with varying degrees of concern. Hajime coughs slightly, taking a sip of beer before nodding vigorously.

“I’m alright,” he assures them. Then to convince them further he adds, “I think the taking off the love interest’s glasses as a makeover is the worst.”

He doesn’t think of the podcast host when he says it. Not at all. Instead he takes the feeling that sort of taste like regret and folds it up neatly to tuck under his ribs in the space behind his lung. He hopes it won’t cut.

Saturday starts early with Bokuto insisting that he show Hajime some sights. Hajime allows the owl like man to drag him about the city, hoping the distraction will be enough to stop the poking under his lung. It’s not. If anything it makes him feel worse. At Odori Park Bokuto recounts the spring Sapporo Lilac Festival and the always-popular Sapporo Snow Festival. Hajime wonders if the snow sticks to Oikawa’s long eyelashes. He’s sure Oikawa would waste no time starting a snowball fight with him. As they walk through the pathways Hajime feels ghostly fingers intertwining with his left hand. His ring finger itches. When Bokuto claps his hands and bows at the Hokkaidō Shrine, Hajime wonders what Oikawa would look like under a blooming cherry blossom tree. For lunch they meet at a small café near the Sapporo tower. A man with short, messy black hair and blue eyes behind glasses waits for them. Bokuto introduces him as his boyfriend Akaashi. The two couldn’t seem more different. Bokuto is loud and exuberant while Akaashi is quiet and analytical. Still, it works. They seem to mesh together. When Hajime asks how they met Bokuto goes into a long detailed story about playing volleyball together and finding love through the game.

After lunch they dropped Hajime at his hotel, but Bokuto stops him before he goes in.

“Iwaizumi,” he says seriously. “You don’t seem to really like it here.”

Hajime blinks, a rush of guilt surfacing on his face. “I’m just getting used to it all,” Hajime assures him.

“You shouldn’t force yourself,” Bokuto tells him, but his hair is deflating as his shoulder slouch. Hajime’s starting to wonder if maybe he just has a knack for making people sad.

“It’s not you or the city,” Hajime confesses. He scratched the back of his neck, dropping his eyes away, too embarrassed by the confession. “I got into a fight with someone about this promotion.”

“They didn’t want you to take it?”

“They were hurt I didn’t discuss it with them first.”

“Oh,” Bokuto says thoughtfully. “You know, Akaashi got accepted to art school all the way down in Fukuoka right after he graduated. He declined it before we even talked about it and I was sort of mad. I mean I was glad he was going to stay close, but it was a big decision and he made it without even asking me. I would have moved if it meant making him happiest."

“You and Akaashi had been together for a while,” Hajime reasoned. “He should have talked to you.”

“I think I would have been mad even if we had only been together a week,” Bokuto confessed and something like fury flashed in his eyes. "There were always other jobs, but not necessarily another Akaashi. I would have regretted stomping out what we had so early on, but I would never want to hold him back either. That’s why I was mad. Does that make sense?”

"Yeah, it makes sense," Hajime assures him. It makes more sense than he wishes it did. Hajime begins to unfold the regret from under his lungs and inspect it. All the missed moments, the blown chances, the image of Oikawa waiting for him to speak, to say anything. Instead Hajime leaves and the regret tastes like rotting fruit on his tongue. It taste worse than the worse hang over of his life, partially because it doesn’t come with scents of jasmine, lemon, and thyme on pillow cases Hajime didn’t use. “I should have talked to him first. I messed up.”

“Whatever you decide is right will be what’s best.” Bokuto pats his shoulder with more force than needed, making Hajime stagger slightly.
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On Monday he meets in Hayashi’s office to discuss his trip and the promotion. He gives glowing review of the facilities and the workers, earning satisfied hums from Hayashi. He outlines some positives of the city and aspects he could see himself enjoying. Hajime is adaptable. He could probably live just about anywhere.

“It does sound like an excellent fit,” Hayashi comments. He shuffles a few papers around on his desk. “I’m surprised to hear such a glowing review.”

“Why’s that, sir?”

“Bokuto seemed to be under the impression that you may be more neutral to the opportunity.” Hajime tries to contain his grimace. Hayashi continues unperturbed. “You’re a good worker, Iwaizumi. An asset to Sejoh and Shiratorizawa. If the North isn’t to your liking then it’s not to your liking. Bokuto was impressed by your leadership. He offered a suggestion that you might find more appealing, a bit closer to home, but still a vertical move up.”

He pushes a manila folder across the desk to Hajime and watches as Hajime opens it. There’s a lot of details and logistics on the pages within, but Hajime’s eyes move immediately to the city: Osaka. In a flash Hajime sees Oikawa in the light of the 1950s Godzilla movie, his hand lingering when it meets Hajime’s in the popcorn bucket. Hajime feel ridiculous. Even now, even when Oikawa may want nothing to do with him, he still is thinking of him. He’s still factoring him into the decision, despite his claim to the contrary.

“Thank you for the opportunity, sir,” Hajime says. He closes the manila folder and looks at Hayashi, a new fiery resolve pumping through his veins. “Can I discuss this with my partner first?”

Hayashi looks momentarily surprised, but he recovers quickly. “Of course. Take the week.”

It is understandably difficult to get Kuroo to answer his calls, but Hajime tries incessantly all of Monday and Tuesday. When he does answer it’s even harder to get him to agree to Hajime’s plan, but eventually Hajime explains himself as well as he’ll ever manage to and Kuroo agrees to do his part. Honestly, Hajime’s surprised Kuroo picks him up from the train station. Good luck is obviously smiling down on Hajime, so of course he has to ruin it.

“Did he send in the annulment papers,” Hajime asks. Kuroo narrows his eyes at the bumper in front of them. The silence hangs between them for long enough that Hajime figure he won’t get an answer. Or maybe the answer is obvious in the silence and this is all a waste of time.

“No, he didn’t,” Kuroo growls as they pull into a parking spot. Hajime straightens up when Kuroo levels him with a murderous glare. “But I’ll send them in myself if you fuck this up again.”

“Fair enough,” Hajime agrees. “I won’t.”

Kuroo’s phone makes a noise as a message comes in. He reads it quickly before confirming what Hajime had hoped to hear. “He’s waiting.”

There’s no place to really sit at the penguin exhibit and it’s crowded and the open setting makes it smell sort of like birds. Instead, Hajime has Kuroo text Oikawa to meet him in front of the largest tank with a fisheye view. The rest of the room is dim, lit only by the blue light from the tank as eagle rays, green sea turtles, and hundreds of fish float by. Oikawa is sitting on one of the cubed seats. Even from this distance Hajime can see his back is rigid and his knee is bouncing. He’s wearing his glasses. He must be tired, Hajime thinks and wonders if he’s been forced to stay up late thinking about them the way Hajime has. He immediately feels guilty. He contemplates retreat forever, never stepping footing Kyoto again, but a small toddler knocks into Oikawa. He turns his knees slightly to let the child run passed as the mother gives multiple apologies. The light lines his profile for just a moment before he turns back to face the fish. In that moment Hajime has a crazy idea that this could be it. That this isn’t dumb dumb or a wrench in his plan. That this is Oikawa and Hajime and that he desperately doesn’t want to go to art school down south. Before he gets too off track, he moves forward.

“Tooru, can I sit down?”

Oikawa stiffens, head tilted in such a way that when he looks at Hajime he manages to seem taller even when sitting. He’s guarded in a way Hajime’s never seen before. Despite this he spares Hajime an awkward pause by nodding and motioning to the seat next to him. He turns back to the tank and takes off his glasses, the last of his weakness tucked away. All armor up. Hajime thinks this is probably why the interns rarely call them on the weekend. This Oikawa is not to be trifled with. He looks like he could decapitate a man with words alone. Hajime takes the seat, debating about how to start. He knows all the things he wants to say, but the words are hard to arrange. Hard to begin. Oikawa must sense this, like they sense so much about one another (and isn’t that the piece Hajime had forgotten before his trip?). He shows Hajime another small mercy by speaking first.

“How was your trip?”

“Good,” Hajime volunteers almost too quickly, a half lie. Oikawa hums in acceptance, eyes following the ray that glides by effortlessly. Hajime envies him for his ease. “I don’t know if it’s the right fit.”

Oikawa doesn’t respond but Hajime can see his jaw clench, the skin around his mouth move as his tongue moves. He might be biting it slightly, holding something back and again Hajime doesn’t like this. Doesn’t like the stone statue of Oikawa before him. Hajime continues, “I hoped we could discuss it.”

Oikawa doesn’t look away from the tank, but his eyes narrow in suspicion. He hisses, “Why?”

“Because you factor in,” Hajime says. He meant to come here and be vulnerable, the way Oikawa had on his podcast and in the alleyway. It’s difficult, to risk being seen like this: chest open to reveal his insecurities and his wants to a man who owes him nothing at all. The regret is unfolded in his hands, so he grasps the edges with determination to face this head on. “You factored in before as well, but I got scared and overwhelmed. I should have talked to you from the start. I shouldn’t have said all of those things. I made a mistake and I’m really sorry.”

“You could have called or texted,” Oikawa says. Hajime drops his eyes to the corner where the tank meets the carpet.

“I know. I’m sorry for that too.”
“I was really mad at you. I’m still so angry with you. You hurt my feelings and then you just disappeared off the face of the earth for two weeks. I wouldn’t have even known you were alive if you hadn’t been calling Kuroo so much.”

Of course Kuroo had told Oikawa. Of course Oikawa had walked into the Aquarium today knowing Hajime was planning to come. Hajime wasn’t even surprised. Oikawa continues.

“I think I must be dumb dumb about you because I still really like you. I agreed to come even when Kuroo said I shouldn’t. You still make me feel the way you did in the desert and all the times after. But you can’t do that ever again. You can’t just not talk to me and then make some big decision. That’s not how this is going to work.”

“I know,” Hajime says and the regret is shriveling away in his hands. It’s blooming into something that almost feels warm like hope, but Hajime isn’t sure he deserves that yet. He cups it gently like one would a tiny baby bird. He’s afraid it will be crushed if he holds too tight. “I won’t. I’m working on it. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to talk about the Sapporo promotion and I’d also like to talk to you about the other promotion option Hayashi mentioned, in Osaka.

Oikawa sucks in his breath. “Osaka?”

“It’s the same position, though the team’s a bit smaller. On the other hand, it’s only forty-two minutes away by train. I have to give an answer by Monday either way.”

Oikawa takes out his glasses and puts them back on, turning to look at Hajime again. There’s a shyness to his face, something unsure, but he takes Hajime’s hand gently and intertwines their fingers and it feels like the axis of the world tilts into place. It feels like the climate crisis is over and the icecaps are reformed. It feels right. Hajime allows himself to be tugged up.

“Okay,” Oikawa says. “Let’s go see our children and you can tell us about what you liked and didn’t like about Sapporo. Then we can discuss Osaka. I love a good pro and con list.”

Chapter Text

“I don’t like this,” Tooru says crossing his arms as the waitress delivers another round of drinks to their table. This one is in a martini shaped glass, some odd pink color that Tooru is sure will have more sugar than alcohol. Not that he is opposed to sugar or alcohol. It’s the context that’s making him scowl, even if he knows the dim lighting makes it look less intimidating. It’s making him look sultry, if the drinks on the table are any indication.

Kuroo knows what he means, but he’s the worst person to ever exist in or adjacent to Tooru’s life, so he pretends like he doesn’t. “What? The bar or the free drinks?”

“I’m a married man,” Tooru replies haughtily.

“Yeah,” Kuroo asks and the tone is too innocent to be believed. He take a long sip from a different free drink sent their way from a stranger somewhere at the bar. Tooru watches the liquid reduce significantly. That doesn’t bode well. He’s about to offer an intervention, mouth already open with a taunt, when Kuroo finishes his sip and then his thought. “I guess no one can see the ring.”

Tooru’s jaw clicks shut quickly. This is dangerous territory and Kuroo wouldn’t have brought it up if he wasn’t (Tooru counts the empty glasses on the table) four strong drinks in from the last hour and a half with only half as many appetizers as they ought to have had. Kenma, who is sipping on a ginger ale, is more aware. He elbows Kuroo hard enough to make the taller man grunt loudly. The woman approaching with the next round of drink turns back discouraged. Kuroo doesn’t even notice her, but Tooru is thanking the universe for small blessings. The last thing he needs is a stranger witnessing this moment.

“What was that for?”

“Tooru’s sensitive about that,” Kenma says, using his hair as a curtain to hide from the eyes they can all feel on their table. Tooru bristles at the description, partially because it’s too close to true.

“Not sensitive,” he assures them as he waves his hand through the air dismissively. “Not sensitive at all. Relationships are about communication and learning each other’s styles and sometimes you fight in the process, right?”

“Have you been reading advice columns,” Kuroo snorts unattractively. It earns another elbow from Kenma, but he dodges this one while reaching for the next drink. It has salt on the rim. He’s far too agile for someone about to be five drinks into the night. Tooru eyes the pink martini glass drink again, it’s starting to look more appealing by the second.

“Shut up, Kuroo,” Kenma says. There is a warning in his voice, even as the soft tones might otherwise be lost behind the blasting music in the bar. Kuroo throws up his hands dramatically.

“Why am I the bad guy?”

“No one is the bad guy,” Tooru says breezily, even though he very much thinks Kuroo is the villain and is only missing a moustache to twist as he plans his next diabolical move. “Can we move on? Iwa-chan’s going to be here soon and I don’t want you making it any more awkward than you already will.”

He wishes the man in question would hurry up. He desperately needs to use the restroom. As strained as his bladder is, he keeps mentally playing what would happen if tipsy Kuroo greets Iwaizumi instead of Tooru. Tooru cringes at the bounty of possibilities. Very few of them are appealing ways to start a weekend with his hus- his boy- his Iwa-chan.

Tooru gives in and takes a hardy sip of the pink drink partially to distract his mind before it spins down that road. He makes a face. It’s basically a very strong martini, though he’s not sure where the pink comes from. Simple syrup maybe? Whatever it might contain, the drink is an abomination to the whole of human history. He looks up to see a guy sitting at the bar, a slight smirk on his face and his sharp eyes on Tooru. When he nods his extra high hair bobs a few seconds behind. Tooru turns back to his friends hurriedly. Kuroo hasn’t paid attention to any of this, instead throwing his arm on Kenma’s seat. His legs are spread wide to take up a threatening amount of space like some kind of macho barbarian.

“I’ll behave as long as he does.”

“Good because it’s important to me that you get along,” Tooru says, ignoring the obvious challenge Kuroo is laying down. Unfortunately, Kuroo has never been one to be ignored, especially when drinks are involved.

“It’s important to me that he’s not an ass to you again,” He snipes back. He's glaring at Tooru like Tooru started this conversation when he most certainly is an innocent victim. Tooru takes another sip of the pink monstrosity and contemplates flushing Kuroo's head down a toilet.

“Noted,” Kenma says and there is a finality in his tone that brings an end to the argument before it progresses further. Kuroo holds up his hands in surrender, turning back to the drinks before them.

Tooru shouldn’t be surprised. Ever since the aquarium Kuroo has been a bit overprotective and cautious about Iwaizumi. Tooru tried to explain that they’d worked it out and things were fine, but Kuroo was still on the defensive. It was both moving and extremely annoying. Sort of like this drink situation. As if summoned, a beer appears at the table. Kuroo perks up immediately.

“From the woman to your three o’clock,” the waitress says as she drops a paper on the table. It has a phone number and name on it. Tooru doesn’t read it on principle.

“You don’t have to keep doing this, Hana-chan,” Tooru says. She shrugs, flipping the tray under her arm. This way she can fix the bottom of her braided hair.

“It’s been a while since you came out and got this much attention. Are you leaking pheromones or something?”

Tooru’s right hand moves under the table to his left ring finger, seeking out a place to send his energy. It’s empty. It’s empty because during their fight, Tooru put the ring onto the table and Iwaizumi took it. Tooru’s not thinking about it. Tooru’s actively not thinking about it because thinking about why Iwaizumi may have kept the ring they picked out in Las Vegas leads to a whole downward spiral of thoughts about what Iwaizumi might be feeling and Tooru doesn’t want or need to go there. The only reality Tooru needs to focus on is that they’re still finding their place together.

He moves his right hand to scratch his knee instead.

Tooru’s really only fully regretted the marriage one time. He barely made it on to the plane before the doors closed. He was contemplating if he seemed like he was still drunk or if the buzz in his mind was actually from his brain’s nonstop chatter recounting any and all memories he could get his neurons on. There’s dancing and walking, and laughing. “I dos” and Elvis and whispered lips against skin. A phrase like “I’ve never done something so crazy before” slips through the blackened haze and Tooru’s pretty sure it’s in a growl. The memory alone sends heat rushing across his chest which is embarrassing in the security line. Tooru’s sure it’s connected to kisses on his neck that still burn with something like passion. He has a crazy thought to leave the plane before it takes off. To return to the hotel with the silk sheets and throw away the note he left behind. He could wait for the mysterious man, his husband, to wake up and they could…. Something. Tooru quickly pushes that away. That’d be insane. He brain decides to take a different route.

Half an hour into the air, Tooru pays for the service to call his sister in a panic. She summarizes the situation rather brilliantly. She’s always been too good at that.

“Tooru, you idiot.”

She should have been a life coach. A true wasted talent.

He let his head fall against the seat in front of him, blatantly ignoring how many germs he’s sure are there. Where’s the dirtiest place on the plane? Wherever the most people touch and lots of people touch the top of the chairs as they mosey up and down the lanes. The seats are crawling with bacteria and it’s multiplying across Tooru’s face as they speak. Or, more accurately, as his sister speaks. What’s was she saying?

“Are you listening?”

“No,” he confessed. “I’m busy spiraling. It’s hard to multi-task.”

She sighed. “Well, at least tell me what your husband is like.”

The phrasing suddenly quiets the chatter. My husband, Tooru thinks. His eyes find his black ring and suddenly he’s not spiraling so much as he’s paused in mid-air, suspended in time long enough to look about and see every floating particle. Tooru has had deep regrets before, mistakes that he pushed from his mind because there’s no point dwelling on what you can’t change. None of them ever felt like this. None of them ever felt so light.

“He’s prickly,” Tooru offered and he thinks of a sleeping face, mouth partially open on his pillow, eyebrows turned slightly downward even in rest, yet at peace. A safety and authenticity Tooru can’t explain.

“Why do you sound like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re in love.”

“I’m not,” Tooru snapped. Then he hangs up because oh shit. Is he in love with a stranger he married in Vegas? He spent the next several hours staring at the hideous black ring on his finger and growing oddly attached to how it looks.

Despite that moment on the plane, Tooru has always felt, still feels, that being with Iwaizumi is a natural configuration. An ebb and flow of the tide. How strange it is to think that about someone you just met. To think 'Oh shit, am I in love with a stranger?' Yet he felt it even after just twenty four hors. He initially thought Iwaizumi felt the same, but the reality is that it didn't feel as instinctive to Iwaizumi. That was the real foundation of their argument, Tooru thinks. Still, all of that is okay. Tooru knows it’s okay because Iwaizumi said he was trying and he would get better. Tooru believed him.

They had talked about the Sapporo promotion and the Osaka promotion. They had weighed the pros and cons. Iwaizumi had considered Tooru a factor. He wanted to make it work and he wanted the Osaka job for a lot of reasons, but one of them was to be closer to Tooru. Which was good.

It was all good. But still….. Tooru stops his pondering there.

“It’s probably just because I’ve been busy,” he assures her. He uses his left hand to scratch the back of his neck and ignores how light it feels without his ring. It's just his hand. It's been ring-less for most of his life. He takes the phone number and crumbles it under the table, dropping it on the floor out of sight.

“Whatever it is, it’s working,” Hana says with a shrug. “I’m sure I’ll be back with more.”

“Please don’t,” Tooru says just as Kuroo yells over him.

“Thanks, Hana!”

When Iwaizumi arrives he is still in his work clothes, though he’s rolled up his shirt sleeves. His tie is missing, hands pushed into his pockets with his jacket hanging over his wrist as he surveys the scene.

Tooru leaps at him, all subconscious concerns evaporating into thin air. He wraps his arms and legs around the man like some kind of sloth, confident in many things including that Iwaizumi won’t drop him. He doesn’t, though he complains about Tooru’s weight being bad for his joints. Still, he runs his hand up Tooru’s spine in a way that is more affectionate than reprimand. Kuroo doesn’t say anything too pointed, though Tooru’s pretty sure that’s because Kenma drags Kuroo away rather quickly. Tooru thinks he hears Kuroo protest something about just being a good friend before he disappears into the crowd. Tooru’s sure he’ll have to put up with a whole bitch-fest when they meet to record The Beauty and The Brain later this week. He thinks it’s probably worth it.

Iwaizumi seems to loosen his muscles slightly, sipping a beer more freely than he had just a minute before. A sudden realization hits Tooru. He asks just to be sure. “Did Kuroo say something to you before you arrived?”

Iwaizumi looks like he’s about to lie, but catches Tooru’s eye. His determination turns sheepish as he picks at the label on his beer.

“It’s nothing too bad. He just gave me a bit of a warning via text.” Tooru feels the air around him fizzle with a murderous energy. He’s planning seventy-four ways to disembowel his best friend, but Iwaizumi continues unperturbed. “Its fine. I get it. I’m willing to do the work.”

The air clears completely as Tooru’s mouth falls agape. He’s lost control of any manipulation of his expressions. Iwaizumi easily notices this change and pauses, concern wrinkling his eyebrows.

“What?”

“No one’s ever said that to me,” Tooru says and he sounds half stunned and half flattered and two thirds (because math just can’t compute his emotions at the moment) like he thinks Iwaizumi might be confused.

“Tooru,” Iwaizumi says, and Tooru tries very hard to pay attention after that because honestly his name coming from Iwaizumi’s mouth still makes his heart palpitate in ways that feel life threatening in the best way. “You had literally ten people buy you drinks tonight. There have got to be four crumbled up papers on the floor with names and numbers.”

Tooru is one hundred percent horrified. “You saw that? I told Kuroo to choose someplace more decent!”

“It’s fine,” Iwaizumi says. Something about the slight tilt in Iwaizumi’s smile makes Tooru think that is true.

Iwaizumi continues to throw Tooru pleasantly off balance on their way home. They walk side by side, lanterns leading them from one district into the well-lit and populated intersections of downtown. Tooru is half skipping partially to non-verbally tease Iwaizumi about his few missing centimeters and partially because he’s so full of happiness that his limbs feel like they’re filled with helium. He can barely weigh them down enough to return to the cement. Iwaizumi reaches out to Tooru. It's like he can sense the risk of Tooru being blown away in the wind, too full of light carefree thoughts to put up a fight. It starts with a pinky prodding Tooru’s hand. Then lightly intertwining fingers that provide space for slipping away with a casual wrist movement, unnoticeable to any passerby. The touch is soft, like almost all the things Iwaizumi does: cautious, a request for consent, a choice for Tooru to make.

Tooru’s not a fool. You couldn’t pay him nearly enough to casually twist anything away from Iwaizumi. He responds the way he always does: full force, a sure affirmative, a worthless pride taking a dodgy risk. He wraps his hand around Iwaizumi’s and hums in satisfaction, just to make sure Iwaizumi understands his contentedness through more than one sense.

Iwaizumi squeezes back once in affirmation before asking, “What’s the plan for tomorrow?"

“Who says there’s a plan,” Tooru teases, still giddy on the earnest comment his hus-boy- Iwa-chan had given. Iwaizumi throws him a skeptical look.

“There is always a plan with you.”

Tooru pouts. “I’m spontaneous.”

“Sure,” Iwaizumi agrees. “Randomly spontaneous. I’ve seen your to do list. Very detailed. Color coordinated.”

“The truth comes out, huh? Is this what you were planning on your way down from Tokyo? A call out?”

“No,” Iwaizumi huffs and he squeezes Tooru’s hand tighter like he’s sure Tooru is about to pull away. Like he knows Tooru is aiming towards theatrics even before Tooru decides to dive in. “I was thinking about how my company is throwing me a going away party.”

Tooru’s brow furrows and for a split second he thinks Iwaizumi will pull away instead. That he will tell Tooru that he’s changed jobs entirely. No Sapporo. No Osaka. He’s moving to Iceland to study volcanoes or elves or elves that live in volcanoes. Iwaizumi continues before Tooru can get too stiff to move. “Even though I’m just going to Osaka and it’s not for three more months. Yahaba is insisting.”

“That’s very nice of them,” Tooru says, relief breathing into every word, though he thinks it comes off as admiration for Iwaizumi’s quality of friends. Iwaizumi rolls his eyes, but still looks grudgingly pleased.

“It’s the Thursday after next, actually,” Iwaizumi says.

Ah, Tooru thinks. Based on their schedule next weekend would be Tokyo and the weekend after that would be Kyoto again. If the going away party is the Thursday of a Kyoto weekend, then Iwaizumi likely wants to skip the trip down. Tooru doesn’t like it. The way he doesn’t like any day he doesn’t get to talk to or see Iwaizumi Hajime, but whatever they are now isn’t possessions. It’s never been like that and he doesn’t want it to be. He wants Iwaizumi to come to see him, to want to be with him. He doesn't want to feel like an obligation. He swallows his disappointment.

“So you want to stay in Tokyo that weekend?”

“I just think it would be easier,” Iwaizumi continues, moving their intertwined hands into his jacket pocket as they hit the main street. It tugs Tooru closer. Suddenly Tooru can smell Iwaizumi all around him- eucalyptus and oak. It makes Tooru a bit light headed. He’s sure to agree to anything under such circumstances. He’s so distracted by this line of thought that he barely registers Iwaizumi say, “But I understand if you need to be back in Kyoto on Friday. I could join you Saturday morning.”

“Huh?”

Iwaizumi’s brow furrows when he tries to figure out where he lost Tooru in his plans. Tooru’s not much help. Finally he says, “I guess I didn’t actually ask, huh? Do you want to come to the going away party?”

“Is that allowed,” Tooru says and it sounds more hopeful than Tooru wishes it did.

“Sure, Yahaba said bring your date or we’ll kick you out straight away. That’s a direct quote.”

“Aren’t you worried,” Tooru asks, brain still desperately clawing at some kind of puzzle piece he’s missing. He’s got two unconnected corners and nothing but blue tiles to fill it in. “I thought your co-workers didn’t know about your romantic interests.”

What Tooru doesn’t say is that he thought Iwaizumi’s friends didn’t know about weekends in Kyoto or late phone calls on weekday nights. Of whispered confessions in the desert or kisses stolen in Tokyo's alleyways. Tooru was pretty sure they didn't know about him at all. Iwaizumi scratches his ear with his free hand, eyes darting ahead as if to steer them through the crowd. It also works to keep his embarrassment at bay.

“I may have mentioned you a few times and they’re curious now. If it’s an inconvenience then don’t worry about it. I can come down to Kyoto on Saturday morning.”

Tooru can feel the helium inflating his lungs again, pressing against his ribs. The helium has questions in it like: you mention me to people? What did you say? What did they say? Did you mention Vegas? Did you mention the rings, the fight, the reunion, the trips back and forth? Do they like the idea of me or are they protective and waiting to make their attack? Instead of asking any of these, Tooru allows himself to simply bathe in the light of being allowed access to a space prohibited before. Wanted. Invited within.

“Yeah, I’ll be there,” Tooru assures him. “Don’t worry.”

He’s not sure if those last two words are for Iwaizumi or himself.
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Tooru rarely wakes up first. He’s more inclined to drift in the gray area between the land of dreams and the waking world as long as possible before blinking awake to the morning (or afternoon) light. Despite this, he manages to roll over first the next morning. He’s treated to the same sight he’s grown used to: a relaxed scowl on a sleeping face, mouth slightly open with his cheek pressed against the pillow. They had started off spooning, but throughout the night they’ve shifted and now Iwaizumi is on his stomach. His gorilla arm is dead weight crushing Tooru’s chest and making it hard to breath. When Tooru does manage to inhale he gets eucalyptus and oak. He shuffles closer. He can see the long lashes of Iwaizumi’s eyes touching his cheek. They’re surprisingly delicate given his spikey hair. They flutter in his sleep, his eyes dancing behind his lids. Tooru has the distinct urge to do something naughty like lick Iwaizumi’s cheek or slam a pillow over his face or shuffle under the covers and wake Iwaizumi with a morning surprise.

He doesn’t do any of those things because Iwaizumi shifts instead, as if sensing Tooru’s inclinations. He turns and the heavy arm releases Tooru as its prisoner, only to wrap around his hip and tug him against his chest when he rolls over onto his back. Tooru ponders protesting (or carrying on his initial trouble-making scheme), but he loses all focus when he’s fully encased. He’s staring at a bruise he made across Iwaizumi’s chest and he satisfies his urge to cause chaos by poking it decisively. Iwaizumi barely even moves, but he does poke Tooru in return before grumbling something that sounds like “sheep todo.” Tooru’s pretty sure it’s supposed to be “Sleep Tooru.”

Tooru’s starting to think maybe Iwaizumi’s a wizard because Tooru falls asleep again without any more chaos causing and really that’s as unnatural as it gets. Maybe in a previous life Iwaizumi went to Hogwarts.

The next time he wakes up, Iwaizumi is already gone from bed. He's in the kitchen instead. It’s an easy morning: Tooru half groggily approaching him before kissing the bruises along the scowling man’s neck. He provides half complaints about trying to cook breakfast (“No thanks to you, might I add”). Eventually Tooru gets pushed playfully away before breakfast is served: pancakes and eggs. They dressed together. Iwaizumi pulling some jeans and a t-shirt from a drawer Tooru offered him just a month before and the image makes Tooru pause. It always makes Tooru pause, his chest feeling like a heavy arm is resting on it before pulling him in to be surrounded by eucalyptus and oak. He’s overwhelmed that Iwaizumi is here and with him. In moments like this he barely remembers the conditions of their marriage. He barely remembers that America exists at all.

Instead he’s stuck in the blissful moment of existing without past or future. Just him and Iwaizumi getting ready for a date together because that’s something they do: wake up, eat breakfast, and go on dates. Because that’s what people do when they’re in love and Tooru hasn’t been in love very often (maybe never, it’s hard to tell), but he’s pretty sure you shouldn’t be this happy with someone unless its love.

He can’t even bother to think “oh shit” this time.
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The activity Tooru planned (and color coded pink on his to do list, not that Iwaizumi needs to know) is an origami class at the botanical gardens. Tooru can’t remember how he found it, but he decided it looked fun. He has always been a man of many interests, so they go.

In general the class is filled with older people, members of the gardens who likely come to many such classes. Tooru manages to sit at the only table that seems to have someone younger than them. She seems to be about university age, maybe a first year, her hair pulled into a ponytail. She’s typing away on her phone with her papers spread before her. Next to her is an older woman with a boat hat over short gray hair. A wrinkle covered face is partially hidden under glasses that slide down her nose as she peers at her own instructions. The girl with the ponytail puts her phone down when Iwaizumi joins them, interest alight on her face. She looks ready to start idle chatter, perhaps with some flirting, but she doesn’t get the chance.

“Which one did you choose,” Iwaizumi asks. He is blatantly unaware of the gaze he’s attracted as he leans into Tooru’s space, peering at his instructions. There were a number of options: cherry blossom, star flower, flower place holders, lotus, and roses. Iwaizumi chose a simple eight petal flower. Tooru had watched him lean over the paper selection like a surgeon choosing his tools for a heart procedure on the prime minister. Tooru tried his best not to smile, but failed. He manages not to be caught, at least. Now Iwaizumi's hand tugs lightly at Tooru’s elbow to manually move Tooru’s arm so he can see. Tooru is as stunned as the ponytail girl to be man-handled so publicly. Iwaizumi doesn't notice or doesn't care as he says, “The cactus flower? What are you crazy? That’s one of the most difficult.”

“An excellent choice, young man,” the older woman says, peering up. She holds up her own instructions for a matching plant. “Great minds think alike.”

Tooru gives Iwaizumi a look through his lashes, half smug and half smolder.

“Don’t get too confident until you finish," Iwaizumi huffs. Tooru makes a mental note to try that look again in private. He refuses to accept that it doesn’t affect Iwaizumi in some way. "I bet it looks like a walrus.”

“That’s not even a plant,” Tooru gasps.

“That’s my confidence level,” Iwaizumi says.

“Did you two come here together,” the university girl asks and its clear what she means. Tooru’s never really felt the need to broadcast his personal business to strangers, but he’s also never hidden it. Still, he knows Iwaizumi doesn’t tell most people about his romantic life. He’s never thought about what Iwaizumi might say to strangers or if he ever has the issue come up at all. Instinctively Tooru’s eyes drop to Iwaizumi’s left hand, which is tapping against step four of the instructions. Rather, his index finger is tapping. His ring-less ring finger isn’t moving. He’s jarred back by Iwaizumi’s answer before he can follow that train of thought.

“Yeah, I visit every other weekend and this guy’s never relaxed a day in his life. So, here we are.”

Tooru tries to put up a look of insult, but he’s barely able to keep the ecstasy of being acknowledged as taken by Iwaizumi in public. The girl leans back, moving her own instructions closer. A clear recognition of Tooru’s victory.

Not that it was a competition, Tooru reminds himself hurriedly.

“Where are you from,” she continues, a good sport in defeat. Tooru can respect that, even if she’s’ still the loser. Not that they were competing, of course.

“Tokyo,” Iwaizumi replies. He flips the instructions to the back and seems relieved that it’s only a one-sided page. The girl smile.

“It’s so great that you guys can manage long distance. I don’t think I ever could.”

Iwaizumi’s eyebrows scrunch together in that way that makes an indent between them and Tooru wants very much to see if a paper can be held in it. He doesn’t because he knows how to act in public most of the time.

“Why is that?” Iwaizumi asks and he sounds genuinely confused. Tooru wishes he hadn’t replied at all, genuine or otherwise. He knows the essence of the next words even before they fully form to hang above the table.

“I just feel like I’d get bored or meet someone closer, you know? Less drama.” She seems to recognize her faux pas just as she speaks it, as if cursing them with her words. She looks sheepishly at them, tugging her hair tighter in the ponytail. Tooru hopes his smile is still in place. He is trying very hard to keep it cool and nonchalant, even as Iwaizumi seems completely unbothered by the interaction. It rolls off of him like sweat on a hot summer day. Tooru gets started on his cactus without allowing his mind to take over. Best if his hands do the thinking for the rest of class.

He doesn’t look at the pony tail university girl again, but that’s unrelated. It is.

By the end of class their table hosts two flowering cacti, one eight petal flower, and one sakura star flower. Tooru’s pretty satisfied with his work, cracking his neck as he turns to Iwaizumi. He’s ready to tease Iwaizumi about how excellent his cactus and flower look, but he pauses when he sees Iwaizumi’s expression. The look makes Tooru squirm. It’s not a bad look, rather it is like Iwaizumi is seeing something especially interesting. Something he is recklessly fond of. The look is almost too personal for the middle of a class at the botanical gardens with a girl and her grandmother sitting just an elbow jab away. His eyes move from the elaborate flower to Tooru’s hands and up to Tooru’s face.

“I’m always learning new things about you,” Iwaizumi says. He doesn’t say it as if he’s talking to a man he met and married in Vegas. He says it like he’s talking to a childhood friend. Like he remembers the day a young Tooru tugged him away from bug hunting to play volleyball. Like he’d seen Tooru in his best and his worst. It brings to mind the idea that maybe in other universes they had known one another before marriage. Maybe there was a universe in which two nearby neighbors grew into more. Maybe they exchanged second buttons on graduation day and screamed declarations of devotions in the streets. Maybe they came together in other ways: a figure skater and hockey player, a jock and a nerd, a pretend dating scheme after years of unrequited love. Maybe Tooru was a very dense entomologist. Despite all the alternate universe options (and Tooru makes a note to float discussing the multiverse for the next podcast episode), Tooru thinks he likes this one best. This one where Iwaizumi is looking at him with such fondness that it makes Tooru feel unshakeable. As if he could take on the whole Trojan army in front of him as long as Iwaizumi was behind him. Even if he had a weak heel. He’d be invincible.

It’s all rather emotional. Tooru wants to say, I think I love you. He wants to say, this is for you because on our first date we went to a restaurant with cactus and I told you that you looked like one. He wants to say, I want to get married to you all over again. Instead he points to Iwaizumi’s sorry excuse for a flower and says, “Me too. I thought Iwa-chan was better with his fingers.”

That sends scarlet shooting across Iwaizumi’s ears and neck. He chucks the eight petal flower at Tooru as if it’s an axe, but its paper so it flutters harmlessly to the table.
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As with most intrusive thoughts, the university girl’s comment floats to the surface of Tooru’s mind against his will. It happens later on and for no apparent reason. Tooru thinks his brain should take a hike. Since he needs it to continue to live, or whatever, he needs to deal with it.

It is natural, Tooru assures himself, to worry about cold feet and distances getting wider and honeymoon phases ending. These insecurities don’t end simply because they are technically married in another country. A piece of paper written in English doesn’t silence the earworm hissing into his ear: He’ll get tired of you. He left once, maybe he’ll leave again. You’re holding him back already.

There was a time when the whispering would have kept him up all night pondering his shortcomings and convincing him that everyone was barely putting up with his very annoying company. The thoughts would light a match that inevitably consumed his unsuspecting relationship. A balloon touching two wires at once and exploding like a gun shot.

That was when he was younger and less sure of his footing. Now he shakes his head, dislodging the earworm enough to brush it aside with the girl’s comments. These thoughts won’t consume him. Not when he saw the way Iwaizumi smiled at him, broad enough to show just a bit of teeth, eyes squinting and nose twitching as if his face couldn’t contain all the joy. As if it were pouring forth through any muscle possible.

Tooru wonders if he could do a whole episode of The Beauty and The Brain on earworms.

“You’re being weirdly quiet and it’s making me a little nervous,” Iwaizumi admits. He’s driving Tooru’s car with his hands at ten and two, seat pulled all the way up like an old man who isn’t sure he can see properly. His eyes are on the road, but they dart to Tooru out of the corner. They look as if they’re trying to decipher Tooru, to scan him through.

It’s always been hard to fake it with Iwaizumi. He always sees right through Tooru, so most of the time Tooru doesn’t even try. Now Tooru releases a breath to steady himself and keep the earworm away. “I feel… something. I’m processing. Let me just…think.”

“As long as it’s not festering.”

Tooru feels a smile tilt his lips. “No festering. Pondering. Ruminating.”

“Thank goodness you have that new thesaurus,” Iwaizumi teases.

“Just admit your husband is brilliant, Iwa-chan,” Tooru replies. Iwaizumi’s shoulders stiffen slightly. Only for a moment before they relax again, but it’s a moment Tooru notices. Tooru’s thumb nail migrates to the knuckle of his ring finger. There it is. The rumination in a tensing of muscles. They’ve gotten back together, but they haven’t mentioned the marriage out loud since the fight months ago. Iwaizumi opens his mouth slightly, whether to take a deep breath or to speak, Tooru’s not sure. He doesn’t wait around to find out either. He changes the subject. “My lease is running out soon.”

Immediately the air in the car seems to relax or maybe that’s just Tooru’s imagination.

“Yeah? Do you think you’ll renew?”

“I’m not sure yet.” Tooru has a brief image of Iwaizumi cooking breakfast in boxers with bruises and scratch marks peaking from beneath his tank top. He can imagine himself, half groggy as he approaches, kissing each bruise along the nape of his neck before being pushed away playfully. It smells like pancakes and eggs, eucalyptus and oak. He blinks and sees only the darkened road before them once again. “I’ll probably need to use a weekend to look at some places.”

“I don’t mind tagging along,” Iwaizumi assures him.

Tooru considers pushing a bit more. He imagines saying, would you want to move in with me? He thinks of commenting, we should look for a place that fits both of our liking. He thinks about proposing that Osaka is less than an hour away by train and maybe they could find someplace between the two. But, the husband issue has only just left the air and Tooru isn’t sure he’s ready to open up this new opportunity for rejection. Instead he says, “Iwa-chan likes me so much he wants to do boring errands with me.”

“I do,” Iwaizumi replies earnestly and it makes heat rush across Tooru’s face, his ears burning with affection for the man next to him. He feels oddly off kilter as he often does in Iwaizumi’s presence. It quiets all his doubts and insecurities into a soothing hum in the background. As if Iwaizumi’s shoulders block them from accessing closer to Tooru’s person.
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The going away party is at a small dive bar in Roppongi. Tooru arrives fashionably late, not by his own planning (though he intends to say it was), but because he had an issue at ticketing and nearly missed his train. Also Tokyo is gigantic and he always forgets that when he comes to visit. He thinks an old woman clubbed his knee on purpose when she exited the train. Now he has a bit of a limp and a short fuse for a temper. He tries his best to stifle all that when he enters the scene. Immediately he sees two mischievous and familiar faces approaching, as if they’ve been waiting for his arrival. He met them in Vegas. They’re the grooms-to-be.

Matsukawa and Hanamaki, Tooru reminds himself as he plasters a pleasant smile on his face.

Hanamaki throws an arm around Tooru’s shoulder, tugging the man down slightly as he crows a loud greeting that makes at least one person turn towards them. The snoop has a peculiar shallot-like hairdo, but Tooru isn’t very up to date on Tokyo fashion. For all he knows shallots could be all the rage with the youth.

“Good to see you again, Oikawa,” Matsukawa says, drawing Tooru back in to whatever monologue Hanamaki has been making. His eyes drop to Tooru’s left hand almost unnoticeably, though Tooru notices. He also notices how his dark eyebrows raise just barely before he looks at Hanamaki. Hanamaki pauses in his speech (Tooru thinks he heard a reference to Absinth, but he’s hoping he’s mistaken). They seem to communicate with only their eyelids.

“All in good time,” Hanamaki says to his fiancé while patting Tooru. It’s cryptic enough to be concerning. “He always works at his own pace.”

“He,” Tooru repeats, thoroughly confused and still a bit peeved about his knee and the old thug who battered it. He’s quickly running out of patience and he’s only just arrived.

“Here he is now! The man of the hour,” Hanamaki says, turning Tooru around so quickly that he nearly loses his balance. Tooru glares at the pink haired man, but it loses its venom almost instantly when he sees Iwaizumi across the way. He looks terribly bored, sipping a drink as some older gentleman (maybe a superior) chats his ear off. Next to him is a dangerously angry looking man with bumblebee like hair and a much more put together man who is nodding at whatever the boss is droning on about. Tooru is silently thanking the gods that the boss moves away naturally by the time they arrive to Iwaizumi. The bumble haired man is grumbling to Iwaizumi and the sandy haired co-worker.

“And on a Thursday evening, too,” he growls, almost dog like. “As if anyone will be able to finish that tomorrow. It’s like he’s planning for us to work on the weekend.”

“Just do it Monday,” the other man says, waving away the concern. His sharp eyes spot Tooru just as Hanamaki releases his shoulder.

“Oh, hello! Are you with Osaka,” the man asks, sticking his hand out to greet Tooru. “I’m Yahaba Shigeru.”

Tooru not going to lie, but he also isn’t really sure what to say. He takes Yahaba’s hand and shakes it without a verbal response. It's not lying if he doesn't confirm or deny. Iwaizumi shifts the glass from one hand to the other, allowing his closer arm to slink into Tooru’s before pulling him three steps closer. Close enough to be on the line of possessive, but also provide a breadth of space between their ribs. Without missing a beat, as if he says it every second of every day, Iwaizumi explains, “This is my partner Oikawa Tooru.”

Tooru isn’t sure he’s breathing. He may have passed out. Maybe the old lady drugged him and he's hallucinating. Yahaba’s eyes practically beam with excitement. It helps ground Tooru in reality.

“You invited him,” Yahaba says. He claps his hands and leans closer to Tooru conspiratorially. “We’ll have to catch up later. I want to hear all the gossip about Iwaizumi. He’s only recently started sharing anything and the curiosity is killing us.”

“A gentleman never kisses and tells,” Tooru says, though he winks in a way that implies he could be convinced to do otherwise. Truth be told, he’s trying his best to stay focused on Yahaba’s every word and not the ones that Iwaizumi just dropped before them so casually.

Yahaba strikes up a conversation with the angry bumblebee (Iwaizumi called him Kyotani but Yahaba called him Mad Dog). They're close in proximity, but far enough away that Tooru uses the brief moment alone to pinch the fabric at Iwaizumi’s elbow. He feels bashful in a way that’s ridiculous. Iwaizumi glances at him, eyebrows scrunching together in concern. “Are you okay? You’re all red.”

Tooru’s voice comes out smaller than usual and Iwaizumi leans in to hear. It doesn’t help Tooru regain his composure at all. “You called me your partner.”

“Ah,” Iwaizumi says, clarity parting on his face like clouds after a storm. “I did. Is that okay?”

Of course that’s okay, Tooru thinks. It’s better than okay! I want you to call me it all the time. Instead he says, “Yeah, that’s okay.”

“I just feel like boyfriends isn’t right, but,” Iwaizumi pauses. In the beat of silence Tooru can almost see the rest of the sentence forming in the air before them. But we got drunk and then married in Vegas. But I took the rings and haven’t given them back. But you have annulment papers. Tooru blinks, pushing away his catastrophizing thoughts before they can start and ruin the night.

“I like partner better,” he says. “It feels more all-encompassing. More our own thing.”

“Good,” Iwaizumi says, a smile breaking across his face. He’s giving Tooru a pleased look that makes Tooru feel sort of itchy in a pleasant way. Like he sees Tooru in all his best and worst parts, the earworm insecurities and the confident gravitates, and despite that he likes what he sees. It makes Tooru feel like averting his eyes. It makes him feel warm all over. It makes him want to cut their time at this party short or find a closet and have some quick release. Something about this must show on Tooru’s face because he gets a stern look before said look is blocked from Tooru’s view by a hand to his face. “Don’t look at me like that. We’re in public.”

Tooru makes a noise that’s half laughter and half indignation as he tries to pry Iwaizumi’s hand away from him. “This is just how I look!”

“No, it is not,” Iwaizumi says and his voice is gravelly gruff. Tooru manages to pull his middle and index fingers apart to see Iwaizumi staring at him, eyes darkened with something that sends a shiver of anticipation down Tooru’s spine.

“How’s it look then,” he teases like the little shit he is. Iwaizumi likes him any way and that just makes Tooru’s skin prickle all over again. Iwaizumi has his own shiver then. Tooru watches as it moves from his shoulders down to his lower back. Tooru licks the palm of Iwaizumi’s hand. That ruins the mood, but also frees Tooru’s face from possible suffocation as Iwaizumi makes a disgusted noise. He wipes his hand on his shirt.

“You’re a toddler,” he scolds Tooru.

“I’m your partner,” Tooru says triumphantly. Iwaizumi looks pained at this. Like he’s realizing what he signed up for and is concerned that he isn’t more disturbed by it. That he finds Tooru to still be appealing even when he licks his whole palm and ruins the mood. Tooru is definitely going to ruin Iwaizumi’s party by stealing away the honored guest. Not now, he decides. Sometime soon, like when Iwaizumi is just finishing a conversation with Yahaba about some new co-workers who don’t get along. When he excuses himself to get another drink and a plate of stuffed mushrooms to balance his moderate and very responsible drinking. Tooru wants to lace his arm with the man casually, smiling sweetly when Iwaizumi gives him a sideways scowl, like he knows something isn’t right. Tooru will decide, well, if he knows then he knows. No point wasting time! He’ll practically hip check Iwaizumi into the bathroom stall, locking the door behind him with one hand as the other pushes Iwaizumi farther in.

A flick on Tooru’s forehead ruins the scenario he’s building in his mind. Tooru pouts, giving a whine. That’s definitely going to leave an awkward red mark for at least the next twenty minutes.

“Oikawa, don’t even think about whatever you’re thinking about,” Iwaizumi warns, but it’s not nearly as threatening as it could be. It almost sounds like a question. A hopeful suggestion. Before Tooru can quickly revise his plan's timeline, Iwaizumi changes the subject. “Let’s get dinner after this. I know a place.”

“You know a place,” Tooru repeats. The words and idea so foreign from the man who plans little to no activities that it actually halts even Tooru’s dirtiest of thoughts. Iwaizumi scowls because it’s obvious he knows exactly what Tooru’s thinking and isn’t that just lovely? Like ice cream in the desert or wet kisses on dry nights. An Elvis impersonator waiting patiently at the top of an aisle.

“Yes I know a place,” Iwaizumi says not half as offended as he ought to be. “So behave.”
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The spot that Iwaizumi knows about is in the backstreets of Shinsen, a quieter, more mature residential corner of Shibuya. The outside if a fairly nondescript: a wooden door above two cement stairs and a lantern signaling a pub. Tooru’s sure he would have passed it if Iwaizumi hadn’t tugged his arm to stop, the Shibuya lights still dazzling his eyes. Kyoto is a city in its own right, but nothing is as bright as Tokyo.

“The only reason Kyoto didn’t get bombed out is because one of the Americans went on a honeymoon here,” Kuroo informed him when Tooru told him the observation after his last Tokyo trip.

“Wow, Tet-chan,” Tooru had replied, fixing his headphones and testing his mic. “Maybe get any other negativity out in the open before we hit record, huh? We aren’t doing a downer episode.”

Kuroo just rolled his eyes. “Alright, your hair is also giving me really bad vibes.”

Tooru threw a stress ball across the room. It missed by just a hair.

Inside the pub is a cacophony of sound. Only ten seats at the counter face the tiny open kitchen, with pots perched above the burners and the tableware stacked on shelves to the side. A large calligraphy painting hangs on a backlit wall, above a handful of narrow tables. The tables were filled with 30-somethings toasting at the end of the tough workday. Two seats lay open for them at the bar and though Tooru was fairly sure a reservation as involved based on the space and the menu, he was having hard time figuring out when Iwaizumi had confirmed these seats were for them. Still, he takes the seat Iwaizumi pulls out for him. It’s facing a glass-fronted refrigerator filled with several different varieties of sake.

A hot sake and side dish appear before Tooru, despite the fact that Tooru’s almost positive he hasn’t seen a menu on the bar or at any of the tables. He glances at Iwaizumi to see the man in question take a bite of the dish as if he isn’t surprised by its appearance at all. Tooru follows suit. It’s some kind of potato salad, a mash of two types of spuds with crunchy bites of cucumber, a soft-boiled egg with a take of cherry wood and vinaigrette punched up with Dijon mustard. It’s delicious and extravagant and not at all like any of the places has Iwaizumi normally gone to on their Tokyo weekend. It reeks of a special occasion. This is just for you, the potatoes tell Tooru. This is a place he found for you.

This thought warms his gut almost as much as the sake.

“There’s no menu,” Iwaizumi explains when Tooru asks what the next selection is. It simply appears as if by magic from the back. “Makki told me about this place, actually. You just state your preferences and the chef chooses something for you.”

“What did you say our preferences were,” Tooru asks in between slurps of fresh hand-cut udon noodles topped with daikon, crispy tempura crumbs, and a squeeze of lemon.

“I just told them to make it taste good and fancy,” Iwaizumi replied with a shrug.

Tooru wiggles his fingers to coax Iwaizumi in, as if about to share a secret. He leans in so he can’t be overheard. When he’s satisfied by Iwaizumi’s half amused expression, Tooru whispers, “This is impress-a-date delicious, Iwa-chan.”

“Good,” Iwaizumi says with a nod. “That’s what I’m trying to do.”

All the humor leaves Tooru to be replaced very quickly by an overabundance of affection. It makes him want to say, I think if I could go back in time I’d make all the same mistakes if I could end up in Las Vegas with you again. I think I’d miss my flight this time and if you told me to stay in America I might suddenly have become an expert in black jack. I want to stay with you like this forever. Do you want to be with me like this forever? Could you see us like this? It feels too big to contain but also too big to express. He takes a sip of his sake to try and distract himself before he simply says, “oh.”

Iwaizumi isn’t letting him off easy though. He shifts in his seat and Tooru can’t tell if he’s uncomfortable because he’s in a blazer and it’s rather warm or because he’s a little nervous about something. What that something is Tooru has no idea. Tooru realizes half a second late that Iwaizumi’s shifting to get something from his pocket. When he places it on the bar counter it makes a clinking sound. He pulls back his hand and the light catches against a silver ring. It’s metal and braided, every strand overlapping intricately with a slight shine as if there are jewels in it. It’s much nicer than the ring Iwaizumi took with him and much closer to the style Tooru chose for Iwaizumi. Tooru stares at the ring on the counter because it’s appeared rather suddenly and really he’s not sure what’s happening. Iwaizumi clears his throat, drawing Tooru’s attention up to him. He scratches behind his left ear making the light catch his left finger. It dances across the silver ring there, braided as well.

It is the ring Tooru bought him in Las Vegas.

The ring Iwaizumi took during their fight.

“I thought about getting gold or white gold for you, but Makki said to stick with what I know,” Iwaizumi admits, clearly embarrassed by the whole affair. “I, um, well...”

He gestures at the ring as if to fill in the blanks. Tooru reaches for the ring as if instructed. He understands in the way he always understands Iwaizumi: instinctually and without instruction. Tooru thought he was feeling a bit overwhelmed before but that pales in comparison to the moment he lifts the ring from the counter. Even from a distance he sees it’s inscribed, which is already a lot for his heart. He pulls it closer to read: Sorry. I was happy. I hope you were too. I was happy, but I have to leave.

Tooru hears himself gasp, slightly watery. He hears himself rather than feels it because he thinks he’s separated from his corporal form. He’s floating five feet above himself, trying to memorize every second of this interaction.

“It’s what you wrote to me on your business card,” Iwaizumi explains unnecessarily. He scratches the back of his neck. He takes a deep breath, then finishes his sake. Finally he turns to Tooru. The peaks of his cheeks are pink with liquid courage and his brows are furrowed in concentration as he speaks. “Tooru, I’m not very good at words, especially when it matters. I want you to be my partner and my husband and my factor in anything I choose. You make me happy in Las Vegas and in Tokyo and Kyoto. I want to feel this way in Osaka too. I don’t know what your plan is for after your lease and I don’t know if I deserve to be considered in it, but I hope you will. Consider me, I mean. I think, no. I know I love you. Let’s stay married.”

Tooru’s pretty sure that objectively this is the most embarrassing moment of his life. His face is flaming so red that he’s practically a tomato. The bar is warm and he can feel sweat on his brow. He’s not prepared at all so his eyes are watering and he’s staring at the man before him and a silver ring that’s just his style and he might cease to exist right on the spot. Out of nowhere an intrusive thought pops into his mind- an earworm even Tooru didn’t expect: I wish it was my ring. He can see it in his mind’s eye. That hideous black thing Iwaizumi picked out for him, half swaying as he triumphantly pointed to it declaring it “badass enough for marriage!”

But Tooru’s not picky. Not when it comes to Iwaizumi. He’ll gladly take anything- an hour, a weekend, a train ride, a ring, a marriage license. All to be with Iwaizumi just one more second. Tooru reaches for the silver ring. He’s ready to say yes, of course, duh. All kinds of affirmatives, but Iwaizumi sighs in an almost defeated manner. He puts his hand over the silver ring and pulls away. Tooru can hear it against the counter. Tooru’s just about to ask what is happening when Iwaizumi explains instead.

“I told Makki,” he says. He grabs Tooru’s left hand, turning it over to be palm up. He places his free hand over Tooru’s and drops something smooth and cold in the palm before pulling back. “Sorry it took so long.”

In Tooru’s hand is a hideously unfashionable, but extremely familiar, black ring. Inside is a new inscription that reads: I am happy. I hope you are too. I am happy and I have to stay. Love you.

Chapter Text

In the best sort of way, Oikawa Tooru unfolds himself into Hajime’s life. He's like a map just unwrapped from the store. Not a tear or unwanted crease to be seen as it transforms from a rectangle that could fit into Hajime’s left hand into one he holds with both palms facing the sky. Accepting an offering. Preparing to give thanks. It expands larger still until it stands fully unfurled revealing all the paths and sites one might be destined to go to and even some that would best be avoided. All expertly outlined in the legend, except for some murky spots shaded off in gray. Hajime enjoyed those parts as well. The way they border the vibrant greens and yellows and browns to make a full picture of Oikawa. A picture like the one hanging in the entry way that had once been buried in Hajime’s dresser drawer. A night in Las Vegas that changed everything for the best.

There was something about living with Oikawa that made Hajime pause and bask in the idiosyncrasies of the man he was married and in love with. That was the order it had happened in so that was the order he considered it. Or maybe it had been the reverse. Or at the same time. It was hard to tell now and Hajime didn’t think the order mattered when the picture of his beaming smile, open and carefree, was displayed so readily. Hajime had a distinct urge to carve it into the plaster to keep it permanently. He probably could too. The landlord’s paint job was pretty rushed.

It was something in the still life of their bathroom counter: covered in face and hair products. A scene of havoc with half-filled and toppled bottles and half squeezed out tubes. Oikawa insisted there was a method to the madness. In a purely scientific manner Hajime found that if he moved a tube two centimeters to the left, Oikawa would absolutely notice. He wouldn’t say it aloud, but Hajime could see it in the way his hand paused in the air. The way his brows pulled together. The tiniest scrunch to his nose. Lower lip pressed firmly against the top. His brown eyes would slide to Hajime who was innocently brushing his teeth. Desperately interested in the size of the pores on his nose or the symmetry of his ears or a particular clump of gray hairs he was convinced Oikawa had given him as a wedding gift. Hajime thought his act was probably convincing eighty-five percent of the time which meant Oikawa likely knew he was the culprit every time.

It took four centimeters to the right to get this same reaction. Hajime didn’t know what to make of this discrepancy. He tried not to dwell on it for too long lest his whole day slip away with his mind chasing thoughts of his husband. Which it sort of did any way.

It was something in the way Oikawa made them coffee in the morning and tea in the evening. He leaned forward each time he set it in front of Hajime. Breath held. A statue posed in a garden. Peering. Waiting. Observing until Hajime took a sip and hummed in affirmation that it was pleasing to the tongue. Only then would Oikawa lean back with his own melodious hum. An orchestra of satisfaction that he'd completed such a simple task for Hajime. Once or twice Hajime pretended the coffee was burned or the tea too sweet (and once it really was too hot and he nearly scalded his tongue as a price for his method acting). He would allow his natural scowl to form. Eyes staring at the liquid within as if he were looking into the Mirror of Galadriel and seeing the armies of Mordor assemble to ravage the world of men. Oikawa would squirm in anticipation. His fingers tapping against the tabletop making a light click every time the black ring with the inscription inside met the surface. It felt like Morse code. A secret message tapping away the very writing within. Message: I am happy STOP I hope you are too STOP I am happy and I have to stay STOP Love you STOP. Inevitably this thought would fill the cup in Hajime’s chest so full that it would run over all over his face and his scowl would dissipate with an explosion of sunshine. Clearing every wrinkle that might have rested there moments before in an unbridled childish delight to have pulled one over on his husband.

“It’s the honeymoon phase,” Matsukawa explained when Hajime mentioned the excessive exercise his thoughts were getting chasing Oikawa about his mind.

“I thought the honeymoon period ended with the Sapporo issue,” Hajime replied, carefully moving the origami cactus on his desk so the air conditioning wouldn’t blow it away. He ought to tape it into place.

“Is that what we’re calling it,” shouted Hanamaki. His voice was distant, but clear and Hajime scowled.

“You know I hate it when you put me on speaker and don’t tell me.”

“You should always assume you’re on speaker,” Matsukawa answered easily. “That was honeymoon phase number one and this is honeymoon phase two because you just moved in together.”

“How many phases of a honeymoon are there,” Hajime asked. Not that he minded a hundred or a thousand. He really just wanted to know how many crises he should prepare for in-between.

“Well, you’ve done it all out of order so it’s hard to say,” Matsukawa replied.

“Absolutely reckless,” Hanamaki agreed loudly. “I adore it. Hey, how do you feel about periwinkle?”

“As what,” Hajime asked, a growing sense of foreboding building behind his right ear. Something that could be dispersed with a sip of water or could grow into a full blown headache depending on his friends next words.

“As everything,” Hanamaki replied, tugging the phone away. “Imagine yourself in periwinkle from head to toe. A crown of periwinkle on your head with a periwinkle suit and periwinkle shoes.”

'"Periwinkle would look terrible with your hair," Hajime says as if he knows anything about such color coordination. He isn't even sure he knows what shade periwinkle is.

Hanamaki made an offended sound. “My hair looks great with everything!”

“It does look great with everything,” Matsukawa agreed dutifully. “But the wedding is too close to make that kind of change.”

“You’re a beast,” Hanamaki replied. “Iwaizumi, I’m moving in with you and Tooru.”

“You won’t be allowed passed security,” Iwaizumi snapped, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “And don’t call my husband by his first name. It’s weird.”

“Tooru understands,” Hanamaki sighed. Iwaizumi was deeply regretting his choice of friendships.
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They found an apartment in a neighborhood in Amagasaki, just a ten minute train ride from Osaka and an hour train to Kyoto. It was in a four floor building with a small balcony outside and a floor plan that included one bedroom, a medium kitchen, a smaller living room, and a bathroom. Nothing too fancy and nothing too large, but it was the first apartment Hajime had ever rented with a lover (let alone a husband). In that sense the apartment was perfect and Oikawa unfolded himself into Hajime’s world and Hajime couldn’t fathom why he’d want to ever return to the way he had been before. Honeymoon phase or otherwise.

“I don’t understand,” Kuroo says into Hajime’s ear as he waited for the train in the morning. He had continued the tradition of listening to the podcast even now that Oikawa bounces ideas off of him randomly. Ponders on ways to pester Kuroo in the kitchen or strange topics to discuss over the shared sink. Kuroo continues on the podcast, “Why didn’t you just move to Osaka?”

Oikawa gives a condescending huff as he replies, “Amagasaki is a major industrial suburb of the Ōsaka-Kōbe metropolitan area. It’s very historical and nice. In fact, it is a popular getaway for Osakans who enjoy izakaya and onsen.”

“Are you a brochure,” Kuroo laughs. “Is this episode sponsored by the Amagasaki tourist board?”

“No. This episode is sponsored by your mother who sends her regards.”

“A mom joke? Really?”

“Just for that, I’m going to tell you everything you didn’t want to know about Amagasaki.”

“Do your worst. I love to learn.”

“Okay. In the feudal period it was a castle town. During the 20th century Ama, as the locals call it,-“

“Oya oya. Are you a local now?”

Oikawa ignores his friend. Clearly a skill honed through years of practice. “- attracted large modern factories to manufacture iron and steel goods, electrical machinery, transport vehicles, and chemicals. Extensive withdrawal of groundwater for industrial use has led to serious land subsidence, rendering the city vulnerable to high waves during the typhoon season. Preventive measures include landfill and external water-supply systems.”

“Oh my god,” Kuroo groans. “Did you go on a tour of the city?”

Hajime knows for a fact they did go on a city tour the first weekend after moving in. Oikawa continues, somehow still snobby despite the completely dorky picture of himself he is portraying. “Some attractions include the World Piggy Bank Museum, more widely known as the World Money Box Museum, Amashin Historical Museum, Amagasaki Cultural Center, and the Amagasaki Castle replica.”

“Replica,” Kuroo replies. “What kind of castle town only has a replica castle? Sounds like a rip off.”

“Your mom ripped this shirt off last night,” Oikawa says and Hajime can see him sticking out his tongue at his friend. A three year old stuck in a grown adult’s body. Still, Hajime couldn’t help but shake his head fondly as he walks into the office, storing away his headphones to start the day just as Kuroo grumbles darkly about meeting Oikawa being the worst day of his whole life.

Later, Oikawa returns to the house as if he were practicing for the circus: one arm filled with four grocery bags. Two bags held by the handle and the other two held by the bottom like a reckless juggler with no regard to the delicate nature of eggs. The second arm is free except for a small potted cactus.

"What are you doing," Hajime asks, mentally taking note to count his gray hairs. He thinks another has changed from black. His tone is only half as exasperated as it ought to be and at least four times more excited. As if he doesn’t see Oikawa every morning and evening now that they shared the same air. Oikawa places the bags on the counter, somehow maneuvering all four gracefully into place before Hajime can reach him to assist. He would have looked a fool with his arms out approaching the man before him except Oikawa turns around and presents the cactus to him with both hands and a slight bow. As one might present a confession letter behind the school auditorium. Instead of a speech he declares, "Welcome home, Iwa-chan!"

“Idiot," Hajime huffs. He takes the plant with both hands. An acceptance and a declaration. "I'm supposed to welcome you home."

Oikawa beams at him bright as the summer sun and equally as hot. All teeth and hideous uninhibited happiness. As if seeing Hajime here were a treat he hadn't seen coming. Hajime couldn't focus on the look for too long. It gives him flashes of too many feelings all at once and not a single one of them is close to reasonable. Oikawa’s expression morphs as if he knows what Hajime is thinking, but Hajime can’t prevent himself from thinking it so he just scowls harder to make Oikawa change the subject before it gets revealed. Oikawa doesn’t miss a beat. He removes two packs of firm tofu (perfect for baking) from the grocery bag as he speaks.

"Dai-chan down the lane said we're very traditional because we got married before we moved in together.”

Hajime tries to picture the pointed almost snake like face of the man being referenced. They'd met on the first day and he hadn't gotten the impression the two would be talking again. "Does Daishou know the whole story?"

"Our whole love story," Oikawa teases, peaking over the fridge door. Hajime scowls back because he can tell he is being teased along into some harmless bantering trap. One that sometimes is aimed to agitate Hajime into taking drastic measures to shut Oikawa up. Like kissing him senseless. It’s working given that his left thumb is spinning his ring around his finger once, twice, three times. The other hand holding the small cactus.

Traditional was likely what anyone who knew Hajime without really knowing him would expect him to do. To work hard for his job and put in overtime. To find a nice young woman to settle down with. To support them and make them as happy as they could be. To call home to his mother and visit the neighborhood aunties for tea. To be honest and respectful and responsible. Hajime was all of these things. Was willing to gladly perform the visits and shows of respect needed. He had never been destined for a young wife, but his mother didn’t expect one. Not when he had come to her after his first and only high school relationship had ended and confessed that he didn’t think he was interested in pursuing girls. His mother had hummed, patting his hand with open understanding and acceptance and said, “That’s fine, Hajime.” And it was fine. Traditional was fine and keeping your head down was fine and being honest and responsible was fine. It had all been just fine until it was suspiciously not fine and then it had been world shatteringly wrong in Sapporo. Now, he was in an apartment in Amagasaki staring at Oikawa Tooru a man he met and married the same twenty-four hours in a desert night that looked like perpetual day. His husband with dancing eyes and smoldering looks and laughter so clear in Hajime’s mind’s eye that it bounced around the caverns of his chest and reverberated against his bones. Rattled his chest like an earthquake of affection.

"It's not very traditional to meet a man and marry him in Las Vegas the same night," Hajime reminds his husband because going into all those other details would really detract from the issue at hand which is that Oikawa is pestering him into a corner for kisses and there is a cactus in his hand that is going to make progressing that further very difficult.

"I can't tell everyone our whole story, Iwa-chan," Oikawa scolds, closing the fridge and stretching. "They'll be jealous. Do you want to go to the park to see the sunset?"

"What am I supposed to do with this cactus," Hajime asks holding it up as evidence. Oikawa shrugs.

"Put it with the rest of its family of course. Iwa-chan is a collector. A whole garden of look-a-likes."

Hajime desperately wants to throw the cactus at his husband and desperately wants to smother him with affection. Since one is immature and one will only enforce bad behavior, Hajime places the cactus on the windowsill near the balcony. It is the fifth cactus Oikawa has brought back in just as many weeks.

"You have to stop doing this," Hajime reasons as they walked down the stairs and out to the street below. "We'll run out of space by the end of the month. Crushed to death by cacti."

"Isn’t it cactuses,” Oikawa asks, waving pleasantly at a family biking by. The youngest in a chariot pulled behind sticks out her tongue at the two of them. Oikawa reels back before grumbling about the pessimistic forecast the future of society holds. His spider like fingers weave between Hajime’s own. There was a time when such displays would have made Hajime shrink away and close in on himself. Too absorbed with the potential thoughts and glances of others passing by. The whispers of what might be. The inconvenience of having to explain himself and his identity to strangers and co-workers. Loving Oikawa Tooru has made him bolder. It's not that he is waving about a flag for the neighborhood or sending out detailed holiday cards with the announcement, but he can collect cactus on the window and move hair products four centimeters to the right and watch his partner make baked tofu for dinner. He can allow Oikawa’s fingers to slide between his own and give two firm squeezes back. One to confirm his husband is still there and another to remind him that Hajime is here as well. That they were more than fine. When Oikawa has soothed his old man complaints enough, he jumps right back to addressing Hajime’s very legitimate concerns of death through hording plants outlining exactly which plants he hopes smothers him and why it would be the best way to go until Hajime can’t stand the topic any longer and kisses him into silence. When he pulls back Oikawa is beaming, sending pinks and magentas across the dusk sky.

Hajime’s reinforced bad behavior once again, but he can’t seem to care too much.
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Hanamaki and Matsukawa can't legally get married in Japan, but that doesn't mean they won't get as close as possible. By all accounts the ceremony and reception seem like any other wedding except for the fact that there's no pause for paper signing. Instead, the officiant (a role Hajime had declined since he was already the best man for both sides) releases them to a cocktail hour that will blend into dinner and dancing. There is a cart with Japanese whisky and Cuban cigars next to a sign that states: awkward but enthusiastic dancing this way. There’s a build your own creampuff station covered in sprinkles and frosting from Matsukawa’s second-cousin’s toddler. Hajime hopes he isn’t sitting next to the hellion when the sugar high hits. Or when it crashes. He’s just contemplating this when Hanamaki wraps an arm around Hajime’s shoulder, leaning more than half his bodyweight on the best man.

"We’re married, Zumi,” he crows. He is far too close to Hajime’s ear to be so loud. He smells like Kujira Ryukyu Whisky, the one twenty year years that cost Hajime half the weight of his wallet. Hanamaki pays not mind to Hajime's wandering thoughts as he continues to scream, “Fuck the man. He can't tell me what to do!"

"I think we're supposed to wait for that until after the guests leave," Matsukawa says lazily, his hand grasped firmly by Hanamaki as well.

"It's our party," Hanamaki says wiggling his eyebrows. Hajime pushes the pink haired menace’s arm off him. "Don't rope me into your weird foreplay."

"Roped in," Hanamaki replies, wiggling his eyebrows. Hajime knows better than to give further ammo by responding. Instead he scans the crowd for his own date. He'd much rather have a discussion like this with Oikawa any way. Hanamaki and Matsukawa do the same, spotting an aunt they need to greet. They disappear like vapors in the mist. Just when Hajime wonders if his partner has done the same, he spots him talking to an older woman with dark hair. He’s apparently giving some kind of instructions as he points behind them. The soft lights are dancing off of his hair and his friendly smile is soft and approachable. Hajime approaches feeling like a still lake: calm and serene. A reflective mirror with a single cloud floating through. A soft summer breeze.

The woman follows Oikawa’s finger, turning to look at the door and Hajime realizes he knows her. A slight ripple in the glass-like surface of his lake. Nothing too tumultuous. A surprise splash that smooths away as soon as it's come.

"Mom?"

Iwaizumi Ami turns towards her son, smile breaking across her face with recognition.

"Hajime," she greets. "I was just asking this young man for bathroom directions. I'm not surprised at all that Hiro and Issei would throw such an extravaganza, but it is all a bit much for these old bones."

"I didn't realize you'd be here," Hajime says. Not as an insult, but rather as an observation. Hanamaki and Matsukawa have never been much for formalities so while some would think inviting a parent they'd known since their teenage years was a must, you never knew with those two. Because Ami is his mother, she understands. The same way she hummed and patted his arm and understood all those years ago and all those years since.

"I was just as surprised."

Hajime suddenly realizes they aren't alone and Oikawa is standing where he had been, observing conversation with some interest. He hasn’t spoken since Hajime’s arrival. Has allowed Hajime to take the lead and Hajime is struck silly by this gesture once more. The softness and smallness of providing Hajime the time to invite Oikawa in when he is ready. Where Oikawa is concerned, Hajime is always ready.

"You met Oikawa then," Hajime says, gesturing to the man behind his mother. Both sets of eyes widen just slightly at the abrupt shift of subject. Ami turns, polite smile returning.

"Why, yes. Do you know one another?"

Oikawa’s eyes flit quickly to Hajime. An ask for permission. A chance at guidance. Hajime nods and Oikawa comprehends and this comprehension builds hot air in Hajime’s chest. Makes him want to take both of Oikawa’s cheeks in his hands and smoosh them together until the handsome man complains before kissing away the annoyance. Makes him want to add a seventh or eighth cactus to their collection.

"I'm Oikawa Tooru," Oikawa says, his most charming smile in place as he takes Ami’s hand first with one of his own and then with a second. He smiles broadly. Proud. As if he’s about to declare that he won bronze at the Olympics. "I’m Hajime’s partner."

Ami’s brows scrunch together in question. Hajime feels like time freezes with the movement of those brows. The flint of confusion on his mother's face. The eyes darting to him to clarify or confirm. There's something tepid in the air. A humidity before a crash of thunder. A boulder dropping into the lake, cracking the still surface entirely. A heaviness that weighs down the air Hajime sucks in.

"Your partner," Ami repeats and now she is turned fully to Hajime. Her hand is still sandwiched between Oikawa’s warm ones, but she looks like she may have been doused by cold water. Oikawa is the master of sensing the change in the atmosphere. A meteorologist able to keep his cool in the face of an incoming typhoon. He draws back slowly, fluidly. He doesn't seem frightened at all, merely turns his eyes to Hajime with the shadow of an apology. Hajime wants to comfort him. To assure him he did nothing wrong. He wants to reach out, but his mother's eyes have fallen to his left hand and they seem to bulge slightly at the ring. The term partner suddenly becomes crystal clear in meaning.

"Hajime," she says slowly. "Is this young man your-" she swallows like her thoughts are dragged down by an anchor. Hajime can see the words flitting across her tongue before disappearing: husband, lover, spouse, soul mate. She tries again. "Is he your partner, romantically?"

She doesn't say it like a dirty word. Doesn't pass any judgement on it, but she seems stilled. Listening. Anticipating and the tension feels almost the same. Hajime glances at Oikawa. His nail has moved to his mouth and he chews once before catching Hajime’s eye and moving the offending hand away. He knows Oikawa won’t be offended if he lies. If he provides a wall of omission. He’s an important person to me. We live together. We’re roommates. All true but not true. All vague suggestions of the expansiveness of the promise etched into their rings that chain their hands together.

"He’s my husband," Hajime says firmly, tugging the chain with him because the ring and the word and Oikawa aren't an anchor. They don't drag him down. They’re helium in a balloon. They lift him up. He tries to remind himself of this: that Oikawa unfolding into his life is the best thing to happen to him and that fact that Hajime can unfold into Oikawa’s all the same is equally as blessed. He tries to send this as silent communication to Oikawa whose hand is still fidgeting behind his back, face still colorless even as he releases a shaky breath.

"You never mentioned anything about..." His mother seems dazed, as if she's in a dream in which her son has tried to explain how one might fly from Mars to Jupiter without an oxygen tank or suit to protect from the cold expanse of space.

"I told you I wasn't interested in dating women," Hajime reminds her because it's true. His palms were sweaty and he felt like he might be barely treading water and his mother had patted his hand comfortingly and said- "You said it was fine."

"I thought-" she begins and he can see the puzzle pieces falling into place as she plays the same scene in her own memory. A nervous high school Hajime just broken up with by his first girlfriend. He’s sweaty and unable to sit still as he confesses he's not interested in girls. She can probably see herself leaning forward to pat his hand and make that soothing sound mothers make to new and frightened babes: understanding, acceptance, I'm here for you. "I thought you meant at the time you wanted to focus on your school and career. You're so young. It's normal for boys to want to focus on their career. But you’re married.”

Hajime can’t tell what’s throwing her more for a loop: a man as his love interest or Oikawa as his husband. It doesn’t really matter and yet it feels like it matters. It’s not that big a distinction and yet it’s a gaping canyon between the two. Neither seems to be an outright rejection of the idea, but certainly she isn't pleased by the finding. A piece of gum stuck to her nice pair of shoes. A mysterious crossword that won't be solves no matter how long you consider it.

"Iwaizumi-san," Oikawa says and it's his most diplomatic voice. His head is tilted in to the side, his neck forward slightly to account for his above average height. He's looking to all the world as a priest might. A man who is humbled to be in your presence. A saint. He might as well be one too. Oikawa steps closer, brings their proximity within range of intimate, but not so close to be overwhelming. Hajime can feel his tone. It seeps right into his bone marrow and it's like a light kiss in the morning before work. A slight tease of fingers across scalp. A hum of acknowledgement at the end of a hard day. Hajime wants to bridge the gap between them and clasp their hands for dear life. To be pulled up into the air with the helium balloon of soft love, but he doesn't because he knows Oikawa is focused on being considerate and gentle with his mother. "I'm sorry this is how you found out. We should have-"

"Yes," Ami agrees before he can finish. She seems to realize her snippy tone and holds her hands up in apology. "It is a lot to take in at once. I'll let you two get back to the wedding."

She hurries away and out of sight. She leaves with a boom of thunder lost in the pounding music, but Hajime feels drenched with rain, cold and slightly sticky. Wool sweater and bad planning. It's not that it won’t dry, but he fears it will never be the same again.

Hajime goes to the restroom to re-center. Oikawa gives him ten minutes before he knocks and enters. He runs his hand through Hajime’s spikey hair. His ring catches once. A slight tug to say he is present like the cactus lining their windowsill. Unfolded and open for Hajime to see from the trails and roads to the gray murky areas to the side. Hajime doesn't say anything. He simply turns so his forehead rests against Oikawa’s abdomen. He inhales the scents of lemon and thyme and exhales the stiffness of the interaction. They stay in silence like this. Soft and warm and Hajime doesn’t have a single regret. Not about Oikawa and not with Oikawa.

Later, he sits at his assigned table for dinner and notices that there isn't an empty space nor is his mother present. Instead, a random cousin from Matsukawa’s side is chatting away with Oikawa about what she does to afford cat sweaters. Hajime’s sure that his mother was likely seated at their table, so the only way her seat is filled is if someone traded the name tags. A pinky raps Hajime’s once before retreating. He glances over and Oikawa winks before turning back to the cousin to lament about cats running away from dressings even when the most delightful tutus are present. Hajime loves him.
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Hajime knows he should call her. He thinks about it for a week and a half until the perfect morning seems to arrive. The sun is shining and the neighbor down the hall isn’t blasting his loud electronic music. The apartment is empty because Oikawa was called into work to cover for a sick coworker. The hushed atmosphere seems the perfect chance to broach delicate subjects. To rebuild bridges left shaken from the unexpected windstorm. A perfect day for the catharsis of confessions not shared clearly before.

His mother has never asked him to do anything. Has never directly instructed him to be a good boy to be obedient to be responsible and respectful. He's sure she's taught him valuable lessons but she's never passive aggressively tugged on the hooks of guilt every mother could tug at by the very nature of providing protection during his formative years. Hajime’s grateful she's never attempted such feats given that he doesn't need anything else making his dialing her number more difficult than it is. Somehow it still makes it equally as hard to know that she has been a kind and empathetic mother until now. The surprise is jarring enough to have him staring at his phone for two hours, willing his fingers to push the buttons. He imagines himself picking up the phone and dialing and his mother picking up with a hesitant tone. Not sure when her son began surprising her. He'd say hello and she'd say Hajime. And then he'd say I'm sorry I didn't tell you I got married. It was very spur of the moment. You see I met him in Las Vegas at Hanamaki and Matsukawa's bachelor party-

He hangs up the imagination right there.

He knows she's spotted the ring, but he hasn't actually told her how he married Oikawa given that it’s a whole ocean away. If she's a bit thrown off that her son has romantic interests that she never knew about then dropping the "I got married in Vegas" news in the same call is too much for Hajime to bear. He starts his imagined call again: this time she picks up without hesitation. She's cheerful. She sounds like she's forgotten the whole affair. She asks how Hajime is and how is work? Is Osaka treating him well? He says, actually Oi-Tooru and I moved into an apartment in Amagasaki. It’s part of the Hyogo Prefecture. Home to the famous Himeji Castle, Kobe beef, and various onsen resorts and towns. One of the three largest Buddha statues in Japan was built in Hyogo Prefecture at Nofukuji Temple in Kobe. We aren’t in Kobe, though. We’re in Amagasaki. We being me and Tooru, who keeps feeding the stray cats in the alleyway. I'm worried we'll have three cats soon as well. Including a mean one who I think is missing an eye from a knife fight with an enemy gang.

In his imagination his mother reacts two ways at once because his brain is evil and refuses to help him out at all. The first way is she hums in acknowledgement before continuing the conversation as if Oikawa hadn't been mentioned at all. She avoids all reference to him as if he doesn't exist. Brushes him, the Hyogo prefecture, and the alley cats under the rug for the whole call. The second is she pauses for a long time. An echoing silence on the other line that's filled with a void of disappointed expectations neither of them knew she had until this exact moment. Both visions converge when she ends the call by saying, "well, thanks for calling dear!"

Unfortunately by three, he still hasn’t made the call. Turns out the empty apartment and silent room are the opposite of comforting. Oikawa’s loud laughter and teasing tones would have been a welcome reprieve from the images Hajime’s mind has provided instead.

Hajime’s phone rings. It's not his mother, but it's equally shocking.

"Kuroo," Hajime greets, confusion evident in his voice.

"Hey," Kuroo says simply. Neither says anything after that. Hajime hasn’t really spoken to Kuroo since the aquarium, not without Oikawa there as a buffer. Even then he's made it clear how he feels. Not like he'd want to call to chit chat. Sure enough, Kuroo explains further. "Oikawa told me what happened at the wedding."

"Not on the podcast I hope," Hajime half-jokes. It comes off awkward because this phone call is just that: awkward.

"No, before we recorded. The episode was about a particular disagreement related to Dungeons & Dragons."

Hajime hums. "Yeah I heard it. I don't think your argument for rogues holds up."

"Okay," Kuroo says and some of his familiar tone is back. The one he used when he and Hajime bartered over the merger between Sejoh and Shiratorizawa. "You're opinion on this is biased by your relationship with my opponent."

"Fancy way to say you're mad that I'm right," Hajime replies and this too feels like some kind of heaviness is being lifted away.

"Literally the worst parts of Oikawa are rubbing off on you. You use to be so kind and gentle."

"When was that?"

"Never mind," Kuroo huffs. "That's not why I called anyway."

"Why did you call?'

"Just," Kuroo taps against something close to the phone. Hajime can hear it as if he's tapping against his eardrum. He’s searching for words and Hajime wishes he could help, but he has no idea what Kuroo might be trying to say. Kuroo finds whatever it is. "It's tough sometimes. Waiting for them to recalibrate their ideas of who you are."

"Yeah" Hajime agrees. It is. "We'll be okay.”

He’s not sure if he means him and his mother or him and Oikawa or both.

"Yeah I know," Kuroo replies and it's an endorsement if ever there was one.

It’s such a weird interaction that when it’s done Hajime calls his partner instead of his mother.

"What did your family say when you told them," he asks after checking to make sure his husband has eaten lunch. Papers shuffle on the other side of the line, a death glare thrown at me someone entering the office. Hajime can't explain how he heard the glare, but he knows it's there. Then Oikawa replies.

"Well, my sister said I was an idiot and sounded like I was in love. Then she asked what you were like and I said you were prickly."

"You're the worst," Hajime says, not at all believable.

"I told my mother during the two weeks you moved to Sapporo."

"That's not what happened," Hajime groans. "Are you telling me your mother hates me and I haven't even met her yet?"

"She doesn't hate you. If anything she was too rational about the whole thing. When I expected her to be ready to murder in my name, she told me to give you and myself some time to decide how we felt. That life is full of these sorts of surprises whether you get married in Vegas or in Tokyo. Very wise, but disappointing advice when you want a war cry and affirmation that you’re the best thing since milk bread.”

Oikawa covers the speaker with his hand to bark a command at some younger worker. Something bossy about prints and proof-reading and making something get approved stat! Hajime can imagine him all authority and sharp angles scaring the shit out of people who respect him, but also aren't sure if they’d willingly cross him. They don't realize the idiot takes Hajime to origami classes and goes on tours of the city he just moved to and learns about historical castle replicas. He wants to say I love you in every way I could ever love anyone. Instead he says, "you know my not telling her has nothing to do with you or us, right?"

The papers stop shuffling and a door closes softly. When Oikawa speaks it's low and fond and all kinds of nice things. Like the voice he uses to lure cats to have some food left behind or before he kisses Hajime on the forehead when he leaves for work. "I know. I didn’t think it did. You're very private about your personal life."

Hajime feels he's a grown man with a full career and a husband and an apartment. He shouldn't feel like this confirmation is needed yet the tone of open acceptance is profound. Like Oikawa has seen him in all his flaws and insecurities and nervousness and simply nodded. That makes sense. This is as it should be. That Hajime has unfolded into Oikawa’s life as well and Oikawa has run his hands across the grays and the blues and the greens and decided to keep the whole thing without revision. Hajime wants to say I think you're the love of my life and since he wants to love Oikawa in all the big and small ways that Oikawa loves him, he says, "You're the love of my life.”

"Oh my god, Iwa-chan," Oikawa whines back and Hajime just knows he's blushing and shielding his face from the nonexistent people in the office. "You can't just say stuff!"

"That's what conversations are," Hajime reminds him because he's a little shit sometimes just like his husband. "People just saying stuff."

"I can't believe you," Oikawa fumes. "I am at work and you are making me feel so annoyed that I'm not at home to smother you."

"With kisses or death?"

"Both! Text your mother and invite her to tea. It's a face to face issue."

"Alright," Hajime beams and suddenly the whole affair seems easy. All his imagined scenarios dissipating like a fog burned away by the noon sunlight. "Have a good time at work. If you're lucky I'll stay up for you with a treat."

Oikawa makes another strangled noise that only half sounds like "I love you too, you monster" before hanging up with the determination of a man who still has seven more hours of work to do. Hajime chuckles. Let's his eyes skim the living room: it's pillow shaped like an alien and it's star wars action figure hidden among the shelf of books. The pictures of the two of them posted on the walls. He picks up his phone and texts his mother: are you free to meet for coffee this week? I would love to show you our apartment.
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Hajime doesn’t know the first thing about trying to impress as a host, so he cleans the apartment. It seems like a basic first step, but it really just reveals more nerves and imperfections. Had his couch always been this color? Did the cactus shed needles? Should he deep clean the third shelf of the fridge or was that excessive? Oikawa comes out of the shower drying his hair as he glances around. He notices the tidiness and then he notices Hajime standing at the space between the living room and kitchen looking at the pristine place as if it’s an active volcano about to blow next to Pompeii. He releases a huff of exasperated air from his nostrils before swooping over and languidly kissing Hajime silly. He nudges him carefully into the bedroom and mutters reassurances as he runs fingers along all the areas Hajime is holding every last drop of anxiety. Pulls out each worry like an expert acupuncturist before making the same area feel warm and cared for and refreshed. By the end of it all Hajime feels a lot more satisfied and a lot less stressed and he thinks Matsukawa’s full of shit. Honeymoon phase two is never going to end. Loving Oikawa is the biggest thing Hajime’s ever done and it's the smallest and softest thing as well. It's swaying in front of an Elvis impersonator and picking out rings for one another to wear. It's intertwined agendas and lips brushing cheeks. Glances for support and spaces between fingers. Two squeezes to say I'm here. He refuses to let anything diminish that or fold up their maps or knock over their cactus.

An hour before Hajime’s mother is meant to arrive, Oikawa lays out a Hanazume Japanese Teapot Set and a fine green tea. Every piece is delicately painted and made from Kutani ware. The whole surface of the teapot and cups is completely covered with intricately painted flowers with gold trimmings. The gold trimmings have a gorgeous shine. It has a timeless elegance and sophistication. It even comes with a triangular yuzamashi.

“Where did you get this,” Hajime asks, almost too nervous to touch the fragile pieces. Oikawa shrugs.

“Wedding gift from my sister.”

“Why am I only hearing about this now,” he asks, not at all convincing in his scowl.

“I can’t reveal all my secrets at once, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa scolds, patting Hajime’s shoulder in a comforting way. “Otherwise you’d think I was boring.”

That’s impossible for Hajime to think, but he decides not to correct Oikawa since his partner is already at the door grabbing his keys to run some errands. As many errands as needed for Hajime and his mother to hash out a few things.

The moment he leaves, Hajime looks up how to make Gyokuro. It’s way fancier than he’s ever attempted on his own. The instructions online claim to be for beginners and they seem pretty easy to follow. First add tea. Okay. Basic. He scoops one heaping tablespoon of Gyokuro the teapot. Next add water. He goes to the sink and is about to fill it when he spots the details about using room temperature filtered or spring water. Of course. Fancy tea calls for fancy water. He adds enough to just barely cover the leaves. He steeps for 7 minutes and tries to follow the instructions given on the website: Clear your mind and become rooted in your seat. Breathe. Open your senses. Your palate will thank you.

It’s a bit pretentious, but whatever. Now its time to decant. He looks up that word. A verb to gradually pour from one container into another, especially without disturbing the sediment. Um, what? He peaks inside the teapot. The leaves have now been in there for twelve minutes and he’s getting the distinct feeling he’s messing up. There can’t be more than a tablespoon of tea in there. That can’t be right.

A knock on the door nearly makes him drop the pot. He hurriedly dumps out the content before leaving the tea pot on the kitchen counter and opening the door. His mother is standing there. She smiles as she enters.

“Sorry for intruding or disturbing you,” she says, slipping off her shoes and placing them on the shoe rack next to the door. She doesn’t seem thrown off by Oikawa’s nicely buffed brown leather work shoes next to Hajime’s black ones. Nor does she turn away when she stands to find a picture of Hajime and Oikawa together. They’re standing just outside the penguin enclosure at the Kyoto Aquarium, a few blurry penguins in the background. Hajime has his arm around Oikawa’s shoulders tugging him in closer so that Oikawa is forced to lean down slightly. If Hajime remembers correctly he had uses the advantage to kiss the top of Oikawa’s head, sending the surprised man into a shocked babble about their children being just a few meters away. Hajime doesn’t mean to hold his breath, but he can feel it stilled in his lungs and burning the trachea.

It’s a few seconds that feels like an hour, but Ami turns and smiles. “This is for you and your husband.”

She’s holding out a small neatly wrapped package with both hands. Hajime releases the air through his mouth as quietly as possible and accepts the gift with a slight bow. “Thanks, mom. Do you want to come in and sit?”

Ami gets right to business as soon as her butt hits the cushions Hajime had spent twenty minutes vacuuming between this morning. “I’m sorry I reacted like that at the wedding. I didn’t expect to meet your date, let alone your husband.”

“I understand,” Hajime says. He’s trying to be comforting, but he also feels like he needs to explain, but also like he doesn’t need to explain at all. “Oikawa and I are very happy together.”

“Well I hope so,” his mother says, a slight scold in her tone. “Marriage is a very serious commitment, Hajime. I won’t have my son taking it half-heartedly. I expect you and Oikawa to be grateful for one another. To take this seriously.”

“We are,” Hajime assures her. “We do. I promise.”

“And do you love him?”

For Hajime it’s the easiest question to answer. “Yes.”

Ami nods as if this is exactly what she had hoped to hear. As if she has checked off all of her concerns with this rapid lecture and quiz. Then she looks apologetic again as she says, “I felt a bit overwhelmed with the new information and hurt that you would make such a large decision without your family.”

“I’m sorry,” Hajime says, feeling a bit choked up by it all. The way his mother has rolled over all of his worse imagined conversations and plowed through to the heart of the matter. She leans forward and pats his hand. Hums in the way mothers comfort babes new to the world.

“It’s fine,” she says and Hajime can see its true. It’s in her approving smile, in the twinkle of her eyes in her relaxed shoulders. “I’m sorry to have made you wait for me. I did not mean to give the impression that something that makes you happy could ever mean any kind of unhappiness for me.”

Oh shit. Is he tearing up? He blinks quickly, trying to get a hold of himself as he pats her hand. He feels the helium filling his chest all over again. He echoes her words. “It’s fine.”

“Shall we have some tea, then,” Ami asks, gesturing to the cups. Hajime had forgotten about them and his inadequacies. His face must blanch in fear at attempting to make the Gyokuro again because his mother chuckles. “Fear not. I am an expert at tea making of all kinds. Take note so you can impress your husband on you anniversary.”
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When Hajime returns from walking his mother to the train station he finds Oikawa has also returned. A pile of clean laundry is stacked in their hamper and the chestnut haired man in lying on the unmade bed. His snores are too loud to be real and his limbs are star fished out (possibly over exaggerated, but not by much).

"You didn't even make the bed," Hajime scolds instead of saying I think we could do this forever. Every moment I fall more clumsily in love with you. I'll never go to a desert again without thinking of you. You've cursed a whole biome for me.

"I can't hear you, Iwa-chan," Oikawa replies, not opening an eye. "I'm sleeping.”

"At least help me make it now."

This time he gets only a snore in return. Hajime doesn’t even care. He’s too light and breezy from the successes of the day. He lets his whole body drop onto Oikawa like a wrestler body slamming an opponent. Oikawa lets out a noise of half distress and half laughter. Grumbles about Hajime smothering him. That they’re married so Hajime will be the most obvious suspect when Oikawa's found murdered in his own bed. Hajime doesn’t care. All he can think is how he plans to love Oikawa as loudly and as quietly as he likes. Through large gestures and small. To move his hair products and pretend he’s innocent when accused otherwise. To make him fancy green tea on their anniversary. To go on city tours and listen to his podcast when new episodes are released. To unfold until they both lose all their indents and wrinkles only to get more that are identical from bending and twisting in the same ways. He wants to try every type of gesture and he want to try it forever and he wants to do it here with Oikawa. His husband. His partner. Hajime shifts his weight so his husband can breathe properly again.

“I couldn't be prouder to have you as a partner,” Hajime mutters. Beneath him, Oikawa stills. He’s listening as if Hajime is telling him the most important news. Details that could save the world from a dismal apocalyptic future. Hajime basks in the attention as he continues. “You're the absolute best and no matter where we go, that fact will never change. But if you don’t get up to help me make the bed, I will defeat you.”

Oikawa lets out a laugh. Loops his hands around Hajime’s waist, running one up his spine to his shoulder. Hajime’s moved back enough to look down at his husband’s face which is tilted slightly to meet Hajime’s eyes, a glint of competition shining in the pupils and raised brows.

“Bring it on,” he replies.