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Hajime has a lot of happy places in this town.
Café Pothos, of course. Most of the side streets along the main Furin drag. The Riverside. The beach. But more than any of them, the place that brings him the most happiness? Bofurin’s highest point.
The roof, the tree, the garden, it was so different before Hajime got his hands on it; but with just a few years (and consistent care and attention), just like Bofurin itself, this place now thrives.
He considers himself lucky.
Early summer sun beats down against the back of his neck, he hums a song he hasn’t heard in quite some time as he trims the newest sprouts, and a thought crosses Hajime’s mind: he doesn’t deserve to enjoy this alone.
Carelessly, he bites the fingertip of his gardening glove and pulls his hand free, sputtering as he pretends to not be bothered by the bit of potting soil on his lips, then drags his phone from his pocket.
“Hmm, who’s around,” He hums, quickly swiping through active group chats as he thinks—until his decision is made for him.
“Umemiya- ” A voice calls. Familiar, but partially obscured by the loud, metallic whine of a heavy door. Any other voice would have been swallowed up entirely, but not this one. A deep, comforting rasp; one that’s been shouting at him for years.
Hajime beams, “Ah! Hiragi, you’re just in time!”
A bead of sweat instantly forms on Hiragi’s temple, right above a sharp cheekbone. Hajime squeezes his own fist. Focus.
“For…what?” Hiragi asks, reluctantly.
Hajime tips his head back and laughs, “Oh, don’t look so terrified, Hiragi! I was just looking for some company while I tend to these sprouts. And seeing as my usual sprout is indisposed with patrol—”
“That is terrifying, Umemiya. When it comes to your plants, you’re pretty damn scary.”
Hajime shuffles around the planter box and lets his laugh settle into a grin, “Mmm, I guess I can be a little bit of a fanatic.”
Hiragi softens at that, takes a few steps until he’s beneath shade, then flops into what appears to be an empty black lawn chair.
Unfortunately, it’s not exactly empty.
Hiragi’s expression tenses tenfold, his sweat multiplies, and Hajime bites his cheek to keep himself from laughing.
“Umemiya,” He growls through his teeth, “What… The hell did I just—”
“It’s a good thing you like your leather, Hiragi-chan.” Hajime teases.
He fumbles around the supply cart, carefully ignoring Hiragi’s grumbled curses, then finally meets his red-faced rage with a smile. And a handful of dry towels. “It could have been much worse, it’s only a little potting soil!”
Hiragi stands, and while most of the mess glides clean off, it doesn’t seem to keep him from shouting. “Just because my pants are leather doesn’t mean they can’t get dirty! My pockets are full of dirt, Umemiya!”
Hajime spins on his heel, quickly turning back to Hiragi with an under-filled pot in one hand, a green garden spade in the other, and the brightest, toothiest smile he can manage.
He glares Hajime down in silence, a “you can’t be serious” plastered all over his face—but without rejection, and with his attention firmly fixed, Hiragi stomps forward. He snatches both things from his hands, continues on towards the cart to grab his gloves, then mumbles something nearly unintelligible. Nearly.
“You’re lucky I fuckin’ like ya.”
And Hajime is. So lucky.
It’s a beautiful day, he’s in one of his favorite places, he’s with one of his favorite people; how could he be anything but lucky?