Work Text:
You still remember the day before Chishiya proposed.
The two of you had run to the convenience store earlier in the evening, and you’d rifled through the snack aisle as he’d watched. He’d smirked. As always. But there was something different: a frown, arising, every time you’d turned away. A furrow in his brow. Worry, maybe? Each time you’d look back to put something into the basket, the frown would escape him. And it would just be his same old smile.
Crisps, sweets, chocolate. All laid out across the coffee table in his apartment. Strange how you both ended up pouring more of your focus into the late-night red bean buns you’d gotten from a stand outside the convenience store. Maybe because it was a cold evening.
You think he put on whatever show was running — normally Chishiya would complain about a garish romantic drama on his television, but that night he’d said nothing. It was as if the sight of the two protagonists at the altar pulled him in. You hadn’t noticed, too enamoured by the red bean bun; but, now, when that show comes on before you go to sleep, you always remember the strange things that he’d asked.
“A flower crown?” he’d muttered, his slight smile tinted with amusement.
“Come on, I think it’s cute.”
A beat of silence. Of consideration.
Uncharacteristically curious, he’d asked, “Is that what you want?”
“Hm… Not sure.”
More silence, filled by the soft chime of music from the television.
“You’d be enough of an idiot to accept a contract marriage.”
You’d glanced up at flowers and white dress. “I would for the money.”
He’d scoffed — quieter than normal. “The money?”
Your agreement came in the form of a soft hum, muffled by the food now in your mouth. Swallowing, you’d replied, “Wouldn’t you?”
You took another bite, oblivious. He’d stared. Then, looked back at the television. The on-screen bride had hesitated before she glided down the aisle.
“My parents have tried.”
Huh. The thought was almost nonsensical to you. You’d rolled your eyes. Chishiya was nothing like the male leads in those cheesy dramas. But his expression was so unmoving, so unsettlingly devoid of humour, that it was the only reason you realised he was serious.
“…Wait. Really?” you’d marvelled, putting the half-eaten bun down. “During our relationship?”
He’d nodded simply.
Arranged marriages. You hadn’t imagined that was an ordeal rich people actually go through with — even more, you’d forgotten Chishiya was born from money at all. You still haven’t met the pair who allowed you to be as lucky as you are, married to their son. Sometimes you wonder if they even know. You’ve never really seen him as the type to mindlessly obey his parents, but never the type to disregard their wishes either.
“You actually said no?”
“Tch. I’m not you. Would you want me to do it for the money?” Chishiya had deadpanned, eyes turning away.
“You better not. Don’t leave me for a woman like that, even if it’s tempting,” you’d complained, gesturing to the bride on the television.
A chuckle. Wry, tinged with boredom. “And if I asked you to marry me instead?” he’d said.
He’s a good liar. The way he’d said it — so repressed, so flat. So uninterested, you’d only perceived it as a joke. And you’d laughed. Like the hypothetical was nothing more than a distant dream, a flicker of sunlight concealed by the skyline. Neon, colouring everything, but faint.
So, in turn, you’d joked back, “Then I’d hope for more than cheap snacks and cable TV.”
Now, you find it almost funny, seeing as the only look in his eyes was something like uncertainty. And — for as long as you’ve known him — Chishiya has never been a hesitant man.
It started with a ring.
Simple. Understated. Pretty, nevertheless: a clean, metallic band, punctuated with a gem that seemed to bloom from the middle.
When he’d pulled it from his pocket, the way he’d handled it had been so casual it was almost like he’d pulled out some extra change. A gift that meant nothing more than the fact that you could buy some chocolate from the vending machine.
Obviously, it wasn’t. The sight of the little gold ring struck you with intense shock, something you hadn’t felt in your relationship for years.
Yes, Chishiya was unpredictable, mischievous when he felt like it, but your constant proximity had pulled you into a state of understanding of him. The last time he’d surprised you was when you’d first woken up beside each other, and his arm was wrapped around your torso, cheek pressed to your temple. Warm. Intimate. Sweet. Then things plateaued.
Until that ring.
You remember his eyes couldn’t meet yours; you remember that — once you’d said yes — their previous uncertainty had trickled away, only leaving relief. And, maybe, pride? Not that you’d been able to tell, since his all-too-neutral expression had been nothing but the opposite to your wide smile.
You crumpled into his arms like some lovesick girl, eyes glassy, and he’d relaxed into you. His arms lost their tension as they found their place around you, and his cheek again pressed to your temple. Like all those years ago.
You’ll never know what his expression was like at that moment. Fearful, grateful, joyful. If you had to guess, you hope it would have been something peaceful.
The paediatric cardiology ward is quiet.
Quieter than you expected, you think, since you've always imagined Chishiya’s workplace to be very busy. But the hospital feels more lifeless than you ever could have imagined: emptied hallways, tall ceilings, the only sound the melodic chime of announcements. Maybe, had you visited sooner, you would feel less out of place. Or maybe it’s just the fact that your dress is a little too… delicate, for a surgery ward.
Earlier today, you’d worried about how people might perceive you. Your husband, the smug idiot, told you he was some sort of myth here: Dr. Chishiya — brilliant with a scalpel, but reportedly hasn’t smiled since medical school. They’re not too far off. They don’t talk to him, because of it. But at lunch, the nurses gossip about his nonexistent personal life, certain he goes home to a sterile, empty apartment. Apparently the photo on his desk isn’t enough, seeing as they like to talk about the lack of a ring on his finger. Aren’t there safety regulations that mean he can’t wear it? Not that it really matters. You just want to be able to look the part.
The ladies at the nurses’ station all glance up when you step out of the elevator. The one by the front is really quite pretty. Hair pulled into a neat updo, bangs clipped straight at her brows. All in tandem with the sterility of the ward.
In welcome, a soft smile spreads across her lips as you sidle up to the desk. It’s the first time they’ve ever seen you, seeing as you’ve never really felt the need to come here. You often wonder if it would just bother him. But when you found his lunch sitting vacantly in the fridge this morning — even though he had a full day — your feet seemed to move on their own.
You can’t help it. He forgets to eat often enough, and the apartment has been a little lonely recently. Chishiya works a lot now. You don’t really see each other during the day. Might as well, right?
“Hi,” the nurse begins. “How can I help you? This is a restricted floor.”
“Oh,” you exclaim quietly. Her smile — the same sort you’d give to a lost child in a shopping centre — punches an awkward apology from your throat. “Sorry, I’m just here to visit someone.”
You’d hoped the visitor badge would be enough, but you suppose you really don’t know how these things work.
“Who are you here to visit?”
“Ah, Dr. Chishiya.”
Almost imperceptibly, her brows raise. The nurse’s eyes flick up to yours, cataloguing what she finds there.
“…Are you a relative?”
Her tone is deadpan — as if the only answer she expects is ‘no’, because Chishiya is some loveless orphan whose life revolves around his work.
You smile.
“I’m his wife.”
Wife.
The nurse’s expression drops.
Your revelation ricochets, striking against the walls and awaking everyone in the vicinity. The nurses’ station seems to freeze. One of the workers behind the desk chokes on his coffee. Even the one in front of you pauses, like you’ve just told her that you’ve planted a bomb in the hospital.
“Dr. Chishiya?” the nurse echoes. The soft smile has snapped into pure shock.
“Yes,” you reply, nervously ignoring the stares burning into you. The ward is no longer quiet: the silence has shifted from disbelief to bustling confusion.
Eyes still needling into yours, the nurse reaches for the phone, fingers moving ever so slowly to dial him. It’s a little difficult to ignore the unending gazes of everyone around you. Like you’ve disrupted the peace by explaining how you share a last name with one of their coworkers. Fine, you get it. Chishiya can be secretive. But is it all that surprising that he has a life outside of this hospital?
You purse your lips. All things considered, it probably is.
“Dr. Chishiya?” the nurse mutters. “Uh, a Mrs. Chishiya is at the desk. Says she's... She's your wife.”
Of course, the staring doesn’t cease even as Chishiya makes his way through the ward. People part like the Red Sea as he walks up to you, brows raised in what you take to be mild confusion.
“Doctor,” you greet. A more genuine smile eases onto your lips as he draws closer.
“You must have been bored at home,” he says drily, though the glint in his eyes floods you with relief. Maybe you’re not so bothersome after all.
“Always, without you.”
The words come a little too naturally. You’re half-joking, but the nurses’ brows all shoot upwards in tangent at the blatant display of affection.
His don’t. If anything, his expression seems to relax.
“Did you come here just to dote?”
You sigh, then pull out the lunch box from the small bag.
“You left it in the fridge again.”
It’s almost the same as what he’d made last night, but you’ve put a nice note on it.
Have a good day at work!
His expression is so unamused that you want to laugh.
“All that way just for this?”
You nod. Stepping forward to give him the box, you allow your left hand to brush against his. It’s like you can almost feel the glint of your golden band in the cold light of the hospital, bouncing off every surface around the two of you. His brow twitches — probably surprise — as you squeeze one of his fingers with your own, smiling.
“Don’t forget to eat, okay, Shuntarou?” you say, feigning a voice so sweet that now the nurses’ jaws have dropped.
A laugh bubbles further in your throat, but you have to keep your eyes on his to stop it from coming out.
Chishiya cocks a brow, unimpressed. You really would think he’s annoyed, if not for the telltale upward tug of his mouth. A lie will escape his lips as easily as a greeting, but nothing in his face can escape you.
“…Hm. Okay,” Chishiya complies.
When you pull away, that slight, familiar twitch at the corner of his lip dissipates immediately.
He takes the lunchbox from your hands, your skin brushing for another moment. Then he cocks his head slightly. “If I don't, I assume you'll just appear again tomorrow?”
At that, you really do laugh. Quietly, under your breath, but enough for Chishiya’s eyes to linger. It’s not a question; it’s a challenge. A quiet admission, really. That he wants you here.
“I’ll spoon-feed you, if that’s what it takes.”
The joke earns an exasperated look, a glance toward the nurses’ station where people are gaping at and ogling you all the same. Chishiya’s grip on the lunchbox tightens momentarily. Now, that crease in his brow really is just irritation.
“Tch. It’s better when you bring it, anyway.”
Chishiya’s eyes narrow as he says it, but your smile only widens.
You leave the ward with a delighted grin on your face, twisting that little golden ring on your finger like it’s the only flicker of sunlight gleaming behind the skyline.