Work Text:
Hajime’s desk phone rings, but it’s lost in the muted cacophony of general office noises, amongst other things. He doesn’t even register it until Yahaba clears his throat from the desk next to him.
Hajime blinks. “What?”
“Your phone,” Yahaba says pointedly.
Hajime flushes. “Mind your business,” he grumbles.
“I would be. But your phone was ringing and you very clearly weren’t going to pick it up.” He pauses. “Maybe if you’d spend more time working and less time staring–”
“I wasn’t staring,” Hajime says sharply, and he doesn’t allow Yahaba the privilege of a response before he’s picking up the phone. “Aoba Johsai, this is Iwaizumi Hajime speaking. What can I do for you today?”
Hajime likes to think that he is completely personable and well-socialized and normal. It’s everyone else in their office—a rinky-dink room on the second floor of a neglected business park, divided by clumps of cubicles, a conference room, and a corner office—that’s crazy.
He has a grand total of four work acquaintances. Yahaba, who is judgmental and nosey while pretending not to be, does not count.
He has two work friends: he was somehow roped into an arrangement in which he goes out for beers with Matsukawa and Hanamaki every other Friday, in addition to all of the other obligatory office drinking parties, and they groan and grumble about how much they hate their respective jobs while getting shit-faced drunk.
And he has one inconvenient, all-consuming work crush, which has yet to fade despite the fact that it’s been one year, three months, and thirteen days since Hajime first started working at Aoba Johsai Incorporated—give or take a few.
Oikawa Tooru from accounting drives him fucking crazy.
He probably doesn’t even know Hajime’s name.
He’s the head of the department, sharp as a tack with eyes that always seem to be calculating something; sometimes numbers, sometimes people. His hair is elegantly coiffed every single day, and he always sits at his desk with one leg crossed over the other, drawing attention to how overwhelmingly long they are. He’s a couple of inches taller than Hajime.
His cubicle itself is organized, lacking the clutter characteristic of the rest of the office: his desk is decorated with stacks of baby blue sticky notes, pens lined up in a row, and framed pictures of a woman and a kid that Hajime thinks are his sister and nephew, but doesn’t know for sure.
Oikawa never wears plain suits with boring ties and jackets and slacks. He likes bright sweaters, bowties, socks with fun patterns that peak out below the hems of his fitted khakis. His loafers always have a slight heel to them, making him even taller than Hajime which is absolutely unfair and unnecessarily hot.
He’s gracefully mean, stingingly polite. He Replies All when sending passive aggressive email responses because he doesn’t give a shit, which always makes Hajime feel more than a little smitten. He likes the drama of Oikawa’s entire being, how insanely intelligent he is, and how he doesn’t shy away from any kind of conflict. Above all else, Hajime likes his face.
Oikawa is strikingly beautiful.
His bone structure is comparable to that of a model’s, and his nose has the cutest point at the tip, and his lips are always glossy and full. He has a mole on his right nostril. His eyebrows arch delicately. His eyes are so deep and warm and pretty.
Nobody’s eyes should sparkle in awful fluorescent lighting, and yet.
Hajime always finds himself wondering how someone as bright and starry as Oikawa would end up here, of all places, in the accounting department of the Sendai branch of a failing gardening tool supply company. He can’t get too upset about it, though, because looking at Oikawa and appreciating him from a very measured distance makes the mundanity of his tragically cyclical life a little more bearable.
He has never spoken to Hajime beyond obligatory office small talk. Shit like, “Your paycheck is scheduled to be sent out next week,” or, “We’ll need those quarterly reports by the end of the day,” or, “Boss wants us to meet in the conference room in five minutes.” He thinks maybe they had a five-minute conversation about how shitty the Sendai Frogs are at their last office-drinking-outing, and Oikawa had smiled politely, laughed when appropriate, and left as soon as he could.
It doesn’t matter, though. Hajime is probably the world’s number one closet hopeless romantic, and every time Oikawa even so much as looks in his direction, he goes immediately and embarrassingly breathless with it.
Matsukawa is a bad customer service rep, and Hanamaki is an even worse marketing manager. They both spend all day consoling distraught customers or annoying suppliers, which means that by the time lunch rolls around, they’re in dire need of an outlet and have absolutely no problem pestering the shit out of Hajime for, quote unquote, therapeutic purposes.
“Is our number one salesman having love problems again?” Hanamaki teases. He’s a fucking eyesore in bright pink slacks and a yellow tie. Watari, their HR rep, has given up trying to get him to follow a proper business professional dress code.
Hajime scowls, playing with the plastic wrapping of melon bread he just got from the breakroom’s vending machine. “I don’t have love problems.”
“Sure. And I don’t spend half my work day online shopping. Now we’re both lying.”
“You’re gonna get fired one of these days, you know.”
Hanamaki grins. “Promise?”
“What kind of love problems are you having, Iwaizumi?” Matsukawa interrupts, smiling lazily, face resting in his palm. “Anything that your bestest friends can help with?”
Where Hanamaki wears neon highlighter clothing, Matsukawa only ever wears black. When he’s feeling particularly brave or fancy, he’ll go for a muted charcoal gray. Sitting together, Hajime thinks his friends look genuinely insane. He’s sure he doesn’t look much better, when he only owns two perpetually wrinkly button-downs and a singular tie that he sometimes forgets or forgoes entirely.
“I just said no,” Hajime says.
Hanamaki, completely ignoring Hajime, says, “Kindaichi said that Kunimi said that Yahaba said that you were staring at him again.”
“Fuck off,” Hajime says, ignoring how hot his face just got in favor of staring down at the bread angrily. “Stop hanging out at reception for gossip.”
“You know I can’t do that when Kindaichi will compulsively tell office secrets to anyone who enters his immediate vicinity.”
“He does? Maybe I should hang out with reception more,” Matsukawa says thoughtfully. “I want juicy work drama.”
“Maybe you should just go straight to the source,” a new voice suggests, and Hajime’s head whips to the breakroom door.
Oikawa is standing there. If Hajime’s cheeks weren’t red before, they certainly are now. He prays that he only caught the tail end of their conversation.
Oikawa continues talking regardless. “Kunimi is the one who knows everything, and he doesn’t tell Kindaichi half of the workplace gossip he knows.”
Hanamaki whistles. “Really?”
“Don’t we all think it’s a little suspicious that Kunimi is able to get a hold of so much workplace gossip?” Matsukawa contemplates. “Isn’t he still a temp?”
“Well, at least we’ll know to expect it when he inevitably blackmails everyone into letting him become CEO.”
Oikawa’s eyes bounce from Hanamaki to Matsukawa, and when they finally settle on Hajime, Hajime can’t help but jolt. Oikawa smiles, small and soft and directed right at him, before striding inside the room.
Hajime averts his eyes, looking back down at his bread again, and ignores Hanamaki’s elbow that has been digging into his ribs for the past thirty seconds. His friends wouldn’t know the definition of subtlety even if it smacked them upside their abnormally large and stupid heads.
Oikawa sighs when he reaches the vending machine. “No more melon bread,” he mumbles to himself mournfully.
Hajime suddenly realizes that an opportunity is presenting itself to him on a silver platter. Perhaps a bit impulsively, he finally decides to act on the singular all-consuming desire he’s had ever since he’d started working at this awful, dull, depressing office: talk to the cute boy from accounting.
“Sorry,” he speaks up, turning slightly in his seat to meet Oikawa’s curious gaze. “I bought the last one, and I didn’t even want it. Here,” he offers the unopened package to Oikawa. He’s proud that his hands aren’t shaking when his heart is pounding like a jackhammer.
Oikawa’s eyes go a little wide. “Oh, no, I couldn’t take that. It’s yours.”
“C’mon. I swear I’m not even hungry.”
Oikawa looks at him before hesitantly reaching out. He takes the bread. Their fingertips touch. Hajime tries not to visibly shiver. Once Oikawa has determined that there is no discernible catch, he smiles. It’s the first time Hajime’s seen his whole grin, teeth and gums and all. It’s a miracle he doesn’t collapse right then and there from the amount of blood currently rushing from his heart to his face.
“Thanks, Iwa-chan,” he chirps, before prancing out of the room, hair bouncing with each step. Regrettably, his butt is very cute in his tight pants; because on top of all of his other husband-material qualities, Oikawa just had to go and have a cute butt, too.
Hajime stares at the empty doorway for way too long. Then he lets his forehead hit the table. It makes a pathetic thunk of a sound.
“Dude,” Hanamaki says, trying and failing not to laugh directly into Hajime’s face. “You’re like, so red right now.”
“Everything suddenly makes a lot of sense,” Matsukawa muses. “The sun rises in the east, sets in the west, and Iwaizumi has a big gay crush on Oikawa from accounting.”
“I’m dying,” Hajime offers. “I’m dead.”
Hanamaki isn’t done yet. “He called you Iwa-chan.”
“I know,” Hajime laments. It’s insanely cute. He might be dying.
Of course, he knew that Oikawa was aware of his existence. But Hajime had believed that he’d only existed in the periphery of Oikawa’s life, a shadow in the corner or a name without a face. Iwaizumi Hajime from the sales department, a mediocre salesman and an even worse conversationalist, who Oikawa only ever has to talk to or acknowledge every other Friday.
Now that he knows Oikawa apparently feels comfortable enough with Iwaizumi’s presence to call him by a super cutesy nickname, he feels like he’s going to combust.
“You, my friend, are screwed,” Matsukawa says, clapping Hajime once on the back before continuing on with his lunch.
There is a small bag of salt and vinegar-flavored chips sitting on Hajime’s desk when he returns from a sales call. There’s no note, no indication of the perpetrator. It’s just… there. Sitting. On Hajime’s desk. Glaring in its bright blue packaging and very obviously something that has never previously existed on Hajime’s desk until this very moment.
“What,” he says.
Yahaba is very pointedly not looking at him.
He picks up the bag. It crinkles in his grip. Hajime stares down at it. Blinks. Stares harder.
Yahaba has apparently reached his limit. “It’s not going to disappear, you know.”
Hajime hopes. “Did you see who left this?”
“Yes,” Yahaba says dryly, not volunteering any more information.
Hajime hopes some more. “Who?”
“It’s none of my business.”
Hajime hopes a dangerous amount. “When have you ever minded your own business before?”
Yahaba frowns. “When it mattered, Iwaizumi-san.”
Kunimi, holding a sheath of papers he’d presumably just photocopied, apparently has no qualms divulging this information. “It was Oikawa-san,” he says as he passes by, with little to no inflection.
“What,” Hajime repeats. He goes a bit dizzy with his desires being validated.
“I told him I wasn’t going to say anything, so if Oikawa finds out that you found out, will you tell him I didn’t tell?” Yahaba says, droning on despite the fact that Hajime is obviously undergoing an entire crisis and cannot be bothered to listen. “I want Oikawa-san to like me. He has a lot of professional connections, you know. Networking is important.”
“I don’t know what’s happening,” Hajime says.
Yahaba stares at him as if he is an idiot and says slowly, “Oikawa-san gave you your favorite chips.”
“Why?”
“How should I know?” Yahaba leans back into his chair. “Clearly you did something. Probably something right. Maybe something a little wrong. Again, it's none of my business.”
Hajime stares down at the bag some more. He looks up, across the office, just in time to see Oikawa averting his gaze quickly. The smile playing at his lips is still visible.
Hajime opens the bag loudly and pops a chip in his mouth.
After that, the staring that Yahaba had so often lamented is no longer entirely one-sided.
Oikawa likes to play this game where he waits for Hajime to notice the weight of his eyes on the side of his face. Then, when Hajime looks up, he looks away. It’s like tag. Cat and mouse.
Hajime doesn’t really know what Oikawa’s intentions are, but it makes him fucking crazy every time, frazzled for the rest of the day. He’s sure his sales numbers are dropping with the amount of times he gets distracted while making cold calls, thinking about Oikawa’s calculating brown eyes, the weight of them, the meaning behind his evasive looks. He can’t quite bring himself to care.
And then, one day, Oikawa approaches him.
“Hi, Iwa-chan,” he says. He’s wearing a white sweater with blue stripes, navy blue slacks, and his stupid heeled loafers. His socks are pink and have little anchors on them. Hajime appreciates the nautical theme. He wonders how long it takes Oikawa to coordinate outfits. He’s ridiculously cute. He also realizes that in order to be able to maintain a conversation with him, he has to stop thinking about how cute he is.
“Hey,” Hajime answers, swerving in his spinny chair to look at Oikawa, who leans backward against Hajime’s desk casually, like it’s something he’s done a million times before. Hajime likes the line of his body, the way his shoulders hunch and his legs cross at the ankles. “Um, what’s up?”
Oikawa gives him a look that feels significant. Hajime has no idea what it means. “I just wanted to talk.”
“Oh,” Hajime says. His face is burning again. He has to cross his arms so that he doesn’t do something stupid with his hands; for some reason, this draws Oikawa’s eyes to his forearms, visible below the rolled-up cuffs of Hajime’s button-up. He tries not to squirm under the scrutiny again. “What about?”
“I don’t know,” Oikawa says. The more they talk, the more his lips quirk up at the corners; Hajime can’t tell if it’s good or bad. “I’m bored right now. I got all of my work done at 11 this morning. Distract me, please.”
“Oh,” he says. He turns to look around. Nobody is looking at them; Yahaba is definitely curious and 100% eavesdropping, but he abstains from saying anything because he’s definitely weirdly afraid of Oikawa. And Hanamaki, a cubicle over, is scrolling, his computer monitor angled in a way so that nobody else can see it. Definitely online shopping. Perfect. “Well, sometimes when I’m bored, I like to try to throw things into Hanamaki’s mug.”
Oikawa’s eyes get bright. “That’s amazing. Has he noticed yet?”
“No. Wanna try?”
“Absolutely.”
“Here,” Hajime says. He wads up a standard yellow sticky note and holds it out to Oikawa, who takes it. Their fingers brush again; Hajime thinks Oikawa probably moisturizes, because his hands are so smooth and soft. His fingers are really long, longer than Hajime’s, and his nails are perfect ovals, shiny and unbitten.
Hajime really likes his hands.
Oikawa’s tongue pokes out between his lips as he tosses the wadded-up sticky note ball as discreetly as possible. It sails through the air, bounces off the rim of Hanamaki’s mug, and falls to the ground pathetically.
Oikawa grimaces. “So close.”
A beat.
“Want a paper clip this time?”
“Yes, please.”
Oikawa has taken to sitting with Hajime whenever possible.
In the breakroom, at lunch, in the conference room, anything—he’ll find Hajime and plop his ass into the closest available chair, immediately beginning to talk about his day, the weather, the volleyball game on TV last night, whether Kyouken-chan and Shigeru-kun will finally get their act together and start dating. Hajime actually kind of loves conversations with Oikawa. He never has to say anything at all beyond a few grunts and hums to let Oikawa know that yes, he’s still listening and following whatever long-winded anecdote Oikawa decided to regale him with that day. And Oikawa’s always so damn witty, all dry humor and snark, that a conversation with him could never possibly be boring.
It’s also nice because Oikawa is seriously touchy-feely. Like, he’ll be talking about his weekend, how he took his nephew to the park with a volleyball net so that he could show him the basics of the sport, and he’ll be touching Hajime’s arm, or his hand, or nudging his shoulder, or leaning into his side. He grabs Hajime’s wrist, tugs on his fingers, slaps playfully at his back and Hajime is going insane. It’s ridiculous; every single piece of physical contact makes Hajime want to scream in sheer delight.
And then something even more amazing happens.
They’re in the middle of an all-staff meeting, and their boss is droning on and on about numbers, big picture ideas for the upcoming quarter and what they can do to improve customer service scores, and Hajime suddenly feels a weight on his shoulder.
He looks down and is met with a head of feathery brown hair. He leans forward a bit to catch a glimpse of his face, and—
Oikawa’s fast asleep.
Hajime looks around to check if anyone else has noticed. They haven’t. They all seem to be close to their own sleep, so wrapped up in daydreams and fantasies of going home for the day that they aren’t paying attention to anyone else.
So Hajime figures it won’t hurt if he scoots his chair closer, angles his body a little better, and gently shifts Oikawa’s head to a more comfortable position on his shoulder so that he doesn’t get a crick in the neck later that evening.
It’s the least he can do, really.
Kyoutani Kentarou, who is the only other member of the accounting department, confronts Hajime in the men’s bathroom the following Thursday.
Hajime knows Kyoutani vaguely from somewhere outside of this horribly dull job. High school, maybe, or a club sport. He’s direct and unapologetic about it, and probably just as good at math as Oikawa is, despite the fact that he doesn’t ever try to advertise it. And although he has a bit of an attitude problem and the worst haircut Hajime’s probably ever seen in his life, he’s only ever been politely respectful towards Hajime, so he figures he has no room to complain about him.
Until now. “You have to stop talking to Oikawa,” Kyoutani declares, loudly and full of conviction. His voice echoes off the bathroom walls.
Hajime freezes at the sink. His hands are still covered in foamy soap. “What?”
“Oikawa Tooru,” Kyoutani specifies for some reason, as if there are any other Oikawas in their workplace. “He’s annoying enough as it is. But he’s been hanging out with you, which means he’s been giving me twice as much work as usual. Stop being nice to him.”
Hajime truly does not know what to say. “I—I can’t just stop being nice to him, Kyoutani.”
“Why? It’s so easy. Just look at his face.”
This confuses Hajime even more. “Why would looking at his face make me want to be mean to him?”
“‘Cause it’s annoying as hell. Especially when he’s got that smug expression. You can tell he’s trying to figure you out. He’s always trying to figure people out and I hate it. Just stop.”
“I don’t even know why me being nice to him would at all correlate with the amount of work he gives you.”
At that moment Kunimi decides to emerge from one of the stalls and join them at the sinks. He begins to scrub his hands methodically, and then he talks, maintaining a bored tone the entire time: “Oikawa-san likes you, Iwaizumi-san. He’s been spending more time with you, which makes him happy. So he’s been spending less time at his department doing his work in order to stare at you, or to hang out with you, or pretend to sleep on you during company meetings, which means that Kyoutani-san has been doing all of the accounting department’s work, which he certainly isn’t cut out for,” he says, simply and logically, like it’s the only conclusion one could possibly come to.
“What,” Hajime says, hopelessly lost. “Wait, pretend to sleep?”
“Do you like him back?” Kyoutani cuts in, accusatory.
“Yes,” Kunimi answers for him. He walks over to the paper towel dispenser, picks approximately three, wipes his hands, balls up the paper, tosses it into the trash, and then just leaves.
Now Hajime is alone in the bathroom with a distraught-looking Kyoutani, which is maybe the second-to-last place he’d ever want to be.
“Fucking hell,” Kyoutani says, scrubbing at his face with his hands. “Why? Why would you like him?”
“Hey,” Hajime says, defensive. “He’s cute. Wait a minute, I don’t even have to justify myself to you. Kindaichi said that Kunimi said that Watari said that you like Yahaba, which is objectively way worse than me liking Oikawa.”
Kyoutani looks mortified. “I’m going to kill all three of them,” he murmurs. Then he leaves, too.
Hajime sighs. Finally alone, he finishes washing his hands.
Matsukawa propels himself in his desk chair halfway across the office, the wheels squeaking loudly. He approaches Hajime’s desk and siddles up right next to him. Hajime does not look up from his paperwork.
“Hey,” he says.
“No,” Hajime says back.
“No, seriously, hear me out this time,” Matsukawa begins. “Kindaichi says that Kunimi says that Kyoutani says that Oikawa’s totally been making the moves on you.”
“Kunimi was there, I don’t know why he insists on saying that Kyoutani told him this.”
“So you have gossip you didn’t share with either me or Takahiro? I’m hurt, Iwaizumi.”
Hajime sighs. “It’s nothing. Kyoutani confronted me in the bathroom and accused me of being… too nice to Oikawa? Kunimi was there too. It was weird. Felt like a weird dream I had once.”
Matsukawa hums. “Actually, that’s not the weirdest bathroom confrontation that this office has seen. Let me just tell you, you do not want to be there at the same time as me and Takahiro. It was very awkward for Watari. But also for us, ‘cause he made us sign some weird love documents after we were caught. HR guys, am I right?”
“Please do not tell me these things,” Hajime says. “And please do not fuck in the office’s communal bathroom. We all use it, asshole.”
“It was after hours,” Matsukawa clarifies, as if that changes anything.
“I do not care,” Hajime says tiredly. “Leave me alone.”
“Okay, but just tell me if he is.”
“Who is?”
“Oikawa.”
“If Oikawa’s what?”
“If he’s making the moves on you!”
Hajime scowls. “I have no fucking idea, Matsukawa. How do you all just know this stuff, anyway?”
“What stuff?”
Hajime flushes furiously, but stands his ground: “If someone is making the ‘moves’ on you, or whatever.”
Matsukawa thinks, tapping at his chin with a finger. “Well, let’s see. Does he laugh at all of your jokes? And laugh even when you’re not telling a joke?”
Hajime thinks about it. “Maybe?” He has become well acquainted with Oikawa’s laugh at this point, all high tinkling and soothing like a bell.
“Does he put his hand on your arm when you’re in the middle of giving a funny little anecdote?”
Oikawa has, in fact, done this before, and the contact always made Hajime melt into a fucking puddle. “Yes.”
“Does he get you things?”
Besides the bag of chips, Oikawa has gotten Hajime: hand cream, a nice pen, and a new pack of sticky notes for crumpling and throwing into Hanamaki’s mug. He was really sweet about it too, every time he presented Hajime with a new gift, either leaving it on his desk to be discovered organically, or shyly digging it out of his pocket and sliding it over the table while they’re on break. It makes Hajime’s heart race just thinking about it.
“Sure.”
“Has he been staring at you from across the office really creepily like he’s doing right now?”
Hajime whips his head around to look. It’s maybe the first time he’s actually made direct eye contact with Oikawa during their little game of stare-tag. Usually Oikawa is suave, confident, all easy smiles and grandiose hand gestures. Right now, though, he just looks distinctly caught, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. He turns away quickly, the force of the movement spinning his chair a little too much, and it squeaks loudly. His cheeks are glowing with something Hajime can’t quite make out.
“You don’t even have to answer that one, dude,” Matsukawa says with a laugh. “Ask him to fucking dinner.” And then he’s scooting right back across the office, wheels turning loudly with each push of his legs.
Hajime has been looking at Oikawa through a new and improved lens now. He can’t stop seeing romantic undertones in everything they do together: the touches that linger a little longer than strictly necessary, the stares charged with good tension, the blushing and stuttering and fumbling and shit.
He feels like he’s on Cloud 9. Just a few weeks ago, Hajime was convinced that he never stood a chance. Now that he knows Oikawa may very well feel just the same, nothing can possibly bring him down.
Until Watari materializes in front of Hajime’s desk, smiling his pure smile and saying, “Iwaizumi-san, can I speak to you for a moment in my office?”
It’s loud enough that several people turn and stare. Hanamaki goes, “Uh-oh, someone’s in trouble,” like they’re in fucking grade school and he’s being called to the principal’s office.
And it’s probably actually bad because Watari literally never emerges from his back office to talk to one of the employees unless someone is receiving some sort of disciplinary action. As he stands up and pushes in his chair, he wonders if he’ll be fired. He can’t remember what he did wrong but that has to be it. Time theft, maybe? Sometimes he just sits in the bathroom and plays Snake on his phone. His palms are sweating.
Hajime walks into the office and sits down in the chair in front of Watari’s desk, while Watari shuts the door soundly and makes his way over to his own cushy desk chair. Once he’s finally settled, he folds his hands over each other and says, delicately, “Do you know why I called you in here, Iwaizumi-san?”
Hajime does not. “No, sorry.”
Watari sighs. “That makes this more difficult. Also, more awkward. Look,” he hesitates. “You know the company’s policy on office romances, right?”
Once again, Hajime does not. “Sure.”
“And that if you’re in an office romance… You have to disclose this information to HR.”
“Yes?”
Watari sighs, rubbing at his face. “Look, I’m really sorry about this, but I’m gonna have to ask you to sign several documents confirming that your relationship with Oikawa-san is healthy and consensual, and then we can move forward from there. Sound alright?”
Hajime has a few moments to process what Watari had just said, and then he splutters and stumbles for approximately eighteen incredibly painful seconds before he manages to say intelligibly,
“Me—me and Oikawa aren’t dating.”
“Oh,” Watari says, deflating a bit. “But Kindaichi said that Kunimi said that… Nevermind. Oh man, sorry about this. Forget we ever had this conversation, alright, Iwaizumi-san?”
He doesn’t know how he possibly could, but he acquiesces with a small nod, keeps his head down as he makes the walk of shame out of Watari’s office back to his desk to the soundtrack of Hanamaki’s dumbass chirping, and offers a weak smile to Oikawa and Oikawa alone when they make eye contact. Oikawa tilts his head, mouths the words, You okay? with pink lips and Hajime can feel the heat rising to the surface of his cheeks but he still nods and shoots him a thumbs up.
It’s Oikawa, after all.
“What did Watacchi talk to you about?” Oikawa demands, scaring the living daylights out of Hajime, who has been unassumingly staring into the warped glass of the vending machine again.
“What the fuck,” Hajime mutters, turning away from the vending machine. “Where did you come from?”
“I’ve been here the whole time, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says patiently. “What did Watacchi say?”
“Nothing,” Hajime answers too quickly.
“Iwa-chan.”
“Yes?”
“You’re a really shitty liar.”
Hajime sighs. “It’s not a big deal, he just… asked me a few questions.”
Oikawa quirks a brow. “About?”
Hajime pauses and considers his answer carefully. “...You?”
“What!” Oikawa screeches, eyes suddenly really wide and panicked. Hajime winces. “About me? What does he want? Oh, God, I’m an accountant—does he think I’m committing fraud? If anyone is committing any kind of fraud, it’s definitely Kyouken-chan. Iwa-chan, what did you tell him? That I’m an upstanding citizen who would never commit a crime ever?”
The leaps that Oikawa’s very strange mind takes are extremely off-putting and Hajime is hopelessly confused. “What? No—what are you talking about?”
“Iwa-chan, did Watacchi ask if I was embezzling?” Oikawa asks, grabbing onto Hajime’s shirt sleeve and pulling. “Why else would he be investigating me through you?”
“No, what the fuck, he did not ask if you were embezzling.” Hajime pauses. “But the fact that you keep talking about it is a little suspicious. Are you?”
“No,” Oikawa says emphatically.
Hajime squints at him. “I won’t snitch.”
“I’m not! And even if I was, for whatever reason, I wouldn’t tell anyone, obviously.”
“Well, that’s reassuring.”
Oikawa seems to finally catch up. “Wait, so if he wasn’t investigating me possibly committing a crime, then what was he asking you?”
“Is it hot in here?” Hajime asks, loosening his tie. “I feel like it’s really hot in here.”
Oikawa, who only ever wears no less than three layers, frowns at him. “It’s actually a bit cold. Iwa-chan. Makki keeps messing with the thermostat because he likes to set it at 69 degrees Fahrenheit, which is stupid. How does he even know Fahrenheit?”
“Today has been so weird,” he remarks casually. “Like, the weirdest day of my life.”
“I’ll go ask Watacchi myself if you don’t tell me right now what you were talking about,” Oikawa threatens.
“As our HR rep, he can’t legally disclose that kind of information.”
“He can and he will after I get him wine drunk,” Oikawa says, like this is a thing he has done before.
Hajime grimaces and figures he should get this over with, like ripping off a bandaid. “He asked if we were together,” he blurts.
Oikawa frowns. The dimples that form just below his lips are very charming. “Me and you? Like… together-together?”
“Yeah. together-together. Like. As in dating. He wanted us to sign the documents.”
“What documents?”
“The love documents.”
“What? There are love documents?”
Hajime is going to fling himself into the sun. “Yes—no! I don’t know! I didn’t sign anything, obviously.”
Oikawa nods. “That’s good. Never sign anything without reading the fine print.”
“I feel like I’m dying,” Hajime says to himself.
“Okay, so let me get this straight,” Oikawa says, pacing around the breakroom with his long legs and stupid fitted khaki pants. Don’t look at his butt, Hajime’s mind whispers to him; this is a very serious situation. “Watacchi calls you into his office. Asks you if we are in a relationship.”
“He said Kindaichi said that Kunimi said—something. I don’t know. But I guess that means the whole office thinks we’re—you know.”
“You know?” Oikawa parrots, head tilting. He resembles a puppy.
“Dating. Or on the precipice, anyway.”
Oikawa looks momentarily offended. “Precipice? Why are you making the prospect of dating me sound so dangerous?”
“I don’t know, Oikawa, that’s not the point—”
“Do you not want to date me?”
“That—that is not at all what I said!”
“So you do? Do you want to date me?” Oikawa asks.
He’s stopped pacing and is now standing by Hajime’s side, staring holes into his face. His arms are crossed over his chest and his cardigan is a pretty dark red color. It’s different from what Oikawa usually wears, as the majority of his closet seems to be cool tones, but it looks nice on him. Really nice. It brings out the pinkness of his cheeks, the pout of his lips, the intensity of his eyes as he stares at Hajime, waiting for an answer.
Fuck it, Hajime thinks.
“It is entirely possible,” he begins quietly, “That I have been wanting to date you for the past… year. And three months. And thirteen days. Give or take a couple of hours.”
Oikawa makes this strange wheezing sound, resembling the noise a balloon makes when the air is slowly let out. This is appropriate. “What?”
Hajime has started and he can’t stop, instead tuning his body and loudly proclaiming: “I think you’re really handsome and it’s fucking annoying sometimes because it’s so distracting. I like your color-coordinated outfits and your fancy shoes and the way you organize your desk and the fact that you exact psychological warfare on each one of our coworkers with your passive aggressive memos. I mean, who the fuck ends every single one of their emails with ‘Thank you in advance for your timely response?’”
“I hate when people ghost me over email,” Oikawa protests, all wide warm brown eyes and a small frown.
“I know. I like that. I like how crazy you are.” Hajime sighs. “I like how mean you are. I like how nice you are. I like how you always buy things for people, especially our newest coworkers. Kindaichi could not possibly use any more skincare products but you still buy them for him because of one conversation about sunscreen that you had on his first day here. I like your hair, and your hands, and how cute your butt is in your pants.”
“You think my butt is cute?” Oikawa says, as if this is the thing that’ll determine whether or not he accepts Hajime’s confession.
Hajime nods. “It’s the cutest.”
“Oh,” Oikawa says, all light like he’ll float away at any given moment. He puts a hand over his heart and says, with feeling, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I just… I like you a lot, Oikawa,” Hajime finally says. “And people keep asking me about it, or pestering me, and I can’t fucking take it any more. So I’m going to ask you to go on a date with me, and you’ll say yes or you’ll say no but at least then I’ll know and everyone else in this goddamn office can get off my back.”
Oikawa doesn’t even respond. Instead he steps forward, grabs Hajime’s shirt with his big hands and long fingers, and kisses him soundly on the mouth.
Hajime has prepared for the worst possible outcome his entire life. He wouldn’t consider himself a pessimist, necessarily, but it’s just always easier to lower his expectations and be either proven right or pleasantly surprised.
So when Oikawa kisses him in the middle of the musty icky breakroom with its artificial air-conditioned air and sparse tables and awful fluorescent lights just overhead, he finds himself completely blindsided.
He freezes before melting into Oikawa’s touch, leaning into the kiss, pushing forward until they’re up against the vending machine and Oikawa is scrabbling at any part of Hajime’s body that is within reach, trying to pull him as close as possible. His lips are so soft and warm and his breath is minty. Hajime knows that Oikawa is very conscious about the way he smells and keeps a pack of Altoids in his pocket to chew on throughout the day; it’s just another thing about him that makes Hajime weak in the knees.
He tangles his hand in the soft hairs at the back of Oikawa’s head and pulls him closer.
Their timeless reverie is only broken because someone decides to throw something at his head.
“What the fuck,” he says, pulling away, and his eyes land on a crumpled piece of paper on the ground next to their feet.
He looks up at the doorway and curses his shitty luck.
Hanamaki stands there with an armful of crumpled papers. Next to him, Matsukawa has his phone out. He snaps a picture before beginning to type furiously, presumably sending it to everyone and their mother. So that’s great.
“What the fuck,” Hajime repeats emphatically.
“Hypocrite,” Hanamaki declares while throwing another ball of paper at them to the soundtrack of Matsukawa booing loudly. “Telling us we couldn’t conduct our business in the bathroom after hours when you’re in here macking on Oikawa loudly in the middle of the workday. You grade-A asshole. This is inappropriate! Shame on you!”
“Shame!” Matsukawa echoes. “Boo!”
“I am going to kill you,” Hajime decides. Oikawa has the nerve to snort. They extract themselves from each other; Oikawa has to tuck his button-down back into his pants and Iwaizumi has to tighten his tie because Oikawa had been tugging on it like no tomorrow.
“Yikes, you two are messy,” Matsukawa states.
“You’re lucky it was us who found you, by the way,” Hanamaki says. “Kindaichi would have a heart attack. And then would’ve had a nervous breakdown and told everyone immediately. He’s not built for this, you guys. Be considerate.”
“Hey, when Watari comes in here in about—” Matsukawa checks his watch. “Twenty or so seconds, he’ll make you sign his weird love documents, and then we’ll have matching ones. That’s kinda cool, right? We should get them framed. I have a frame guy. Good discounts.”
“No,” Hajime says.
“Do you guys want to go on double dates?”
“No,” Hajime repeats loudly, at the same time Oikawa says, “Absolutely, yes.”
“Wait,” Hajime says. “I haven’t even taken you out on a regular date yet. Double date is for like, the fifth date. Especially when it's with these two.”
“Fifth date?” Oikawa quirks his brow. “You’re sure you’re gonna last that long?”
“Positive,” Hajime promises, and he reaches out to fix Oikawa’s hair, because he’s not brazen enough to walk into Watari’s office with Oikawa having messy make-out hair. “What about you?”
“Oh, definitely,” Oikawa says. He grins. “I mean, you were pining for so long, it’d be unfair of me not to give you a chance—”
“If you’re gonna be an asshole about that I’ll walk right out of this office building and never come back,” Hajime warns, face flushing, and Oikawa laughs brightly, and is still glowing with joy even when Watari skids into the room, phone in hand, pointing an accusatory finger at Hajime and gesturing towards his office.
It’s all worth it, Hajime thinks, when he’s signing some dumb love documents under Watari’s intense supervision and he’s able to reach down between their chairs to take Oikawa’s free hand. Oikawa smiles, signs his name on the dotted line, too, and squeezes right back.