Chapter Text
“With that, I thank each and every one of you for our successes this year,” the clear, polished voice of the CEO of Seijoh Corporation resonates throughout the room that’s decked out in red, green, and white Christmas decorations. “We have our work cut out for us next year, but today, let us enjoy the party and the festive season. Merry Christmas everyone!”
He finishes with an inflection, holding up his flute of champagne as the roomful of executives and associates who are dressed to the nines raise their glasses and extend a round of applause. The head of Seijoh Corp steps off the stage, clad in an impeccably-pressed grey suit himself, and strides towards his husband, who has been listening to his full speech at the front of the crowd with a smile.
“How was it?” he asks, though his pleased tone implies he already knows the answer, and Oikawa Tooru says, “It was perfect,” letting himself be pulled in by the waist. “I saw Sato-san looking a little jealous over there,” Oikawa adds, to Hirota Ichirou’s delight. After five years of being in a relationship with the high-ranking executive of Japan’s largest defence contractor, Oikawa is adept at telling him what he wants to hear.
He is even better in his profession as a Black Dove, the term given to agents of an organisation that deals with the currency of information and sells it to the highest bidder. There are a lot of secrets from a defence contractor that Oikawa has been skilfully privy to over the years, which makes him a fairly valuable asset to the Company as long as he stays married to Hirota.
Needless to say, the job is not for all. It’s a top-secret mission assigned to a selected few, and even agents of the Company don’t know who the Black Doves are. Once an agent takes on a Black Dove assignment, they’re in it for the long haul. There’s more to give than there is to take, and the sacrifice that Oikawa has to make is something he remembers all too well.
“You know,” he says a little conspiratorially, “you have the perfect opportunity to ask Watanabe-san about the MOU with Inarizaki. Didn’t he say it will be the first big announcement they’ll make next year?”
Hirota’s gaze slides towards the associate conversing with a few others in the distance, a peer in the industry who he is commonly compared to, and says with a cool facade, “I’ll try to bring it up.”
“Hirota-san, that was a lovely speech,” a man approaches them quite out of the blue to say, surprising them both. A youthful-looking man with ash-coloured hair and a mole below his hazel brown eyes stands before them, regarding them with an amicable smile. A flash of recognition passes Oikawa’s eyes, but he keeps a neutral expression otherwise. “Congratulations on leading Seijoh in another successful year,” the man continues.
“Thank you,” Hirota answers easily, having gone through a fair share of instances where people he doesn’t recognise come up to him. He figures he must be an associate from one of the many companies he partners with. “I couldn’t have done it without our hard-working staff and dedicated partners,” Hirota says, a well-practised line from his arsenal of platitudes. He gestures to Oikawa a second later and adds, “and of course, my husband,” in somewhat of an afterthought.
“Yes, I believe behind every successful figure is a supportive loved one,” the man says politely and shifts his attention to Oikawa. “Oikawa-san, I heard you had a hand in organising this Christmas party. It’s a beautiful party. It seems a lot of people are enjoying the sure-win gacha.”
Oikawa merely gave a few ideas at opportune moments, like booking out the National Gallery of Tokyo for the company’s annual Christmas party instead of the usual hotels that feel too corporate, and setting up a life-size snow globe for the photo-taking backdrop. Still, he has appearances to keep up, so he says with an easy smile, “I thought it’d be nice to go home with a little souvenir.”
“It is a nice touch,” the man acknowledges. “Well, thank you for hosting. I have another engagement so I shall take my leave.”
“Sure, thank you for coming,” Hirota says, finding it odd that he’s leaving as abruptly as he appeared. Once the man is out of earshot, he glances at Oikawa to ask with furrowed brows, “Do you know him?”
Oikawa spares him a final look before turning to his husband and says, “No, I don’t think so.”
*
In a secluded corner of the gallery, where the Claude Monet exhibition is shrouded in low lights and free from the public’s gaze, Oikawa approaches the man from before and says in lieu of a greeting, “You must have something very important to tell me for you to show up here.”
Sugawara Koushi smiles. As Oikawa’s handler for the last five years, he’s familiar with his character, and frankly, it is out of the norm for him to look him up in front of the mark. Sugawara leaves out the pleasantries and goes straight to the point, “You may have heard of a couple of murders in the recent months. A caregiver employed by a politician, and the secretary of the Tosho’s CEO.”
“Yes,” Oikawa answers, suspicion discernible in the single word. He notices the similarities of their circumstances, his included—all linked to people of high status, and makes an educated guess. “Were they…?”
Sugawara nods. “Black Doves in the middle of their assignments,” he confirms. “We don’t have a lot of information yet. All we know is that the killings were done by someone with a particular set of skills. They’ve taken out two of our agents and we don’t think they’re stopping there.”
“You think I’m next?” Oikawa asks with a sense of foreboding.
“Not per se. But we have reason to believe you’re in danger, so we’ll be assigning you a security detail,” Sugawara says. There are other Black Doves in the field, but there has been no real pattern in the two killings, so it is hard to know who the next target is.
Oikawa assumes he’ll have to spin a tale about needing a security detail, which is a little challenging without raising suspicion, so he questions, “How am I supposed to convince Hirota to get me a bodyguard?”
“We’ll take care of that,” Sugawara assures. “You don’t have to concern yourself with investigating the killings as well. Just focus on your assignment.”
The directive is not surprising, given the Company’s priority in ensuring their Black Doves not only meet their mission objectives, but that they don’t implicate the Company in any way. It doesn’t sit well with Oikawa, and he doesn’t hesitate to voice his displeasure. “You guys are doing something about it right?” he demands. “Because if you’re telling me to sit back while my life is in danger, I’m going to have to tell you to kindly fuck off.”
Unfazed, Sugawara tells him as-a-matter-of-fact, “Your security detail will be equipped to handle it.”
“Who is it?”
Sugawara meets his gaze and says, “You’ll find out.”
Iwaizumi Hajime steps out into the arrival hall of Haneda Airport, where there are illuminated trees like the famous ones in Roppongi Hills planted in patches. The Christmas spirit is strong in Tokyo as it is in New York. It is not hard to spot the distinguishable figure of Kuroo Tetsurou, who has a brown string tie envelope in his hand. Iwaizumi adjusts the strap of his duffle bag on his shoulder and heads towards his handler.
“How’s New York?” Kuroo asks with that lazy grin of his as they make their way to the exit.
“Crowded,” Iwaizumi replies, a little jet-lagged from the fourteen-hour flight. He left New York when it’s lit in winter illumination and the streets are more bustling than usual. Iwaizumi remembers his time in the city to be socially demanding, though it could be due to the nature of his mission. It’s metropolitan, lively, and eclectic, a bit like Tokyo, but Iwaizumi hasn’t stepped foot in Tokyo for a while now.
As a triggerman of an international organisation, his job takes him all around the world, an opportunity he welcomes when it offers him distance, focus, and not to mention, good money, but no matter how many miles he is away from home, it never quite lets him forget what, or rather who, he’s left behind.
“You like it though?” Kuroo asks.
“It keeps me busy.”
“Pity you can’t enjoy the Christmas season there,” the taller man remarks. “I heard the Americans really know how to enjoy the holiday.”
“I won’t miss it,” Iwaizumi tells him frankly. He’s not that big on celebrations. The times he’s participated are either because it’s part of the act or he’s in need of some mindless indulgence. Iwaizumi side-eyes Kuroo and questions, not bothering to hide the doubt in his voice, “Since when does the Company send welcome parties?”
“They don’t,” Kuroo says. “I came to pick you up out of the goodness of my heart.”
“Yeah, sure,” Iwaizumi scoffs. “So? Are you going to tell me why they cut short my stint in New York and put me on the first plane back?”
“New mission,” Kuroo answers, handing him the envelope. “You’re assigned to protect someone.”
“Must be a very important someone,” Iwaizumi remarks.
“One of ours, actually.”
It earns him a raised brow as Iwaizumi asks, “Why does one of our agents need protection?”
“Because he’s a Black Dove and they’re being targeted,” Kuroo answers, and it immediately sets off alarm bells in Iwaizumi’s mind.
He knows one of them, or more accurately, he knew him before he became a Black Dove. They’re only a few of them, and they’re easily the Company’s cash cows given the information they convey can save lives in the Middle East or start a trade war or make the stock market crash, so it’d make sense that they’d be targeted if their identities are exposed.
Before Iwaizumi dwells too long about how this mission could be a fatal mistake, Kuroo adds, “We already lost two. We don’t have a lot to go on, but that’s where you come in. Protect your asset and find out who’s making the kills. The Company wants to minimise its losses. It's not good for business when our top profit centres are dead.”
“Who’s the asset?” Iwaizumi demands.
“It’s all in the brief. You might want to study it in the apartment we’ve set you up in…or not,” Kuroo finishes lamely as Iwaizumi tears into the envelope without waiting for him to finish.
Iwaizumi pulls out the top of the documents, scanning the page until he reads what he’s looking for, and when he sees it, the unmistakable three-character name of Oikawa Tooru—the person he’s only ever seen in his dreams in the past five years, Iwaizumi utters, “You gotta be fucking kidding me.”
“Nope,” Kuroo says as Iwaizumi reads on, as if the document will say something different and spare him from this ordeal. Kuroo sounds sympathetic when he adds, “You know, Tokyo is unbelievably crowded too. The chances of running into a familiar face aren’t that low.”
He’s aware of their relationship, and while Kuroo has a few opinions about professional entanglements, he’s witnessed the aftermath of its dissolution, and understands that there are worse things to lose than your life. This reunion could be an opportunity, if all is not lost.
“Anyway, here are your car keys, and the access card to your fancy apartment,” Kuroo says breezily, though it does nothing to ease the tension in Iwaizumi’s nerves. He doesn’t know if Kuroo is being sarcastic or genuine when he tells him, “Merry Christmas,” and pats him on the back.
Iwaizumi is left standing alone in Haneda Airport as Kuroo’s retreating figure bids him farewell, the name of a lost lover heavy in his hand, and he mutters under his breath, “Yeah. Merry fucking Christmas.”
The residential district of Azabu is filled with luxurious houses, multi-storeyed abodes that come with lush gardens and garages that more often than not show off at least two high-end cars—the kind of place only people in certain tax brackets can afford. In December, some of them are even decorated with Christmas lights, wreaths, and the occasional fake snowman in the yard.
In a turn of events that Iwaizumi is still trying to navigate his feelings around, he finds himself standing in the hallway of one of such houses. He’s been to a fair share of opulent residences in his line of work, but none of them have his ex-lover with his husband framed in pictures that sit on an ebony sideboard, mocking him.
One of them depicts the couple decked out in ski gear, evidently on a holiday in The Alps or somewhere equally exclusive. Oikawa is pressed up close against his husband, their cheeks almost touching, and he’s beaming. Iwaizumi doesn’t know if he’s gotten better at pretending he’s happy, or if he’s lost the ability to read him. He wonders if this was truly what Oikawa gave them up for—comfort, safety, stability—things Iwaizumi couldn’t give him.
He didn’t think he needed these luxuries. They were happy; even though the jobs could be dangerous and they didn’t always have a steady income, they had each other’s backs and in some twisted way, got high on the adrenaline of flirting with danger and god, they loved harder than they did anything else. Iwaizumi later learned it was naivety on his part. None of it meant shit if it had been so easy for Oikawa to walk away from it. Iwaizumi tears his gaze away from the picture, lest he hurls the offending thing into a wall.
Iwaizumi is beginning to feel restless as he waits in this big, quiet house, until he hears footsteps coming down the stairs and a voice he hasn’t heard in half a decade calling out, “Hiro, have you seen my—”
The owner of that distinct voice rounds the foot of the stairs and stops dead in his tracks when he sees who’s waiting. Iwaizumi comes face to face with Oikawa, whose hazel eyes are wide with disbelief, his mouth parting in speechlessness, and hates that the first thing that strikes him is a silent, “I missed you,” rather than a pang of anger.
When Oikawa manages to find his voice, he asks, still in shock, “Why are you here?”
Iwaizumi pushes all the messy things he feels for Oikawa back down to answer evenly, “I’m your security detail. I’m guessing they didn’t tell you?” He can almost see the cogwheels turning in Oikawa’s head as he processes the information, and the barest hint of annoyance settles in his eyes as the understanding dawns on him.
“And I’m guessing they told you,” Oikawa says in mild displeasure. Iwaizumi makes a mental note to thank Kuroo for the detailed brief. This is as awkward as reunions go, and Iwaizumi has no idea what to say to the person who broke his heart, but Oikawa follows with a hesitant, “I didn’t even know you were in Japan.”
“I wasn’t,” Iwaizumi says. “I just flew back last night.”
“I see,” Oikawa mutters, and an uncomfortable silence falls on them.
They’re spared when Hirota’s voice comes from the stairs, “Tooru, were you saying something?” He catches sight of them in the hallway, oblivious to the tension in the air and their past lives as lovers who are still hurting, and says, “Oh, I see you’ve met your bodyguard.” The irony is not lost on them as he introduces, “This is Iwaizumi Hajime, he will be accompanying you when you attend events, meet your friends, and all that stuff. It’s only temporary. Just until we’re certain you’re safe. Iwaizumi-san, this is my husband, Oikawa Tooru.”
Hirota regards Iwaizumi with an appraising look and compliments, “That’s a nice suit.” The agent is dressed in a classic black suit as the brief instructed, and while it’s far from the comfortable attire he prefers to wear even on missions, he knows how to style himself for the occasion. To Oikawa, Hirota explains, “He’ll be attending the gala dinner with us. Get ready soon, we don’t want to be late.”
He gives Oikawa a quick peck, leaving him surprised as Iwaizumi’s jaw tightens at the display of affection. The fact that they are no longer together has absolutely no bearing when he is still in love with him.
“I’ll wait outside.”
The gala dinner is held in a grand ballroom with carpeted floors, a spiral staircase that leads to a 360-degree view of Tokyo’s glittering nightscape, and a crystal chandelier hanging from the high ceiling. An open bar sits below the chandelier, right in the middle of the ballroom, and primly-dressed bartenders mix drinks for the distinguished guests.
Iwaizumi is not one for events like this, and it’s bad enough that he has to endure a car ride with Oikawa and his husband talking in soft tones in the back, but now he has to witness the CEO introducing Oikawa to his associates and influential circle of friends. He has a hand on the small of his back, guiding him through the crowd, and Oikawa plays the part of a well-spoken and intelligent spouse expertly. He’s all smiles and a natural conversationalist, drawing laughter from some of the guests even, and Hirota looks awfully pleased about the whole affair.
Is this how he spends his time? Attending exclusive events in glitzy places like this, conversing about fuck all with people whose smiles and amity are as fake as his marriage? Iwaizumi manages to contain an audible scoff, but the distaste is evident in his features. He elects to station himself at the bar as he keeps an eye on Oikawa, ordering a stiff drink to deal with his irritation.
He has almost emptied his glass when he spots Hirota coming towards him with Oikawa at his side. “Iwaizumi-san, I’m going to have to leave Tooru with you for a bit. I need to talk to a few acquaintances,” he says and Iwaizumi briefly wonders if he ever gets exhausted from the sheer number of people he has to entertain.
Oikawa slides into the space beside him and Iwaizumi is content to while the time away in silence but Oikawa, ever the confrontational one, decides to simply address the elephant in the room, “I think we need to talk.”
“About what?” Iwaizumi returns.
“Don’t play dumb,” Oikawa chides, annoyed that Iwaizumi would avoid the biggest curveball thrown at them when there are a hundred unsaid things clawing from inside his chest. “I know neither of us expected this. We don’t hear from each other for five years and all of a sudden you appear at my house?”
“What do you want me to say?” Iwaizumi demands, swivelling to face Oikawa fully. “How have you been? No offense, but I’m not exactly interested in your married life with some corporate top dog.” He fights to keep his expression in check, mindful that they’re not supposed to give themselves away in a roomful of people, especially where Oikawa’s husband is mingling in the crowd.
Iwaizumi’s hostility is unsurprising, but it stings Oikawa all the same. It’s been half a decade, he would think Iwaizumi has come to accept it at least, but it seems to be a long shot. (Perhaps that is the unsurprising truth; if Oikawa has nursed an unabating guilt for the last five years, who’s to say that Iwaizumi’s hurt is any less relentless?)
“Are you ever going to stop resenting me for what happened?” Oikawa asks quietly.
Resentment is a strong word. It might even be strong enough to describe what he’s been through when Oikawa decided to take on the assignment. He made his choice all those years ago, even when Iwaizumi had told him what it’d cost, and Iwaizumi can only live with the hurt it led to, and it runs deep, which isn’t a good idea to unravel in the middle of this event.
“We’re not—” he starts, but the suppressed sound of a gunshot cuts him off. Iwaizumi recognises the familiar sound from gunmetal, and every fiber of his being is on high alert.
He doesn’t find the shooter, but a cracking sound comes from above and everything that follows happens in a span of a few seconds. The moment Iwaizumi looks up to see the crystal chandelier, he grabs Oikawa and throws themselves out of the way as the shimmering fixture comes crashing down. Screams erupt throughout the ballroom and the crash sends glass shattering in every direction.
Amidst the chaos, Oikawa realises he’s just narrowly escaped from being crushed, Iwaizumi hovering above him like a human shield. He’s seen this sight before, once upon a time when they were partners. The sound of frenzy and people scrambling about are muffled as Oikawa works to regain his bearings.
“Are you okay?” he hears Iwaizumi ask. There’s a cut on his cheek from the broken glass, and if Oikawa cannot quite hear the worry in his voice, he certainly sees it in his steel grey eyes.
“I’m okay,” he manages, only a little winded. Iwaizumi helps him up, glass and debris falling from their suits, but before he can further check for injuries, Hirota tears up to them, fretting over Oikawa as he looks him up and down and finally bringing him into a relieved hug.
Iwaizumi steps away from the pair, remembering that it’s no longer his duty to worry about Oikawa. It’s a bitter realisation, so Iwaizumi focuses on his job to survey the situation, looking out for suspicious individuals, assessing points of entry, and anticipating the possibility of a second attack. There’s still too much going on, and it appears that one of the bartenders is trapped under the wreckage.
He can’t tell if this is a targeted attack on Oikawa, but it would be wise to leave quickly. He’ll need to revisit and get a hold of the surveillance tapes later.
“We should go,” Iwaizumi says, and unfortunately it requires him to look at the couple, and he can’t avoid the sight of Hirota with an arm wrapped protectively around Oikawa’s shoulders.
It’s laughable. This is trivial compared to what they’ve been through together in the field, but Iwaizumi has no right to regard him with derision when he can’t even do the same, even though he so desperately wants to.
The car ride back is filled with tense silence as Oikawa holds in the urge to discuss the attack with Iwaizumi. Besides the chauffeur, they’re the only ones in the car, as Hirota had apologetically told Oikawa he was needed for an emergency meeting with the other sponsors of the gala dinner and instructed Iwaizumi to stay with Oikawa until he returned home.
Once they’re out of the car and behind the gates, Oikawa immediately asks, “You heard it too right? The gunshot before the chandelier came down?”
“Yeah,” Iwaizumi answers as he follows Oikawa across the front yard. “It came from inside, so the shooter must have been hiding. He got it in one shot, so I’m guessing he used a high-powered sniper rifle, which means he was holed up somewhere with a vantage point.”
Oikawa is reminded how professional Iwaizumi can sound when he’s focused on a job. It’s hot, and he misses talks like this, where they would go over their plans before the op, bounce ideas off each other, and review their next steps together. Iwaizumi is intelligent, and when complemented by Oikawa’s insight, they make a formidable team.
But the days spent like this seem to belong to a past life now, since Oikawa’s Black Dove assignment is hardly like a triggerman’s, and being on the field doesn’t involve weapons and combat anymore, but playing a prolonged game of pretend. Oikawa hates to imagine it, but Iwaizumi likely has a new partner now, the identity of whom he is morbidly curious about, and forces himself not to dwell on the possibility that Iwaizumi has formed a telepathic-like partnership with them or has taken them to bed, the way he’s done with him.
“Are you reporting this back to HQ?” Oikawa asks, and lets Iwaizumi into the house.
“Yeah. I’ll ask Kuroo if he can get me a hold of the tapes. Can you get me the invitation list?” Iwaizumi requests.
“That’s easy enough,” Oikawa says. He heads towards the kitchen, needing a drink after all that havoc, and awkwardly turns to Iwaizumi to ask, “Um, since you have to stay for a bit, do you want something to drink?”
“Water is fine,” Iwaizumi says. He’s about to wait outside the kitchen, but Oikawa’s unmoving form disturbs him and makes him ask, “Oikawa? What is it?”
Oikawa stands rooted to the spot and points at a window, saying, “This was locked when I left.”
The statement lights a spark in their veins and in the split second that follows a flash of movement reflecting in the steel of the toaster, Oikawa snatches a knife to throw it at the doorway as Iwaizumi draws his weapon.
Both weapons narrowly miss the intruder who dodges in time, but before Iwaizumi and Oikawa can pursue him, he rains bullets from behind the wall, forcing them to duck behind the kitchen island as various appliances are shot to bits.
“Give me a gun,” Oikawa demands urgently.
“No.”
“You have another one, don’t you? Give me that,” Oikawa grits out.
“I’m not giving you a gun. Just stay here,” Iwaizumi orders and tries to duck around the island, but another barrage of bullets makes him abandon the attempt.
Oikawa tugs on Iwaizumi’s shoulder and tells him irritably, “You don’t think I know how to handle myself with a gun?” He would retrieve his own if it isn’t hidden in a false drawer in his walk-in wardrobe upstairs or out of reach in a side table in the living room.
“You’ve been playing house for the last five years, so forgive me if I think you’ve gone a little rusty,” Iwaizumi snaps, sarcasm dripping from his voice.
“I could still take you out in under a minute,” Oikawa fierce-whispers.
Their little tiff is interrupted by a series of successive shots, a window the assailant takes to dash past the doorway.
“He’s moving,” Iwaizumi notes and wastes no time in pursuing, but the moment he steps out into the hallway, the masked assailant is there, and expertly disarms Iwaizumi, the pistol dropping to the ground with a clatter.
Iwaizumi barely has time to register the fact that the attacker is clearly trained and experienced in the way they are, preoccupied with wrestling his arms so that the shot that goes off isn’t in the middle of his forehead but between his feet. Iwaizumi manages to disarm the attacker too, but he swiftly goes for the pistol still holstered at Iwaizumi’s hip and seizes it not to aim at Iwaizumi, but at a distance behind him.
Iwaizumi quickly grabs his arm, forcing him to misfire and lodging a bullet into the ceiling, as Oikawa stands a few metres from them trying to find an opening to assist Iwaizumi.
“Oikawa, get back!” Iwaizumi barks, but Oikawa isn’t about to stand by and do nothing while his former partner is in mortal danger. This would have been so much easier if he had just given him a gun.
As Iwaizumi grapples with the assailant, Oikawa grabs one of the pistols off the floor and takes aim, but they’re much too close and their movements are too unpredictable for Oikawa to get a good shot. He thinks Iwaizumi may have gotten the upper hand when he has the attacker pinned, but he’s suddenly thrown over and tumbles unceremoniously to the ground. Oikawa seizes the chance to shoot, firing at the masked man, but he proves to be lightning quick as he breaks into a run and throws a canister at them.
Smoke starts spewing out of the can, obscuring their vision, and the second his eyes start to sting, Oikawa shouts, “It’s tear gas! Get out of the house!”
The agents burst out of the front door, coughing and squinting as they catch their breaths. Needless to say, the attacker manages to escape amidst the commotion, probably having deduced that his chances of killing Oikawa are significantly weakened with Iwaizumi in the fray, which brings an important point to light—the attack at the hotel wasn’t an act of terrorism, it was a targeted attack on Oikawa.
The both of them seem to arrive at the same conclusion. It confirms what Iwaizumi already suspects, and makes the weight on his shoulders a little heavier, but it doesn’t change anything he’s set out to do except to accelerate his plans. Oikawa, on the other hand, is pissed off. The whole night he’s been losing his footing, and now that he’s certain someone is out for his life, he’s going to want to be more involved.
“Iwa-chan?” he calls in a breathless huff.
“Yeah?”
“I’m going to HQ with you.”
Oikawa says the familiar term of endearment so naturally that Iwaizumi does not think much of it until much later, when he’s in the quietness of his apartment tending to his cuts and bruises, an act he had to get used to doing alone. It reminds him of an old partnership. Iwaizumi rubs a salve over a dark purple bruise, but the soreness barely eclipses the tender ache in his chest.
“I really can take you down in under a minute,” Oikawa asserts confidently.
“You keep telling yourself that,” Iwaizumi returns.
They make their way across the lobby in Roppongi’s tallest skyscraper, where HQ sits on the 49th floor. Oikawa had been serious about making a visit to HQ after the attempt on his life, and he’s disguised with a cap, glasses, and a face mask, since it would be strange to find Seijoh Corp’s husband in HQ.
“Just because I haven’t been on the field like you have for a while, doesn’t mean I still can’t beat you in the combat room,” Oikawa taunts, stepping into the elevator. “We could have a round if you don’t believe me.”
“No thanks,” Iwaizumi scoffs and punches the button for the 49th floor. Oikawa seems to be forgetting that he’s had more losses than wins against Iwaizumi.
“Why? Is Iwa-chan scared?”
“You wish—” Iwaizumi is cut off when someone sticks his staff pass between the elevator doors, causing it to open, and his eyes widen by a fraction at the recognisable face of Miya Atsumu.
Miya is equally surprised to see him, but it’s quickly replaced by an easy smile as he enters the elevator with them. “Iwa-san. It’s been a while,” he greets, the distinct Kansai accent rolling off his tongue.
The reaction it draws from Oikawa is instant. He makes a face at the apparent familiarity. He’s heard of Miya Atsumu, who is only one of the most capable intelligence officers they have and, as established through less official channels, one of the most attractive. Since when were they on a nickname basis? Oikawa didn't even know they were acquainted. Miya doesn’t acknowledge him, which is perfectly fine by Oikawa.
“Miya,” Iwaizumi greets back, and leans back slightly when he reaches over to push the button for the 25th floor, where the cafe he frequents is located.
“Which country are you back from this time?” the blonde asks, and they fall into an easy conversation, one that Oikawa feels increasingly peeved about as he listens in like an outsider. Heavens, Miya isn’t Iwaizumi’s new partner, is he?
“The States. New York,” Iwaizumi offers. If there’s any awkwardness about riding the elevator with a former lover and a former fling, he makes a good effort in hiding it.
“Nice. You like it better than California? That’s where you were the last time we met, right?” Miya asks, and Oikawa is fortunate that his scowl goes unnoticed.
A dozen questions pop into his mind from the simple question. How did they meet? Why do they sound so chummy with each other? What business does Miya have to regard Iwaizumi with a glint of interest in his dark brown eyes? Oikawa probably has no right to pry, since he has been out of Iwaizumi’s life for the past five years and what Iwaizumi does in that time is none of his concern. But Oikawa has always harboured an irrational possessiveness over Iwaizumi, and he’s left what little reason he has at the ground floor of this building.
“Yeah. I’d say I prefer California. Food’s better,” Iwaizumi answers.
“So why are you back?”
The specifics of his mission are confidential, and most people aren’t even aware that the recent killings have anything to do with the Company given the tight lid on the Black Doves’ identities, so Iwaizumi tells him vaguely, “Reassignment.”
Miya’s eyebrows raise in surprise, and there is a prominent gleam of hope in his eyes. Iwaizumi catches it and understands the wordless assumption that Miya must be wondering if this is a repeat of their encounter last year. Iwaizumi had been brought back to help with the ongoing Adlers’ case after completing a mission in California, which is how he first encountered Miya. His wiles and ego had resulted in a few disagreements at the start, but they might have been the same things that led to other…affairs.
“Ah, it’s not what you think. It’s a new project,” Iwaizumi clarifies awkwardly.
At the other side of the elevator, Oikawa’s scowl deepens. What is Miya thinking? He does not like the subtleties he’s catching in their conversation, and especially not the disappointed way Miya returns his explanation.
“And here I thought we’d get to work together again,” Miya says with a lilt. “We did have fun last time, didn’t we?”
It’s a miracle that Oikawa manages to hold back a scoff, but he does press his lips together and looks away, hiding the aversion that’s now plain on his face. Is it him or is the elevator infuriatingly slow today?
“We did,” Iwaizumi admits. Miya is unapologetic and fun, but he always believed it was a short-term thing with him.
Oikawa wants to throw up.
“Well, if you’re up for some coffee or even better, drinks, you know where to find me,” Miya invites. The elevator finally dings when they reach the 25th floor, and Miya has the audacity to wink at Iwaizumi as he steps out, and any doubt that Oikawa has about the less professional aspects of their relationship is well and truly obliterated.
“That I do,” Iwaizumi says. He makes a deliberate choice to remain silent as the elevator ascends again, but the hostile aura that Oikawa exudes is simply too palpable to ignore, so he says pointedly, “What?”
Oikawa doesn’t mince his words as he accuses, like Iwaizumi has committed a sin, “You’ve slept with him.”
“What does it matter?” Iwaizumi says with a sigh.
“Miya Atsumu? Really? I thought you could do better than that,” Oikawa sneers, finding an irrational need to insult because it’s infinitely easier than admitting how their exchange truly makes him feel.
It provokes Iwaizumi into facing him to ask in disbelief, “Are we seriously doing this?”
“Only if you want to,” Oikawa shoots back petulantly.
“Okay, fine. Let’s do this,” Iwaizumi snaps in exasperation. If Oikawa wants to pretend he has the moral high ground, Iwaizumi will have no qualms about showing him how mistaken he is. He spits back, an anger lighted within him, “Yeah, I slept with him, and I had a fucking good time.”
Oikawa scoffs.
“That is so childish—”
“I’ve slept with a lot of people while you were gone,” Iwaizumi cuts him off. “Did you think you were better than me for sleeping with one guy?”
That’s the reality of it. Iwaizumi found company and pleasure in short-lived affairs, never staying long enough to form attachments, while Oikawa played the part of a loyal and dutiful husband to sell secrets. It doesn’t make either of them better or worse than the other. It was just survival.
Oikawa is affronted by the crude notion.
“I never once thought that—”
“So what, Oikawa?” Iwaizumi counters, voice strained. Oikawa has no right to mock him for one inconsequential fling when he goes back to a big, luxurious house and slides into bed with another man for the past five years. Even if it’s a job, it does not make the pain any less visceral. It bleeds into Iwaizumi’s words as he says, “We aren’t together anymore. You don’t get to be angry at me for being with other people, the same way I don’t get to be angry at you for doing this, even if it fucking kills me to see you with someone else.”
The confession shocks Oikawa. It is the rawest thing Iwaizumi has said to him since their unexpected reunion. He has been harbouring the belief that Iwaizumi must have lost all affection for him, an expected outcome but ultimately one Oikawa was powerless to avoid, but hearing him admit this seems to prove him wrong.
Oikawa wants to reach out and confess that he is the same. It has eaten him from the inside out to imagine that Iwaizumi has moved on—travelling to interesting places, fighting alongside another partner, taking different lovers—as if the bond they shared could be so easily buried and forgotten, while he has been stuck here wondering if there was anything more he could have done not to burn their relationship to ashes.
There’s so much he wants to say, but the elevator reaches the 49th floor and Iwaizumi stalks out, leaving Oikawa in the ruins he habitually creates for himself.
*
The joint meeting with their handlers went as well as they expected after their quarrel in the elevator. They discussed everything they needed to, but it was clear to Kuroo and Sugawara that there existed some discontent between the two. Neither spoke to the other unless it was absolutely necessary, and their tones were controlled, as if their professionalism was simply a facade hiding something they’re obviously holding back.
They part ways after the meeting, with Iwaizumi calling in a few favours to run analyses, and Oikawa staying behind in the conference room for a separate brief with Sugawara. It’s the same old, except with a couple of updated directives on what to look out for based on the client’s new requests. When that’s settled, Sugawara follows with a well-intended suggestion that almost makes Oikawa feel sheepish if he is less shameless.
“Also,” the handler adds, “you might want to manage the tension between the two of you. I don’t know if it’s sexual or otherwise, but it’s suffocating.”
Oikawa groans as he leans into his chair, preferring not to be reminded of it.
“We just…had an argument,” he tells him.
“About?” Sugawara asks with a raised brow.
After a brief consideration, Oikawa says defeatedly, “It’s not important.” Iwaizumi is right anyway. Oikawa gave up the right to be mad when he gave them up. He made a choice, and even though the consequences of the alternative were worse, Iwaizumi didn’t know that. Iwaizumi is free to do whatever he pleases and partner whoever he likes, and the sooner Oikawa comes to terms with that, the less humiliating it is for him.
Try as he might, however, Oikawa has to quench an insatiable need for a certain piece of information, especially since he has Sugawara with him now. Without much finesse, he utters, “So.”
Sugawara regards him questioningly.
“So?”
“So who’s his new partner?” Oikawa asks, disgruntled.
At once, Sugawara understands what this is about. It so happens that he is recently privy to the information Oikawa seeks, and he decides to spare him some misery. “He doesn’t have one,” Sugawara tells him.
Oikawa frowns, finding it hard to believe Sugawara’s words. “That’s not possible,” he counters.
“It’s true. He went solo.”
“But everyone who is H4-cleared and above is assigned a partner by the Company,” Oikawa points out. That was how he met Iwaizumi, an encounter that had shaped his life in irrevocable ways. To learn that Iwaizumi has gone against one of the Company’s mandates plants more questions in Oikawa’s mind than answers.
“Not him. I heard he told top brass that he either works alone or he doesn’t work at all,” Sugawara says. He’s always held Iwaizumi in high regard, but he admits he’s further impressed that he’s able to get away with such a stunt.
Oikawa’s incredulity laces his single-word question, “Why?”
All the jealousy over Iwaizumi forging an impeccable partnership with another agent is vanquished, and in its place a wispy tendril of hope, infused with remorse, takes root. He thinks he might know the answer to that, but he needs it to be said aloud.
Sugawara notes the hint of desperation in Oikawa’s voice and in the crease of his eyebrows, but most of all in the heaviness of his hazel eyes, and sympathises. “Oikawa, I know you have a lot of questions,” he says, firm and gentle in a way he rarely is when they’re on the job. “But you’re not asking the right person for answers.”
Oikawa, stubborn as ever and a little self-sabotaging when it comes to Iwaizumi, presses for a final answer.
“Why him? Of all the agents we have, why assign him?”
Sugawara lets out a small sigh. He retracts his earlier statement. Oikawa is fully aware that Sugawara would know this. “Let’s just say,” he starts, meeting Oikawa’s demanding gaze purposefully, “that the Company believes the consequences of failure are worse for Iwaizumi than anyone else.”
There’s a distinct Christmas vibe found in shopping malls that’s made up of elaborate decorations hanging from the ceiling over a large Christmas tree in the middle of the event space, and the Mitsukoshi Ginza department store is no different. Despite the danger surrounding their circumstances, it is still Christmas season and Oikawa is not exempted from having to run errands for a Christmas dinner that they host as tradition.
Naturally, Iwaizumi accompanies him as his security detail, and the air between them is a little awkward after they’ve exhausted their mission-related conversation topics. It's been a couple of days since their tiff at HQ, and they never quite resolved what simmered beneath their heated words that day, but swept the whole matter under the carpet and pretended they didn’t see the mound forming under the fabric.
Iwaizumi is content keeping to himself for the most part as Oikawa browses the homeware section, but can’t help making his disagreement known when Oikawa picks a set of orange-coloured plates with every intention of purchasing it.
“Who buys orange plates for a Christmas dinner?” he wonders aloud, the word coming out like it’s an offence to the holiday itself.
“Why not? It provides a pop of colour!” Oikawa counters. It’s a pretty orange too, a bright tangerine that fits the festive mood in his opinion.
“But it’s Christmas,” Iwaizumi points out flatly. “You should get red or green plates.”
Oikawa turns away and says, “That’s boring. Everyone has red or green plates for Christmas,” switching out his set with one that’s deeper on the shelf.
“It’s not boring. It's a classic,” Iwaizumi argues, “and everyone knows the colour orange is for Halloween.”
“That’s not a rule,” Oikawa fires back, meeting Iwaizumi’s eyes defiantly.
“Yeah, but it’s just a thing that makes sense.”
“You’re a thing that doesn’t make sense.”
It’s a terrible comeback, they both know it, and for a full moment, they lock eyes without saying anything, with Iwaizumi’s unimpressed gaze boring into Oikawa’s increasingly sheepish one as “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” plays in the background. It’s reminiscent of the times they used to spend bickering about frivolous matters, the kind of small moments that leave a big hole when they’re gone, and and they both must feel a pang of sentimentality, because Iwaizumi’s gaze softens and he blinks away as Oikawa clears his throat.
“I’ll get the red ones,” Oikawa murmurs, a quiet admission of defeat.
After he’s paid and they’re on their way out of the mall, presumably to another equally high-end one, Iwaizumi asks, “Is that all you have to get?”
“Yeah, that’s all,” Oikawa answers and misses the frown Iwaizumi makes when his phone vibrates with a text message that he reads quickly from the notification bar.
“Don’t you have to get food for a Christmas dinner?” Iwaizumi questions.
Oikawa turns back to him to say, “Wada-san, our chef, does all our cooking, so he takes care of the ingredients too.”
Iwaizumi lets a beat pass before he says, “You have a personal chef?” with an inflection that makes Oikawa grimace.
“It’s not my idea,” Oikawa answers defensively. He knows how it looks: high-earning couple hires a private chef because normal food tastes too poor and because they can. It may be his lifestyle now, but it’s not his inclination, and Oikawa is compelled to remind Iwaizumi that his roots have always been more practical.
“Hirota likes home-made food and he has an expensive taste so he hired a personal chef. He can cook but it saves him the trouble of grocery shopping, and he says food prep is a pain—”
“Stop talking or I’m going to throw a snow globe at you,” Iwaizumi threatens in a deadpan voice. Does he like living like this? Living extravagantly…hosting dinners…shopping at department stores for homeware. It’s a stark contrast to the Oikawa who’s deadly with a weapon and possesses a tenacity that never fails to amaze Iwaizumi.
“So violent!” Oikawa scolds. “I’m not the one who’s a fussy eater. You know I can eat tuna straight from a can.”
The statement triggers a memory of one of the many missions they’ve been through, when being partners meant something more than their time on the field.
“Yeah. I know,” Iwaizumi says, mostly to himself, a half-smile forming without his realising. In the absence of any sort of reply from Oikawa, he looks at him and meets round eyes soft with surprise. “What?” Iwaizumi wonders.
“I think that’s the first time you’ve smiled since we saw each other,” Oikawa answers honestly, taking Iwaizumi aback. It’s too fond and accomplishes nothing except to remind them of their history. Iwaizumi’s smile was uncommon, but never that much of a rare thing. Oikawa misses it dearly. “What were you thinking of?” he dares to ask.
Iwaizumi hesitates briefly to unpack the memory, but answers eventually, “That mission in Ishikawa where we had to camp in the woods. You were on your last can of tuna and a couple of monkeys started to raid your backpack so you tried to chase them away, but it made you drop the tuna.”
It had been quite the humorous incident to see Oikawa, who is normally so athletic and put-together, running in circles to chase the pesky monkeys away and collapsing in exhaustion with mud on his face and leaves in his hair.
“It might have been funny to you, but I was starving,” Oikawa points out.
“I shared my protein bar with you.”
Oikawa is reminded of Iwaizumi’s subsiding laughter and a half-eaten protein bar offered to him, knowing that it was his last one too. “Yeah, I remember that,” he says tenderly. “Feels like it happened a long time ago.”
“Haven’t gone camping in a while?” Iwaizumi surmises.
It incites a laugh from Oikawa, who says with a light scoff, “No, the only outdoorsy thing I’ve done is skiing trips. Hirota hates hot weather and only wants to chill in fancy ski lodges.”
He realises he’s mentioned Hirota again half a second too late, but Iwaizumi doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, he entertains the foreign idea of Oikawa skiing and asks, “You must be pretty good on the slopes then.”
“I’m alright,” Oikawa says sheepishly. “I’d rather go camping.”
If there is a deeper meaning behind his words, Iwaizumi does not linger. It’s clear that Oikawa has been leading a comfortable life, but Iwaizumi is curious, perhaps at his own peril, about what lies beneath the surface. Hirota has the privilege that Iwaizumi has lost, and it would be a grave injustice not to treasure it, so he asks, “Is he good to you?”
“Huh?” Oikawa utters as they step out of the glass doors of Mitsukoshi and the winter air brushes against their cheeks. It’s not that he doesn’t hear. The question is simply so abrupt that Oikawa can’t quite believe Iwaizumi has asked it.
“Hirota,” Iwaizumi says with a calmness even he’s surprised to have regarding the topic. “Is he good to you?”
In the streets of Ginza, the trees lining the sidewalk are wrapped in winter lights, already illuminated in the late afternoon. There are pockets of people strolling down the streets, doing some Christmas shopping and enjoying one of Tokyo’s less crowded Yuletide atmospheres. It’s all rather peaceful, and maybe Iwaizumi is influenced by it, despite the truth he’s asking for.
“Yeah,” Oikawa answers in a breath. “He’s a good guy. I mean, as good as someone with his status in such an industry can be. But yeah, he treats me well.”
He tries not to sound like it holds any significance, but he imagines that no matter how he phrases it, the truth will always sound a little heavy.
Iwaizumi nods, and holds back from asking an even riskier question, Do you love him? He doesn’t need to know. At best, it changes nothing. At worst, his heart will break again, except he’ll be able to hear it this time. He inhales, letting the matter rest, and asks, “Should we get going?”
Oikawa seems to remember something, his lips parting in hesitation.
“Ah, actually, Hirota’s coming to pick me up,” he tells Iwaizumi awkwardly with a hint of guilt. “He said he could get off work earlier. I think he should be here soon.” It feels like he’s deserting him, even though it’s Iwaizumi’s job to accompany him when needed, and having Hirota pick him up and probably take him to a fancy dinner is hardly a better experience.
“Right,” Iwaizumi says. He reckons he will never get used to Oikawa belonging with someone else, which is an euphemistic way of saying that it will always hurt. At the very least, it is a dull ache instead of a sharp pain. He adds abruptly, “I’m off then.”
“Okay,” Oikawa says, regretful but helpless. He watches Iwaizumi’s retreating figure, and hesitates for a moment before blurting out, “Iwa-chan.”
Iwaizumi turns, a mildly curious expression on his face.
Oikawa doesn’t actually know what to say. It just doesn’t feel right to part ways with the weight of their unsaid words hanging in the air, but what he truly feels probably can’t be said out loud. He doesn’t want Iwaizumi to leave as much as he doesn’t want to leave with Hirota, and he’d much rather have cheap ramen at yatai stalls with Iwaizumi than expensive omakase with Hirota.
There’s no way he can confess these, so Oikawa presses his lips together and says, “Um, drive safe.”
Iwaizumi regards him thoughtfully, like he knows it’s a facade for more honest sentiments. He nods in acknowledgement, deciding not to disturb the peace, though that itself is barely accurate when he finds himself standing in the epicenter of a ruined love.