Archive of Our Own ^beta

(i)

Issei’s neighbour shows up in September.

He is only aware of it in a roundabout way: the sound of voices in the stairwell on his way up, too far back for Issei to see; the cobwebs cleaned off the disused 3B letterbox; a key in a lock, a slammed door, the thump of furniture on hardwood, and then nothing at all.

And Issei isn’t nosy, not really, not if you ask anyone who knows him, but 3B has been empty for so long and Issei has started avoiding the elderly woman in 3C ever since he pretended to like her botamochi and had to clear out a whole shelf in his fridge just to store it.

So, he’s not nosy, but he might be a little desperate.

The neighbour, Issei comes to realise, is either naturally private or playing a very elaborate game of hide and seek of which Issei has not been informed.

Issei looks for them, through the peephole to the hallway outside their front doors, over the banister in the stairwell every time he hears a second set of footsteps, hovering around the security gate when he’s forgotten his fob and needs someone to buzz him in on their way through.

It’s not nosy, he reasons, just neighbourly.

The neighbour eludes him, always the click of a latch just as Issei makes it to his front door, always a flight ahead and quicker than Issei’s lungs will allow him to move. But he catches the neighbour in sounds, in a voice, in a footstep, in a rap of knuckle against wood. And slowly, steadily, in something that wells up out of the emptiness of 3B and crescendos right over Issei’s head.

He wakes with a start the first night, when something goes off with a bang. For a terrible moment he holds his breath, wonders if a good neighbour should know how to bandage gunshot wounds, until the bang is replaced by loud music, pulsing through the wall that splits their flats in two, rising and rising until it becomes less of a song and more an incessant caterwauling.

When he checks his watch on his bedside table, it’s going on three in the morning and the neighbour’s party doesn’t seem anywhere near winding down, but Issei is not nosy, so he turns onto his other side and pulls the blanket up over his head.

Something about it breaches a dam though.

Issei still can’t catch a glimpse of the neighbour, but he hears them loud and clear and ceaseless. Sometimes it’s the same music, a heavy bassline and a voice caught on the edge of a scream; other times it’s the thump of something against the wall between them (Issei is hoping for punching bag, rather than body). One notable Thursday, when Issei was up early for an 8am class, the blissfully still morning was split by something that might have been an operatic tune and equally might have been howl.

Issei is not nosy. He goes to class.

By the time Issei’s self-control eventually erodes, it is half past midnight, he hasn’t seen the neighbour once in all of a month, and the percussion in tonight’s music is enough to set his teeth chattering.

His decision is somewhere between morbid curiosity, neighbourly good humour, and the resounding twang of his patience snapping in his head.

The autumn chill has just begun to bite, so he stops to shove on Ugg boots and wind a zip-up hoodie around his shoulders before he stomps out into the hall and slams his fist against the painted wood of 3B, loud enough to cut through tonight’s pounding bass.

Despite his righteous anger, Issei’s surprise draws him up short when the music stops. He blinks at the door and doesn’t have time to rethink his speech before it swings inwards and he comes eye to eye with a shock of bright pink hair.

“Oh,” is the first thing Issei manages to say.

The neighbour standing in front of him has sharp, murky green eyes, the brightest coloured clothes Issei has ever seen, and a wrinkle of distaste in the bridge of his nose. Issei can’t decide whether to focus on his iridescent skirt, the matching bright green leg warmers and fingerless gloves, or his pink, pink hair stuck up at odd angles.

“What is it?” the neighbour says, drawing Issei’s attention back to the frown building between his brows.

“Your music,” he says weakly. “It’s loud.”

This is not the speech he prepared. He remembers there was much more heat to it, definitely something about basic human decency and acceptable business hours, but he can’t figure out how to string the words together again.

“Yes,” the neighbour says impatiently. “Is that all?”

Issei opens his mouth to reply and closes it when he spots the mole underneath the left corner of the neighbour’s mouth. From somewhere inside the flat, a voice pipes up before Issei can figure out how to speak.

“Close that, would you? You’re letting a draught in, dummy.”

“I’ll put a draught in your mum,” the neighbour snaps over his shoulder.

Issei can just make out the groan that follows and the quiet, “What the hell does that mean?”

He has no idea why he’s still standing here. He has no idea how to make himself walk away.

“Oi, 3A,” the neighbour says, snapping his fingers in front of Issei’s face. “Are we done here?”

Issei is nodding before he realises what he’s doing. He forces himself to say, “Just, um, could you make it…not loud?”

The neighbour just looks at him. His nose is still wrinkled, like Issei is something foul-smelling trodden into his doormat. He gives Issei a handful of seconds to say anything else before giving up and letting the door slam closed in his face.

The music starts up again almost immediately.

Issei trudges, perplexed, one door down, lets himself back into his flat, and toes off his boots at the bedside. It’s not until he’s piled a mountain of blankets over his head to muffle as much noise as he can that he remembers to feel disconcerted that the neighbour knew instantly which flat was Issei’s.

He supposes, just because he hadn’t seen the neighbour didn’t mean the neighbour hadn’t seen him. He doesn’t know what it means that he might have been looking.

(ii)

It is three days before Issei’s neighbour shows any sign of having recognised the noise complaint.

The fourth day is a Thursday, so Issei finishes class at midday and comes home for lunch. The building is quiet, as it often is during the middle of the day, and Issei considers the possibility of his neighbour being nocturnal.

The stairs open to the floor just outside 3C, so he has to walk past the new neighbour’s front door to reach his own. He pauses outside, revels in the absolute silence for once, then remembers that he does not care about his neighbour’s personal business and continues down the hall.

At his own door, he spots a small plastic package waiting for him that definitely hadn’t been there when he’d left that morning. He glances back at the rest of the floor, but it’s just as empty as when he’d emerged from the stairs.

Issei scoops up the package and smooths out the bright orange sticky note on the front to read from 3B in bold sharpie. He frowns at the door next to his. It’s still quiet and nondescript, no trace of pink hair and bright outfits and thumping music.

Not nosy, Issei reminds himself, but he peels back the note all the same and reveals a plastic-wrapped pair of earplugs.

They’re an inexpensive, supermarket brand and not a patch on the noise-cancelling headphones Issei’s mum had bought him two birthdays ago, which have already proved useless against the neighbour’s torrential racket.

Issei crushes the plastic case in his fist, counts to ten, tells himself to mind his business, and finally steps into his flat.

Because he is not above admitting when he’s wrong, Issei tries the earplugs that night. They’re poor quality, squeak horribly when he slots them into his ears, and unsurprisingly do nothing against what sounds like a heavy dresser scraping against the hardwood floor for almost three hours.

In the morning, Issei is exhausted, running on three hours of sleep and a biting headache, and sick to death of minding his business. He puts his last three eggs on to boil and calls his sister because he doesn’t know what else to do.

“Stop me from doing something extremely rude and petty,” he says as soon as he hears the call connect.

There’s silence for several moments, a gentle background hum, and then Aya says, “Now why on earth would I do that?”

Issei tips his head back until it hits the wooden door of the cupboard behind him.

“Because you’re my big sister and you’re supposed to be the level-headed one?”

Aya snorts and Issei switches his phone to the other hand so he can bite the thumbnail of his left.

“Yeah, I’ve made a level-headed decision exactly never in my life. Use your words, Issei, what’s up?”

Issei clicks his teeth against his nail as he pulls his thumb away from his mouth.

“My neighbour is a nightmare,” he says.

“What?” Aya says. “Not Anzai-san? She’s lovely.”

“Not her, but that reminds me I’ve got about a year’s worth of botamochi that needs eaten if you want any.”

“We don’t like botamochi,” she reminds him. “So, you’ve got a new neighbour?”

“He moved in last month. He’s…” Issei debates the most diplomatic way to phrase it and settles on, “loud.”

“Loud like how?” Aya asks.

The eggs in the pot start rattling and Issei checks the time on his cooker clock.

“Loud like I slept three hours last night because I had to listen to him throw his furniture around until six in the morning.”

Issei counts the minutes back in his head to make sure he’s timed it right before sliding a tub of leftover rice into the microwave.

“I mean, he’s like that every night,” he continues. “I asked him—nicely, by the way, onee-chan, I was so nice—to keep it down a couple nights ago and you know what he did? He left these stupid, cheap earplugs on my doorstep. Like, they didn’t help at all. I can’t stand him. Hey, are you laughing at me right now?”

“Sorry,” Aya says, but she’s still laughing. “It’s not funny, sorry, he seems annoying. I just can’t remember the last time you, like, gave a shit about someone who isn’t directly related to you.”

“I don’t give a shit about him,” Issei says.

The microwave beeps and he twists off the gas underneath his eggs first, carrying the pot to the sink and running cold water over them, one shoulder hunched to tuck his phone against his ear.

“I think he’s awful,” he adds, leaving the eggs in the sink to rescue his rice from the microwave.

“Right, but you can give a shit in a bad way,” Aya says. “What rude and petty something were you going to do anyway?”

“Leave instructions for soundproofing his flat on his doorstep,” Issei says. He pushes a fork through his rice and watches the steam swirl up.

This time Aya doesn’t even pretend not to laugh.

“You are so much worse than me,” she says cheerfully.

Issei ignores her, tilting his head to the side to hold his phone in place again while he peels his boiled eggs. By the time he has sliced them into his rice, he’s not feeling any more benevolent towards his neighbour and this entire phone call has been a colossal waste of time.

“You were supposed to talk me down,” he complains.

On the other end, Aya huffs.

“No, I wasn’t. If you wanted talking down, you would have called Mama.”

“You’re no help,” Issei says. “I have class in an hour. Bye.”

“Do you have any empty egg cartons?” Aya asks before he can hang up.

Issei eyes his recycling bin. “What?”

“I hear they work for soundproofing rooms,” she says and hangs up.

Issei finishes his breakfast and goes to university and in between classes he opens google on one of the library computers and types how to diy soundproof a room. He’s not going to do anything, he just wants to see, and if he buried the empty egg carton in the bottom of his rucksack that’s no one’s business but his.

And if he prints out the webpage and tucks it into one end of the egg carton, well, Issei is not an instigator but he can’t be expected not to retaliate to a direct invitation.

Back at the building, Issei hears the neighbour before he even leaves the stairwell. He pauses, presses his forehead against the door, and listens to the chorus of raised voices, the rhythmic rise and fall of what sounds like a chant. He briefly considers turning around and walking straight back to campus, but it’s cold outside and he is sleep-deprived and scarf-less and his cosy bed is so close.

Issei digs his nails into the palm of his left hand and steps into the hallway where the cacophony drills into his head and clamours all the way down his spine. He considers knocking on the neighbour’s door, thinks he can even remember most of his angry speech, but then he imagines his mother’s chiding voice, remembers that he is the level-headed sibling, and settles for sliding the egg carton out of his rucksack.

Leaving it on the doorstep gives him enough peace of mind to step away, and Issei lets himself into his flat, climbs fully clothed into bed, and doesn’t think about the neighbour because he does not care.

(iii)

The first time Issei learns that the neighbour is actually capable of leaving his flat, it is a Saturday afternoon, he is on his way home from lunch at his mum’s, he had remembered his scarf this time, and they are in the parking lot in front of their building.

The neighbour is wearing patterned leggings and a thin cardigan that cannot possibly be keeping out the late October chill and a knitted beanie with a pompom sticking straight up in the air. He’s bent over into the boot of a maroon car, trying to wrestle six cloth shopping bags into his hands at once.

Issei walks past him, tells himself he still doesn’t care, and lasts two metres before he is compelled to turn around.

“Hey, can I give you a hand?” he says when he’s still far enough away that the neighbour has space to jump and turn in surprise.

The neighbour does not.

“3A,” he nods over his shoulder, “you can grab the last two.”

Issei waits for him to step back, two shopping bags in either hand, before he leans around to pick up the others. He pulls the boot closed after him, since the neighbour’s hands are full, and they cross the parking space on the other side of the neighbour’s car to get to the front door of their building.

“Don’t you need to lock that?” Issei asks.

The neighbour glances back at his car, shrugs, and says, “Nah.”

Issei doesn’t push it.

They’re in the stairwell by the time his stomach curdles at the silence. He lifts one of the shopping bags in front of his chest to point at himself, even though the neighbour hasn’t looked at him once since the parking lot.

“Matsukawa, by the way,” he says.

“Matsukawa Bytheway?”

The neighbour runs the words together incredulously, like it’s some kind of foreign name he doesn’t think much of.

“Issei,” Issei says, “Matsukawa Issei.”

“Right,” the neighbour says. He stops, one hand on the door into the third floor and looks back at Issei. “Hanamaki. Takahiro, if you like.”

He pushes the door open and disappears through without holding it for Issei, who jumps forwards to stop it swinging shut with his shoulder. He follows Hanamaki to the doorstep of 3B where he is sliding two of the shopping bags down his wrist to dig his hand through his pocket. Issei dithers, considers dropping his own bags right there and making a quick getaway, but before he can get half a step away, Hanamaki is unlocking the door and trudging inside and waving Issei to follow behind his back.

Stepping through the door to flat 3B feels almost forbidden. Issei steels himself in the doorway with one long breath.

As it turns out, the inside of the flat is alarmingly mundane. The layout is a mirror image of Issei’s own flat, opening into the living room with the bedroom and bathroom off to the left instead of the right. He’s unsurprised to note that Hanamaki’s flare for the eccentric has spilled into his decor; everything from the rug to the sofa cushions to the drapes pinned on the walls pops in contrasting colours.

Hanamaki continues straight through the flat to where the main room tapers into a small kitchenette, but Issei gets caught up when he sees the two people on the sofa, staring expectantly at their visitor.

“This is Iwaizumi Hajime,” Hanamaki says carelessly on his way past. “He’s my ex. And that’s his new boyfriend.”

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes so hard Issei is half expecting his forehead to split in two.

“We’ve been best friends since we were eleven,” he clarifies. “We dated for three weeks in high school and Hiro likes introducing me as his ex because it makes people uncomfortable.”

“And I’ve been Hajime’s best friend since we were four, so I’m not new actually,” the other man says, leaning across the couch to curl his arms over Iwaizumi’s shoulders.

“I dated him first,” Hanamaki says from the kitchen.

Issei only just catches the quirk at the corner of Iwaizumi’s lips.

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi tells him, pointing at the man draped across his back. Oikawa turns from where he’s sticking out his tongue at Hanamaki behind the counter to grin at Issei.

“So,” he says, “you’re 3A then.”

Issei wonders what exactly he’s doing that makes it so obvious which flat he lives in.

“That’s Issei bytheway,” Hanamaki says, rounding the counter to move towards them. He opens and closes his fist at Issei until Issei gets the hint and hands over his shopping bags for Hanamaki to take to the kitchen.

“Do you want coffee?” Hanamaki asks over his shoulder. “Hajime’s about to make some.”

“I told you to stop fucking doing that,” Iwaizumi says, but he’s already getting up from the sofa.

“Doing what?” Hanamaki says and pats Iwaizumi’s cheek on his way past.

He steals the vacant spot beside Oikawa and gestures to the raggedy armchair, glancing up at Issei.

“Coffee, yes or no?”

“Um, sure.”

Issei takes the offered seat and fiddles with the end of his scarf, his gaze flitting from wall to wall to avoid staring at Hanamaki. There’s a stereo pushed up against the wall opposite the sofa which Issei assumes he has to thank for the heavy rock music that’s been keeping him awake for a month, and a wooden wardrobe beside it that has been literally duct taped shut. Issei doesn’t want to know.

Above the stereo system are a series of photos pinned straight into the wall and—Issei’s thoughts screech to a halt when he sees it—an empty egg carton stuck beside them.

“You kept the egg carton?” he says over the top of Hanamaki and Oikawa’s quiet conversation.

When Issei turns to look at them, Hanamaki shrugs back at him.

“Sure. I’m a reasonable guy. Did it help?”

Issei can’t decide if he thinks Hanamaki is being serious or not. He looks from him to the egg carton, back to him, and then on to Oikawa who is staring pleasantly back like he’s waiting for the verdict.

“About as well as your piece-of-crap earplugs did,” he says.

He gets up to avoid having to make eye contact with either Hanamaki, who pisses him off, or Oikawa, who freaks him out. He pauses by the wall and gives the photos a cursory glance—various shots of Hanamaki, Iwaizumi and Oikawa at various stages of puberty, a crowded table of people Issei doesn’t recognise, and three small children lined up in height order, each with shoulder-length golden brown hair and Hanamaki’s face—before he focuses on the carton again.

It’s baffling for several reasons: because Hanamaki had kept the actual piece of rubbish Issei had left on his doorstep in the first place; because he had willingly added it to the aesthetic of what is otherwise a nicely decorated home; and because it is so well-attached to the wall that Issei thinks it must be superglued, which means that Hanamaki’s commitment to the bit had been stronger than his desire to keep his security deposit.

“How did you even get it to stay like that?” he asks, turning back to the sofa.

“Blu-tack,” Hanamaki says at the same time as Oikawa says, “Magic.”

Hanamaki turns comically slow, eyes blown wide, to stare at Oikawa, and says, “Dude.”

Oikawa claps both hands over his mouth and says in a muffled voice, “I’m sorry. I always forget.”

“Oh, yeah, you just forget that none of us are actually licensed and you are going to get us all sent to prison.”

“Come on, Makki.” Oikawa lowers his hands slightly so that they can see the jut of his bottom lip. “3A’s not going to tell anyone.”

“The hell do you know about 3A?” Hanamaki mumbles but he’s not staring at Oikawa anymore.

Issei’s first thought is that this is an elaborate joke. His second thought is that no one, not even his weird, annoying, loud-ass neighbour and his equally weird, probably-less-annoying friend, can pull off a joke that convincingly on the fly.

His third thought is interrupted when Iwaizumi rounds the kitchen counter with a mug in each hand and two more bobbing along behind his head.

Issei has about half a second to process that before Iwaizumi stops short, glares at him like he’s the one floating inanimate objects at will, and says, “Shit.”

Hanamaki folds backwards into the sofa cushion, head tilted to the ceiling, and says, “Can no one in this household keep a fucking secret?”

So Issei finishes processing, decides it’s not his business, and reaches out to take one of the mugs from Iwaizumi’s hand.

“Magic,” he agrees, tilting his head towards Oikawa, and settles back into his armchair with no further questions.

(iv)

“Hanamaki,” Issei says one morning when he catches him on his way back into his apartment just as Issei is stepping out of his own.

He’s seen a lot more and heard a lot less of Hanamaki since their coffee afternoon, but last night had clearly been a big one in 3B. Issei hadn’t slept more than twenty minutes at a time in between bangs and crashes, and he knows it shows, can feel it collecting in the corners of his eyes and the hunch of his shoulders.

Hanamaki looks bright and sharp and handsome as ever—the bastard—as if he hadn’t lost just as much sleep as Issei. He has a different skirt on today, despite the chill that had forced Issei into his warmest hoodie, but he’s still wearing his green fingerless gloves and his hair is just as pink and soft and bright as ever.

Issei is suddenly very interested in the water stains on the ceiling.

“Issei bytheway.” Hanamaki leans one shoulder against his front door. “What can I do for you?”

Issei hadn’t really thought that far so he gestures down the hall and says, “I’m getting breakfast. Want anything?”

Hanamaki glances between the staircase at the end of the hall and his front door, as if weighing his options. Issei tucks his hands behind his back and stares at the ceiling and pretends he’s not waiting with a breath pocketed in his throat.

“I promised Hajime eggs,” Hanamaki says eventually, twisting the handle until his door clicks open.

Issei swallows the breath. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Right.”

He doesn’t feel much like eating anymore, but he moves to step past, too embarrassed to turn around and go back inside. Hanamaki lifts a hand into his path before he can get any further and something like a gust of wind ruffles against Issei’s chest, pulling him up short.

Issei stares at Hanamaki’s hand, remembers Oikawa saying “magic” so casually and Iwaizumi with two mugs in the air and the calmest expression on his face. He flexes his hand against the invisible pressure in front of him and it bends immediately, melting away into nothing.

“Sorry,” Hanamaki says. Issei blinks. “Do you like eggs, Issei?”

Issei blinks again.

“I like eggs,” he says and Hanamaki pushes the door open and leads Issei inside.

Iwaizumi is on the sofa again, this time with a laptop on his knees and a notebook open on the cushion beside him, and he doesn’t look up when they walk in. Issei pauses, wondering if he should bother interrupting him to say hello, but Hanamaki is already halfway to the kitchen, so Issei follows him instead.

He slots himself into a corner, the stovetop on one side and the sink at his back, and watches Hanamaki pull eggs and milk out of the fridge.

“So,” Hanamaki says, a bag of flour open in one hand and a glass bowl in the other, “gonna tell me what’s bothering you?”

“Nothing’s bothering me,” Issei says, except when Hanamaki lets go of the bowl to start sifting the flour, it hangs frozen in mid-air and the sight wriggles uncomfortably in his throat.

“Spontaneous breakfast invites are just your thing then?” Hanamaki asks.

He rolls down the paper top of the flour bag with his right hand and cracks an egg against the bowl with his left. Issei watches his fingers wiggle above his gloves as the eggshell hovers its way into the bin at the end of the counter.

“I had a question,” Issei says. His palms have gone sweaty, and he can’t tell if it’s the anticipation of what he’s about to ask or because Hanamaki is adding ingredients in such rapid succession Issei can barely keep track of his fingers.

Hanamaki pauses and tilts half an empty eggshell in Issei’s direction.

“Go on then.”

“So, magic.” Issei swallows, wipes one hand on his jeans, and waves it vaguely at the air around Hanamaki. “You guys are, like, witches then?”

“Wizards,” Hanamaki corrects and whisks his mixture three times before letting go. Issei watches the whisk continue needling out the bubbles and lumps on its own.

“Okay,” he says belatedly. “What’s the difference?”

Hanamaki frowns and digs through his cutlery drawer while he considers his answer. He pulls out a spatula and taps it lightly against the rim of the frying pan now heating on the stovetop.

“Discipline, mostly,” he says at last. He spoons three dollops of the mixture into the pan and nudges the edges with his spatula until they round out into perfect circles. “Witches are classically trained. There are more regulations and…ethics, I guess. They’re usually born into it too.

“We,” he loops a hand to encompass himself and Iwaizumi, “are self-taught. From non-magical families. Our magic has more limitations because it doesn’t run in our blood, but we’re freer to do what we want with it.”

“What do you do?” Issei can’t help but ask, thinking about the countless nights he’s spent listening to the raucous emanating from 3B.

Hanamaki grins, lopsided and toothy, and points at Iwaizumi.

“He’s a physiotherapist. Oikawa works in engineering. I’m between jobs myself but I freelance as a tattoo artist.”

He scoops two pancakes into the spatula and flips them both at once, landing neatly side by side. Hot butter spits at the rim from underneath them.

“I meant, like, what do you do with your magic?” Issei says.

Hanamaki flips the last pancake and says, “I know what you meant.”

It isn’t an invitation to keep the conversation going, so Issei shuts his mouth and watches Hanamaki cook three more pancakes. Once he’s done, he separates the six of them onto three plates, flips open his egg carton again, and cracks two eggs against the side of the frying pan at once. Issei tries not to stare.

“It’s a hobby mostly,” Hanamaki says and Issei has to blink three times before he can draw his attention away from Hanamaki’s hands. “We write all of our own spells so most of what you’ve been hearing is us experimenting with throwing different magic at each other.”

Issei supposes it explains the persistent bangs and occasional howls.

“Do you have to do it in the middle of the night though?”

“We don’t have to,” Hanamaki says. The eggs sizzle and he slides the spatula under the edges to unstick them. “We just figure it’s the most inconvenient time for everyone else.”

Issei tries to be annoyed, finds himself smiling instead.

“Thanks for the consideration.”

“My pleasure. It’s actually lucky you helped carry my shopping that one time. We were just about done with a spell that would make you step in dog shit every time you left your apartment.”

“Sorry?” Issei bends forwards to stare at Hanamaki. “You were what?”

Hanamaki smiles back at him, mischievous and secretive and drawing Issei ever closer.

“You asked what we do. There’s your answer.”

“What, waste your talent on ruining innocent civilians’ day?”

Hanamaki shrugs and says, “More like mess with people who piss one of us off at any given moment.”

“I can’t believe it,” Issei says. “Someone should have made a rule that you could only become a wizard if you promised not to hold petty grudges.”

“They probably did.” Hanamaki flips the eggs and adds two more. “We wouldn’t know since we’re unlicensed and technically illegal.”

Issei sighs and shakes his head and doesn’t threaten to report Hanamaki even if he is a little miffed about the dog shit.

Instead he asks, “No Oikawa today, though?”

“No. He went home in a huff this morning because we slightly, accidentally set his hand on fire. Even though Hajime had him patched up in about six seconds.” Hanamaki shrugs. “Dramatic arse.”

“Oh.” Issei fiddles with the end of the tea towel slung through the oven doorhandle. “So he doesn’t live here? I figured you were all roommates.”

Out on the sofa, Iwaizumi lets out an impressively loud snort that makes Issei jump all the way in the kitchen. He hadn’t realised Iwaizumi was listening.

“You couldn’t pay me to live with Hiro again,” Iwaizumi says. “I tried that once in university and he’s a nightmare roommate. No, Tooru and I have our own place. We’re just here all the time because Takahiro—”

“Doesn’t know how to take care of himself,” Hanamaki finishes, beat for beat in time with Iwaizumi.

Issei glances across the counter, but Iwaizumi looks more annoyed than surprised.

“Stop it,” he says, and one of the coasters from Hanamaki’s coffee table frisbees across the room at them. It freezes just in front of Hanamaki’s face and floats gently into his outstretched palm.

“Stop what?” Issei asks once the coaster is safely resting on the kitchen counter and not poking someone’s eye out.

Hanamaki grins at him. Issei’s stomach congeals.

“Telepathy,” he says, knocking the side of his head with one knuckle. “Spent years getting that fast at it and all he does is tell me off. He’s not even proud.”

“Yeah, ’cause it’s fucking creepy,” Iwaizumi says from the couch.

Issei barely hears him. He is busy thinking very aggressively about a statistics class he took in his first year and not about the way Hanamaki is still smiling down at the frying pan.

“You…read people’s minds?” Issei goes for casual and comes out wobbly.

“Well, technically I can. I only ever use it on Hajime though.”

Hanamaki looks up again and something about Issei’s expression makes him crack into laughter. Issei imagines a binomial distribution graph instead of the curve of Hanamaki’s mouth.

“Oh, come on. You don’t seriously think I’ve been wasting my time using telepathy to get inside your head? That shit takes energy and to be honest,” Hanamaki points the spatula at Issei, “I don’t really care.”

In the most bizarre sequence of mental gymnastics, Issei’s brain takes a one-eighty and wishes Hanamaki had cared enough to use his telepathic abilities on Issei. Hanamaki slides the eggs out of the pan and onto the three plates, and Issei watches his hands around the spatula, and everything is quiet and languid and easy, until all of a sudden it is very much not.

Issei doesn’t actually flinch at the first bang against the wall because he’s well-acquainted with living next to Hanamaki by now, so it takes several seconds and some loud swearing before he realises that neither Hanamaki nor Iwaizumi is doing anything and the wardrobe in the main room is throwing itself against the wall of its own accord.

“Oh, fuck no,” Iwaizumi says loudly at the same time as Hanamaki says, even louder, “Issei.”

Issei startles backwards when Hanamaki’s hand shoots in front of his chest. That same, wind-like force presses against his front.

“Your eggs,” Hanamaki says.

Issei has to tear his eyes away from the wardrobe, still jolting and shivering against the wall, and the apprehensive way Iwaizumi is flicking his fingers back and forth at it.

“My eggs?” he asks, once he’s followed Hanamaki’s gesture to one of the plates of eggs and pancakes.

“Hate to cut breakfast short,” Hanamaki says, “but we have a situation. You can bring the plate back any time.”

The second time Hanamaki points, Issei picks up the plate and walks stiffly out of the kitchenette, through the main room, between Iwaizumi and the rattling wardrobe, all the way to the front door, which swings open before him.

“Um…thanks,” he says into the hallway.

Hanamaki doesn’t respond and something bangs against the wall with enough force to make the door hinges creak and Issei does not look back. He doesn’t want to know.

(v)

In late January, Issei comes down with a flu. It’s a worse strain than he can remember having since before he moved out, back when he was small enough to burrow under the crook of his mum’s shoulder in bed and young enough that she would bring him soup and a damp washcloth without rolling her eyes.

In her absence, he cocoons himself under four blankets and doesn’t move for days, save to wriggle one arm out for the tissue box.

It’s day three (Issei thinks, though he’s barely been counting) when Issei wakes from a mid-afternoon nap to quiet footsteps rustling through his carpeted bedroom floor. Because he’s sick and slightly delirious and certainly too incapacitated to risk getting in a fight with an intruder, he doesn’t have the energy to do more than make a pinhole between the ends of the blanket covering his face and peek out with one eye.

With the blinds drawn low and all the lights off, the intruder is nothing but a soft edge in the dark room, bending close to Issei’s cocoon, but he doesn’t have long to wonder who it is.

“Issei bytheway from 3A,” Hanamaki says softly, pulling the blankets back from Issei’s head.

Issei is left exposed and blinking up at Hanamaki, his features turned molten in the dim light: just a pair of round lips and sharp green eyes.

“You’re in my house,” he says once his head stops pounding enough to get the words out.

“The door was unlocked,” Hanamaki says.

He’s carrying something wrapped in brown paper, which he sets on Issei’s tissue-strewn bedside table and crouches by his head. Issei shifts to try and see what he’d set down, but the movement sends his vision spiralling and he has to squeeze his eyes shut again.

“No it wasn’t,” he says, because he’s far too paranoid for that.

Hanamaki laughs and it’s loud and crooked and soothing against the pulse behind Issei’s eyes, like aloe vera to a burn.

“Okay, it wasn’t. I unlocked it.”

“Iwaizumi’s right,” Issei says. He’s still not brave enough to open his eyes again. “You are a fucking creep.”

“Says you.”

Issei flinches at the cold press of Hanamaki’s hand to his forehead, and it’s enough of a shock to get his eyes open again. He narrows his gaze down the long stretch of bare skin from Hanamaki’s wrist to elbow. He’s foregone his gloves today.

“I only figured something was wrong because you stopped lurking outside my doorstep like a stalker,” Hanamaki continues.

Issei can’t even argue with that.

He doesn’t get the chance anyway, because Hanamaki draws his hand away from Issei’s forehead and pushes down on the mattress to ease himself to his feet.

“Alright,” he says, brushing the seat of his fuzzy trousers even though Issei definitely vacuumed last weekend so his carpet can’t possibly be that dirty. “I’m making food. Any special requests or are you good with porridge?”

Issei has to tilt his head back a little to draw Hanamaki’s face back into his eyeline.

“I’m not hungry,” he says.

Hanamaki holds up his index finger. “Ah, ah. Wrong answer. Porridge it is, then.”

Issei has his mouth open on another protest, but by the time he can rub two vocal cords together, Hanamaki is already in the hallway. He curses all things magical and takes a deep breath before raising himself on one elbow.

“Oi,” Hanamaki says from outside the doorway. Issei barely hears him through the buzzing in his ears. “I thought you were too sick to move. What happened to that?”

“I can move,” Issei says, although his head is pounding and he can’t focus on anything further than three centimetres from his nose.

He sits up anyway, swings his legs out of bed, clings to the mattress for the first twenty seconds of being upright, then grabs as many blankets as he can hold in one fist over his shoulder and shuffles after Hanamaki.

He finds him in the kitchen, a pot hovering over the front ring on the stove, a bag of oats in his hands, and a severely unimpressed expression on his face as he watches Issei wobble all the way to lean against the fridge. Issei tries his luck with a faint smile and Hanamaki knocks his tongue against the back of his teeth and waves a hand over his shoulder.

Issei turns his back against the fridge to watch the armchair in the far corner of the room skid across the floor and halt a half metre from his feet.

He takes the invitation.

Hanamaki flits around the kitchen with an energy that makes Issei’s head ache. He leaves cupboard doors open behind him as he goes, learning the layout of Issei’s organisation and Issei, who can only focus on one thing at a time, chooses to zero in on the flick of Hanamaki’s fingers.

“Did you at least bring the medicine?” Hanamaki asks while he’s stirring the milk into the oats.

Issei is mesmerised by the circling of Hanamaki’s wrist, mimicked by the wooden spoon in the pot.

“Huh? What?” He blinks brown spots out of his vision when he moves his head too quickly to make eye contact with Hanamaki. “What medicine?”

Hanamaki clicks his tongue again, says, “Useless”, and crooks two fingers. Issei doesn’t understand what’s happening until the paper bag Hanamaki had brought with him rustles through the air over Issei’s head and drops into his lap. He peels back the paper to find a small, unlabelled glass bottle. Curious, he twists off the lid and sniffs the liquid inside.

He can’t quite place the smell: something herbal and fresh, like a vegetable market, with a honey-sweet undertone.

“What is this?” he asks, turning the bottle over in his hands. “It doesn’t have a label. Where’d you find it?”

When he looks up, Hanamaki is glaring at him through slitted eyes.

“It’s not poisonous,” he says, which Issei hadn’t even considered but now he’s not totally reassured by the statement.

“Honestly,” Hanamaki continues, “I’m not trying to kill you. If I was, you’d already be dead.”

Issei recaps the medicine and leans back in the armchair, tapping the nail of his index finger against the glass.

“I didn’t think you were poisoning me. I’m just asking if this is some kind of, like, black market medicine. If you acquired this illegally, I think I should at least know before I take it.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Hanamaki mutters. He grabs the wooden spoon and starts stirring manually instead of guiding it with his hand. “It’s not illegal. I made it, okay?”

Issei blinks three times in a row. He can't help the smile that quirks at the edge of his mouth.

“You could have just said that from the start,” he says.

Hanamaki shrugs and bangs the wooden spoon against the inside of the pot.

“Fucking embarrassing to make medicine for your weirdo neighbour,” he says without looking at Issei. “Take it, or don’t. See if I care when you die.”

Issei looks down at the bottle in his hand, back up at Hanamaki who is still resolutely staring at the porridge, and presses two fingers against his lips, trying to push the smile back down his throat.

“How much?” he asks.

Hanamaki opens the cutlery drawer behind him with a gust of air and hovers a teaspoon across the kitchenette to Issei.

“Spoonful should do you.”

Issei opens the medicine again and carefully fills the teaspoon, before tucking the bottle between his knees and tipping the spoon into his mouth. The medicine spreads over his tongue, sweet and a little tart and refreshing as an iced water in summer. He swallows slowly to savour the taste and closes his eyes.

Something tingles across his shoulders, up his neck, and all the way around his aching head. When he blinks his eyes open, his vision is clear, his head less muddled, the pain easing out of the back of his throat. He rolls one shoulder and tips his head from side to side to stretch out his neck, his muscles loose for the first time in days.

“What the hell?” He picks up the bottle, peering into it as if the answer will spell itself out in the liquid. “Is this magic? Did you make me magic medicine?”

Hanamaki busies himself spooning porridge into a bowl, but he says, “It worked then?”

Issei can’t help it. He laughs, still staring at the bottle in his hand, and the effort of it doesn’t even make his head spin.

“You made me magic medicine,” he says, like Hanamaki might have forgotten. “Even though I’m just your weirdo neighbour. You did magic for me and it wasn’t even to inconvenience anyone.”

“Whatever,” Hanamaki says, but even his quiet bitterness isn’t enough to deflate Issei’s high. “I can do nice magic, you know. I just choose not to. Here.”

He shoves the bowl of porridge under Issei’s nose and, when he finally looks at Issei again, Issei lets his smile crack his cheeks all the way up to his eyes.

He wants to say, why me? He wants to say, I am your weirdo neighbour who pissed you off the first time we spoke and you don’t do nice magic but you are being so nice to me. He wants to say, you have cooked for me twice now and I could watch you do it for the rest of my life.

But Hanamaki is tender and vulnerable in front of him, still in his pyjama trousers, gloveless, the dark roots showing through his pink hair, holding out a bowl of porridge like his fucking heart on a platter, and Issei feels like he has swallowed the universe.

He reaches out and he does not say anything and he beams up at Hanamaki when their fingers brush around the warm bowl.

(+1)

Issei comes home from his evening biochemistry class in a foul mood, stomps his way up six flights of stairs, and heads straight for the door to 3B. The door swings open under his knuckles when he knocks and he steps inside, pushing it closed behind him.

Takahiro is stood by the sofa, folding clean washing into piles on the cushions. Issei pauses to take it in. It’s still strange seeing Takahiro doing mundane chores by hand; Issei thinks if he had spent as long as Takahiro has teaching himself magic, he’d never fold another shirt in his life.

He doesn’t know what to say, or why he’d showed up at Takahiro’s when he knows his bad mood will leak into anything he does say, but he leans back against the door and watches Takahiro fold two more pairs of leggings.

“Alright, grumpy, what’s up?” Takahiro asks eventually.

Issei works a knot of tense anger out of his jaw before he says, “Don’t read my mind.”

“I’m not. It’s all over your face.”

Takahiro leaves the shirt he just picked up hanging in mid-air and reaches a beckoning arm towards Issei. Despite his mood and his clenched teeth, Issei follows at once. Takahiro hooks his elbow around the back of Issei’s neck once he’s close enough and leans comfortably into his shoulder, before turning back to his laundry. He draws shapes in the air with one finger and the shirt creases along each line he makes.

They don’t say anything.

Issei cradles one arm around Takahiro’s waist, holds him steady, and lets the tension leak out. Because apparently this is something they do now. Because they had gone food shopping together a week ago and Takahiro had looped their arms at the elbow and now they are almost never more than a ruler length apart.

Eventually, once he’s feeling loose-limbed and content with Takahiro all pressed against him, Issei says, “I hate university.”

“Okay.” Takahiro folds a baby blue skirt down the middle. “And you’re still going because…?”

Issei thinks about it. Because he has been going for four years and he doesn’t know what else to do. Because his degree is interesting and it keeps him busy and he likes the free library access.

“Well, because I do like it,” he says nonsensically. “I’m just in a bad mood.”

“I see that.”

Issei sighs and tips his head to the side until it knocks against Takahiro’s.

“Do you ever get sick of doing magic?”

Takahiro folds together three pairs of socks before he answers.

“Maybe. Sometimes. I get frustrated anyway, when it’s unpredictable. It’s like…you dedicate your whole life to something and it still doesn’t always work for you.”

“Unpredictable?” Issei asks.

“Yeah. It’s why I spend so much of my time throwing shit at the wall between our flats. I’m trying to see which spell work will stick.”

Issei is too drawn out to laugh properly, but he huffs through his nose, ruffling the hair at Takahiro’s temple with his breath.

He doesn’t know how to ask what he wants to ask, so instead he says, “And you still haven’t found it? You must be pretty shit.”

Takahiro wriggles and twists, unhooking his arm from around Issei’s neck and turning against him so that he can dig his fingers into the sensitive spot below Issei’s ribcage.

Issei does laugh then, and says, “Okay, okay, sorry,” and holds up his free hand placatingly. Takahiro stops tickling him, but he doesn’t turn back to his laundry, just stays half-pressed up against Issei, his chin brushing the edge of Issei’s shoulder.

“I’m not ignoring this whole thing,” he says, drawing a circle on Issei’s chest with his index finger. “You wouldn’t have brought it up if you didn’t want to talk about it. So, let’s talk about it.”

Issei sighs and scowls and curses Takahiro for being so easily perceptive even when he’s not using his telepathic abilities.

“Today my biochem professor said I should reconsider my major,” he says, which is really just the culmination of what has been a particularly bad day, but it’s enough for what Takahiro wants to hear.

“Excuse me?”

“No, it’s fine, he’s just like that. Infamously blunt with his opinions.” Issei shrugs. “But like, four years, man. I don’t know what to tell you. I’m not changing my major after four years.”

Takahiro mutters something that Issei doesn’t quite catch and twists out of Issei’s grip on his hip. Issei lets him go, watches him stomp across the room and stop in front of the wooden wardrobe.

Issei perks up at that.

He’s never been curious by nature and he’s nothing if not an expert in minding his goddamn business, but he can’t help it; it’s Takahiro. He watches, rapt, as Takahiro follows the knot of rope around the wardrobe in a series of complicated hand gestures until the two ends snake apart and thump onto the floor.

Takahiro glances briefly over his shoulder and says, “You might want to be ready to duck.”

“Sorry?” Issei says, but Takahiro is already peeling back the duct tape with a wave of his hand.

The wardrobe, as it turns out, is a disappointment. There’s no sign of the animated rattling that had interrupted their breakfast all those weeks ago and nothing comes flying out at Issei’s head. As far as he can tell, it’s a relatively normal, if disorganised, cupboard.

It’s not until Takahiro grumbles, “Where did I put that?” and reaches in to look for something that Issei recognises anything untoward about it.

He watches Takahiro’s entire torso disappear through the doors and seemingly into the wall behind the wardrobe. It’s the same wall that separates their flats, so Issei knows for a fact that it doesn’t change in depth, but Takahiro is half inside the wardrobe by now, knees on the ledge, stretching into the back. And if Issei tilts his head to the side and squints at the wardrobe he can actually see the interior sprawling back like a corridor.

He’s tipping and turning his head, distorting his vision to try to measure just how far back it goes, when Takahiro re-emerges cradling a round glass bowl to his chest. He holds it out once he’s back on two feet, like ta-da, and Issei watches a silver-grey dart-like fish swim in lazy circles around the glass.

So, he’s going to have to take these questions one at a time.

“Okay, so,” Issei waves at the wardrobe, “what the hell is that?”

“Pocket dimension,” Takahiro says, which quite frankly sounds like the worst explanation for anything Issei has heard in his life.

“Pocket dimension,” he repeats.

“Yes. Like, you can sew extra pockets into your jacket, yeah? It’s extra pockets sewed into the dimensions of the universe. Can you try to keep up?”

Issei has about fifty billion more questions on the laws of physics in magic, but Takahiro’s fingers are tapping an impatient rhythm against the side of the fishbowl, and he figures it can wait.

“Sure. So, what’s the fish for?”

“Do you know where Professor Shit-For-Brains is right now?”

Issei stares at him. Takahiro stares back, as if he’s said anything that makes any sense at all this entire conversation.

Predictably, it’s Issei that gives in.

“Tuesdays he stays late to do his marking, so he’ll be on campus,” he says.

“Great,” Takahiro says. “I’ll drive.”

He presses the fishbowl against Issei’s stomach until he takes hold of it, swings the front door open, and marches down the hallway towards 3C and the stairwell. Issei gives himself two quiet seconds to take it in before following.

Takahiro spends the ten-minute drive to Issei’s university explaining approximately nothing—a feat considering he talks the entire time and Issei asks him at least six of his fifty billion questions and Takahiro talks himself all the way around them.

It’s not until they’re parked outside the wing of offices, squinting at the yellow light from the window of Issei’s biochemistry teacher’s room, that Issei decides he has to draw the line somewhere. He’s not nosy, but this seems very much like his business after all.

“What exactly is the plan here?” Issei asks.

Takahiro leans across the console between them and dips two fingers in the fishbowl, swirling the water.

“The plan,” he says, “is to get that mopey look off your face.”

“I’m not mopey,” Issei argues. “This is my normal face.”

“Yes. Your normal face is very mopey. I’m going to do something about it. Come on, then.”

“Come on?” Issei glances over his shoulder out the passenger window, then back at Takahiro. “Come on where?”

“I’ll show you,” Takahiro says.

He grabs the bowl from Issei and climbs out of the car. In an increasingly familiar set of circumstances, Issei has no choice but to follow.

He finds Takahiro crouched in a flowerbed, feet planted carefully either side of a budding flower, his fingers clinging to the lip of the windowsill and the fishbowl perched on his thigh.

“What are you doing?” he hisses, even though he’s already picking his way through the soil as well. “This is a little much. All he did was say one thing that happened to make an already bad mood a bit worse.”

“It’s not about him. I already told you; it’s about you and your mopey-ness.” Takahiro peeks over the windowsill into the yellow-lit room. “And maybe it’s a little bit about him.”

“Takahiro!”

“Come on, I’m not evil.” Issei catches the gleam of Takahiro’s teeth against the dark evening. “I never said I was going to torture him.”

“No?” Issei asks. “What are you going to do then?”

“Shh, it’s almost ready.”

Takahiro’s fingers have made a mini whirlpool in the bowl, the small fish caught still and silent in the eye of it. Issei watches him lift his hand out, flick his fingers twice, before he leans into Issei and says, “Look.”

Issei looks. Through the window, they have a front-on view of Issei’s teacher behind his desk, idly tapping his fingers as he reads a student paper in his other hand. They watch him place the paper back in his desk and reach for the biro beside it.

Issei blinks and the pen is back on the desk and his teacher is staring bemusedly at his palm.

“Wait, what? What just happened?”

Takahiro sighs. “I told you to look. You are so abysmal at following instructions. Here, he’ll try again.”

This time Issei widens his eyes, focuses tightly on the stretch of his teacher’s palm as he reaches for the pen.

There’s a split second as he touches the biro when Issei’s brain stops and starts and stumbles over itself trying to accommodate for the sardine floundering in his fingers. In the next second, it’s a pen again.

“Okay,” Issei says slowly. “Same question. What just happened?”

“An oldie but a goodie,” Takahiro says. He’s still leaning into Issei’s space, so his breath comes out all warm against Issei’s jaw. “We used to do this to teachers in high school. I’ve never been able to make it stick the way Tooru can, but it should keep him busy for the next few hours.”

Again, his teacher reaches for the pen and again, the sardine wriggles out of his grip and flops onto the desk, pen-shaped again.

Issei is so confused—by the fish/pen amalgamation, by the wardrobe still, by Takahiro who cooks Issei breakfast and links arms with him in the supermarket and writes magic again and again just to get rid of the mopey look on Issei’s face—that the laugh sneaks up on him.

“What are we doing?” he says between breathless giggles. “We’re in a flowerbed, spying on my teacher at nine pm. On a Tuesday.”

Takahiro doesn’t say anything, but when Issei turns to him, he’s caught already staring back, something small and soft dimpling the edge of his mouth.

“There you are,” he says and lifts one hand to cup around Issei’s chin, fingers and thumb squeezing his cheeks, still bunched from laughter.

“No more mopey?” Issei asks, a little distorted around Takahiro’s hand.

Takahiro tugs his face closer and doesn’t answer, except to lean in and kiss him on his smiling mouth.

Issei is still half laughing, still confused and tired and a little unsure, and Takahiro holds him in place and kisses him all the way through it.

“Sorry,” Issei breathes once there’s enough space between their mouths, “what just happened?”

Takahiro laughs and squeezes Issei’s cheeks one more time and says, “No more mopey,” and brushes soil off his knees as he gets to his feet.

“Let’s leave him to it,” he says, nodding at the window before he hops over the flowers back towards the car.

Issei knows he will follow, knows he has no other choice, knows inexplicably that Takahiro’s business is his to mind. But he stays, for two more seconds, crouched in the soil outside his biochemistry teacher’s window at nine pm on a Tuesday, and gathers his breath.

He presses his quiet fingertips to his lips and they come away tasting honey-sweet like magic.