Work Text:
Higuruma lost a twenty-minute battle versus his patience standing next to the LÄTTSAM baby bath: Splish splash! Available in white or green! It was a fitting locale because Higuruma constantly did this thing where he’d get mad and sulk in the bathtub for hours whenever he lost an argument, and also because he was being a huge fucking baby.
“I don’t care if it’s the cutest shower curtain you’ve ever seen in your entire life,” Higuruma said tiredly, eyes still fixed on the adorable little baby bath sitting on a pedestal, in the middle of the most aggressively floral bathroom setup Satoru had ever seen in his life. “We’re here for a table and that’s all I’m leaving with. You want the shower curtain? Buy it yourself, that’s fine. But I will leave without you.”
“Fine,” Satoru agreed. Only idiots dug in on the second floor of five. “I won’t interrupt your mission, but I wanna come back sometime when you’re not all grouchy and mean.”
Higuruma’s attention finally snapped away from the baby bath. Jaw flexing, he spun on his heel and returned to the main aisle, hooking a right at a corner and leaving Satoru to catch up.
It wasn’t real aggravation, not with Satoru, anyway. Telling was easy: when Higuruma was misplacing his angst, he got all tense in the shoulders and started looking like he might stick his head in a water fountain to clear it. Or, a baby bath, Satoru was amused to discover halfway through the terror that was their first trip out as a couple. Sort of a couple. They were there and they were together, and one and one were indeed two, but the technicalities were an anxious bundle in the pit of Satoru’s stomach and he had no desire to consider them. Satoru used to be capable of stopping thinking about it right there, but recent history was determined to change that standard.
They passed through a long stretch of wardrobes and lamps, and waded through a sea of armchairs before ascending to the third floor. There was no preparing for the unforgiving depths of IKEA. Satoru had never known such a place existed. The tales did it no justice. The entire concept was an exercise in insanity: these massive warehouse ceilings looming over single-room demos of a stereotypical life in the suburbs.
Following the giant arrows on the floor had taken them through living rooms, bedrooms, kitchens, and even the odd bathroom. TROFASTS and VATTENKRASSES and BJÖRKSTAS, oh my!
“I thought we’re only here for a table,” Satoru snarked.
“We’re getting there.” Higuruma snapped, hands on his hips in the middle of an aisle with bombastic dorm rooms for girls on the left, and an avalanche of couches to his right.
“This is the third floor! How have we not seen a thousand tables by now? Like where is table land?” Satoru asked. “Surely there must be one—we’ve been through armchair juncture and the kitchen stool mountains. But more importantly—” Satoru gestured to a magnificent creature to the right with showman flair and jazz hands: a hideously kitchy off-white couch with Nickelodeon-style splotches in orange, yellow, and black all over it. “I have to get this for Shoko.”
“She’ll probably kill you but go for it if you’re feeling brave.”
Satoru examined the couch, circling it. Higuruma rolled his eyes and though Satoru found it a little dramatic at first, he quickly realized he was the attraction at this carnival. “How do I—” It was such a silly question, but Satoru had no idea how else to ask it. “How do I buy it?”
“My understanding is that they accept money.”
Smart ass lawyers. Satoru was discovering they were a double-edged sword and he kind of liked catching the odd stray. “You think you’re so cute and funny. It really is too bad you’re right so often.”
Higuruma ignored him, drawling out, “You know, like cash, credit cards. Might even take a check but you’d have to ask.”
“Babe. Please.”
A moment of staring. Higuruma rolled his eyes and sniffed.
“Take a picture of the tag. We’ll grab it in the warehouse, otherwise known as the only reason you’re here. Now, I am begging you, stop getting distracted every time you see something shiny and let’s just get this over with. These lights give me a headache.”
Satoru snapped the picture and caught up with only a handful of strides. Higuruma lead the way through the showrooms, poking his head into dining and kitchen demos. Each displeased him to comical degrees. If Satoru had known this would be so funny, he’d have offered to host a dinner for Higuruma’s coworkers ages ago.
“How could you want to ‘just get this over with?’ This place is incredible!” Satoru could spend months prowling through the long-term disposable furniture, never mind the people watching and playing Barbie’s Dream House with these fascinating little cubicles full of starter-home dreams for the low, low price of your soul.
“Only for people who’ve never had to consider where tables come from.”
“Like, look at this.” Satoru gestured to a wall sign to the left that said ‘Be Kind’ in passive-aggressive lettering with little morally superior flourishes around the edges. “It’s in English, right?”
“Obviously.”
“But it’s called a KÄNGSLEBODA.” There was a zero percent chance Satoru pronounced it correctly and even shorter odds he’d ever grow a singular fuck about it.
Higuruma’s nose scrunched. “What’s a KÄNGSLEBODA?”
But Satoru was already two steps ahead, searching for a better signal to consult the almighty internet. When his search went through, Satoru was rewarded for tap dancing down this tangent in spades. “Nothing. It means nothing. Is this seriously fake Swedish? This is why they say nothing’s real anymore. Can’t even have language in this economy.”
“For the last time,” Higuruma said, even though it was exceedingly obvious it wouldn’t be if either of them had any input, “I am here for a table. I know you know this because you’re the one who volunteered me to use this table I don’t have to host dinner guests I don’t want.”
“And I appreciate you both making a solid effort and establishing a dedicated dining space in your home.”
Not quite under his breath, Higuruma grumbled, “Not like I can ask my senior and his wife to sit at the kotatsu for fried chicken.”
“Sure, but for me, the kotatsu and fried chicken is a-ok.”
Higuruma rounded the next corner into a stairwell and shot Satoru a precise rebuttal in one look.
Maybe Satoru would just let him have this one.
Mecca was located on the fourth floor of IKEA. Finally, the tables. A veritable smorgasbord of them lay in neat rows, organized under no discernible method whatsoever. Brown, white, classic, modern, square, for twelve, and picnic. All right there.
“Hallelujah.”
“Seriously.” Higuruma prowled the aisles between the tables silently, stopping to examine one or another before stopping next to an acacia specimen with black legs and clean lines. The table was squarish and sturdy-looking. Nothing too fancy in terms of embellishments; the silhouette would be agreeable in an office or cozy two-bedroom alike. Checking both sides of the tag, Higuruma asked, “This one?”
“It’s nice.”
“It’d fit, that’s more important.”
Satoru hummed, considering the table again. SKOGSTA, according to the tag, forest, according to Google. So maybe not everything here was fraudulent after all. “Looks… sturdy.”
“Whatever stress test you have in mind, forget it.”
“Oh, yeah?” Satoru asked, sidling closer so his chest was only a sliver from Higuruma’s back. He dropped his voice in lurid invitation. “What’s the Judge have to say on that one?”
Humorless and precisely level, Higuruma answered, “He says to remove your hand from my ass this instant and get a picture of the tag.”
Satoru pouted—and squeezed a little, who could blame him—before snapping a picture of this tag too and looking to Higuruma for the next step in the most bizarre shopping adventure he’d ever enjoyed in his life. “Okay, what’s next, oh captain, my captain?”
“Next is braving the warehouse—congratulations. You finally get to be useful on this errand. Those tall ass shelves are the only reason I didn’t leave your ass back in kitchen wares.”
“Aw,” Satoru cooed. “You know I wouldn’t let you get away like that.”
Higuruma ducked his head and pressed his lips together, trying not to smile. He’d deny it if asked outright, but Satoru could tell—he could spot that tiny dimple in Higuruma’s right cheek and the pleased flush blooming across his nose in the dark.
Sometimes losing a battle was worth winning the war, so Satoru kept his sappy thoughts to himself all the way down to the warehouse. Higuruma was never one to let a mood slip through his fingers. Give it time—maybe not today, maybe not even tomorrow, but by the weekend, Satoru would see exactly how sturdy that table was. Higuruma was fun like that. Everything was a process and Satoru was nothing if not enthusiastic for the journey.
- Shimizu
- Satoru
- Shimizu
- 💖
Shimizu
Sunday, 15:18
Today, 11:45 AM
“I knew it,” Satoru shoved a heaping of noodles in his mouth and shook his head. Most of the time, he found it irritating to need informants, but Satoru had always fantasized about being kingpin of something and as it turned out, being kingpin of nuanced relationships at the Public Defender’s office was pretty fun.
“Knew what?” Nanami asked like he dreaded the answer.
“Higuruma’s sick.” Satoru flicked open a message to Ijichi and outlined the mission: obtain the Higuruma, bring the Higuruma home, do not let the Higuruma out until Satoru arrives. “Does that soup cart the two of you like so much do take away? I mean, I’m sure they will, but how hard am I gonna have to fight for it? Like, should I stop at the bank?”
“If he’s sick, then what you should do is leave him alone.”
Was Nanami out of his mind? “Excuse you, no I should not. Do you have any idea what happens if I just leave him to his own devices?”
“Oh, the apocalypse, I’m sure. Cataclysms would erupt across the city. Probably some fires and a building or two might even come down. He might feel respected and like his boundaries matter… all sorts of horrors.”
“Higuruma does not want nor need someone to respect him. Not like this, anyway. Opposing counsel? Sure. Judges? The dream. But a…” Satoru’s mouth went sour. He hated this part lately: having to find a word to make sense of them to outsiders, even ones as close as Nanami. Lovers? Were he and Higuruma lovers now? Satoru hoped not. He might not know the ideal word but that one wasn’t it—all syrupy and sickly, varnished with the most boring expectations possible.
“A what?” Nanami drawled, keen to Satoru’s inner turmoil.
“Man friend?”
“You are such a dumbass.” Nanami rolled his eyes and took a dainty bite of his sandwich. Talk about lovers—Nanami had been savoring his lunch for twenty minutes already.
“Yeah, but at least he likes it.”
Satoru’s phone contributed two chirps to the conversation. Ijichi was on the way.
“I swear,” Nanami said, voice dripping with sarcasm, “if I didn’t know he’s a willing participant in your nonsense rather than a hostage, I’d be arranging an extraction. Breaking up, making up, refusing to define your relationship, making that face when I say ‘relationship.’ It’s a lot for grown men.”
Satoru was not making a face, thank you very much. “That breakup didn’t count. I was kidding and he only took it seriously out of spite.”
“Don’t say that like it’s romantic.”
It was a little, though. “Fine. We can call him my side piece. Whatever makes you happy.”
“I don’t know if ‘side piece’ covers this whole kidnapping thing you’ve got going on today. Or the part where you’re disgustingly in love with him.”
“Stop exaggerating. I’m not in love with him. I just love him a little. Totally different.”
Nanami tilted his head to catch Satoru’s eye before performing the single most offensive eye roll Satoru had ever seen in his life—including that time Megumi needed a guardian’s signature for a field trip and was faced with the absolute horrific reality that his guardian was, in fact, Satoru. As if his disappointment wasn’t clear enough, Nanami said, “Just when I thought I couldn’t possibly respect you less. What the hell do you mean you only love him a little?”
“I mean that I love him a little. What’s so hard to understand about that? I love you a little, too.”
“I dearly hope not in the same way.”
“Well, obviously not, but the point is that I am not in love with him at the present moment. Later? Who knows. But right now? No.”
Nanami’s brows scrunched as he examined Satoru more closely. His eyes widened. “Oh my god, you’re such a liar.”
“Generally speaking, yes.”
“You’re head over ass for this guy.”
“Once again, when you make it so easy—”
“Gojo-san,” Nanami cut in, infuriatingly stern, sandwich wagging disapprovingly. “Why are you pretending like you’re not pursuing a serious relationship with this man?”
Explaining was a possibility. Nanami would judge but he’d also listen, and he wouldn’t take it too seriously once he realized Satoru wasn’t bothered by the ambiguous framework of his ever-growing situationship. Then again, why rush it?
Satoru popped a grape in his mouth and grinned. “Because it’s more fun this way.”
Higuruma’s townhouse was a cozy haven tucked away in the backstreets of Chuo, two blocks and three back alleys from the train station. The person who sold it to him surely considered it a starter home. Two bedrooms, odd layout, rickety fixtures, and well-loved floors. The walls were Swiss cheese patched over a half-dozen times; every picture hung with intention to disguise the ones that came before. Starter house was a pipe dream at eight years and counting. Higuruma would probably remodel and renovate and redecorate his way through the years and only move next when— Oh, but Satoru shouldn’t get carried away.
Satoru left his shoes and bag at the door and crept in, listening intently. Two steps in, he caught wind of light snoring and ducked down the short hall to the kitchen. Along the way, he passed the table, still in its IKEA box, propped up against the wall of what was intended as a dining room, but instead of outfitting it for guests, Higuruma had turned it into his office. A less informed man might hope the removal of the desk and installation of a proper table might mean less working at home and more dinner parties. Satoru considered the vague outline of such a future and decided to throw in with ignorance. Higuruma wouldn’t cooperate, but when had that ever stopped either of them?
In the fridge were two containers of soup from Higuruma’s favorite cart down the street, a fair complement to last night’s take-out and the six different mustards tucked into the door. Ijichi left a bag from the pharmacy on the counter, too, and Satoru snatched it up before heading back down the hall, through the house and upstairs to the loft, where Higuruma blinked up at Satoru, face lax and half hidden by a squashy blanket.
“What’re you doing here?” A blank stare stretched between them while Higuruma’s thoughts raced openly across his brow. “Ijichi didn’t even lock the door?”
Nope, but Satoru knew better than to admit it outright. “Don’t know. I snuck in the window.”
“Liar.” But Higuruma didn’t seem to mind. He sat up and, within seconds, lay back down with one hand covering his face. “Ugh. Okay. Remind me to be mad about this later, would you?”
“You sure you wanna be mad? At me? The kind and altruistic man who broke you out of work and brought you drugs?” Satoru presented the pharmacy bag with a flourish and dropped it on Higuruma’s chest. A moment later, he folded his legs and sat at the edge of the futon.
“I’m pretty sure Ijichi’s the one who did all that, right before not locking my front door.” Higuruma scooted back and wagged the edge of his blanket in invitation.
Satoru did not need to be told twice. He shucked his shirt and slacks, slipping under the covers to join Higuruma before he could change his mind. “Please,” Satoru said, “you act like you were gonna get robbed or something.”
“Not robbed, no, but the inconvenience is irritating.”
Sometimes, even Satoru needed a second to parse Higuruma’s wit. When it clicked, he went for Higuruma’s side with his fingernails and didn’t stop until Higuruma’s suppressed laughter provoked a phlegmy cough. “What?” Satoru demanded, determined to quash his giggles. “Like I’m an inconvenience? That’s so—oof.”
Higuruma burrowed closer, draping his arm over Satoru’s side and sweeping goosebumps across Satoru’s skin with his thumb. “You had your minion drag me out of the office and I don’t appreciate it. But thanks for the rest.”
There was space to deflect. Every day, Satoru wanted to a little bit less. “Any time.”
Higuruma was back asleep in thirty minutes. Satoru stuck around another fifteen for quiet reflection, and then crept out of bed and downstairs to tackle the dreaded SKOGSTA.
The legendary IKEA directions were, indeed, legendary, but Satoru enjoyed messy puzzles. By the time Higuruma came down another hour later, the table was finished—boxes recycled and all—and Satoru was seated with his laptop to work while the soup reheated.
“You’re still here?” Higuruma hadn’t bothered dressing beyond drawstring shorts and an untied bathrobe. He shifted his weight before coming around to sit at the other chair, around the corner from Satoru’s end of the table. They’d have to grab more chairs if Higuruma could find matching ones. Maybe a new set and throw these in his proper office-to-be, upstairs in the virgin guest room. There was plenty of time to sort all that out, though.
“Man’s gotta eat.” Satoru jerked his chin towards the kitchen. There’s soup ready if you want some. Or I can make okayu if you want.”
“You? In the kitchen?” Higuruma asked with the wide-eyed amusement of a much more alert man. “This I have to see.”
“I’ll have you know I was raised by household staff—I’m a delight in the kitchen.”
Higuruma went a little quiet in that way people who never thought of Satoru’s upbringing from this perspective tended to. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Satoru closed his laptop lid, properly distracted by something far more interesting than ripping teenagers’ final essays to shreds. “Seriously, you want food? I’m hungry. Then I think we just shove some Kleenex up your nose, drug you to oblivion, and put you back to bed. You’ll feel all right in the morning. I mean, I’m gonna call you in either way—but rest up and get well now, and we can break in the table tomorrow.” The waggling eyebrows were always overkill and that’s why Satoru always indulged them.
Most days, Higuruma would grumble and nitpick, argue over little offenses Satoru never spotted, and then they’d slide into a middling agreement where Satoru got dinner and Higuruma got sleep and then tomorrow they’d both play hooky before working fifty hours with what was left of their weeks. Today, though, Higuruma watched Satoru with an unfamiliar question welling.
“What?” Satoru asked, too impatient to wait it out.
“Do we need to talk? Did IKEA do something weird to you? When you’re nice like this, it makes me suspicious.”
Satoru laid his hands on the table and considered the length and breadth of it. Conjured the image of Higuruma’s work friends over for dinner, sitting to the left with Nanami and Shoko to the right. Higuruma was useless in the kitchen, but Satoru hadn’t a reason to stretch those muscles in ages and just the thought of it—that warm meal, those close friends, their lives blending like watercolors over food and laughter—made him ache.
Until recently, Satoru had always thought unconditional meant being able to set aside flaws—seeing the pros outweighed the cons and behaving accordingly—but two AM at Pancake House had taught him new etymology. Higuruma didn’t put up with Satoru’s quirks; he was never bothered by them in the first place. He was amused and endeared and even if he didn’t like Satoru’s heavy-handed determination to see him taken care of in the small ways—glasses and new slacks and some dietary fiber now and then as a treat—he also appreciated the attention for what it was worth. And more often than Satoru would like to admit, there was reciprocation. A warm futon and steady bedtime. Nonfiction books to balance the cosmic scales of Satoru’s Goodreads account crammed full of romantacy and manga. Breakfast at the usual time, instead of two in the morning, at Pancake House.
Only a little, huh? Satoru sure was full of shit on that one; Nanami was going to be thrilled to hear how right he was. A deep breath summoned Satoru’s courage from the depths. “It wasn’t IKEA that did it.”
“Then what?” Higuruma asked, voice gone quiet with the shift in mood.
Satoru looked up and let that unfamiliar, pleasant warmth show through his usual shutters. “I just step back sometimes and realize that if I close my eyes and imagine my perfect man, it’s you.”
“That right?” A glance towards the kitchen. Another along the table like Higuruma was dreaming all the same dreams.
“Yeah. And I don’t know where it’s going, I just know I’m in it for the long haul. I’d go anywhere with you.” In the end, Satoru couldn’t not. “Even IKEA.”
Higuruma’s laughter was a joyous boon ricocheting through his newly functional dining room. He gestured for Satoru to stand with both hands, and when Satoru approached, Higuruma wrapped his arms around him and tucked close, face pressed to Satoru’s sternum. “Despite your efforts, that was pretty sweet.”
“Well, of course it was. You keep forgetting, but I’ll keep reminding you: I’m flawless.”
A long string of snickers vibrated against Satoru’s chest, familiar and warm. It didn’t matter Higuruma preferred to shield it; his warmth resonated with the gooey something seeping from Satoru’s chest.
“More like delusional.”
“Marvelous in every way that matters,” Satoru continued, combing his fingers through Higuruma’s hair to the tempo of his laughter.
“Insane. Unhinged.”
The laughter came easily, without doubt or defensiveness. No mask, just unadulterated joy rattling so hard in Satoru’s chest, he had to let it out. “Go on, you can say it. I’m your perfect man, too.”
Higuruma wriggled a little closer. “You’re all right.”