Work Text:
From: Tobio Kageyama <[email protected]>
Sent: Tue, December 27, 2022 at 10:01 am
To: Koushi Sugawara <[email protected]>
Subject: Complaint: UNPROFESSIONAL CONDUCT IN THE WORKPLACE
Dear Sir,
This is to bring to your notice a persisting concern involving an engineer from the Research & Development Team and a content strategist from the Marketing Body who have been repeatedly causing moderate to severe inconveniences during office hours, fostering a non-conducive working environment and a decline in productivity.
Attached to this email is a list of evidence, accumulated over the past several months, representing the aforementioned grievance.
First Case: Chronic Thievery
Article 1. The Stapler.
There are a hundred and forty-three ways of torturing someone with a stapler, all of which have been playing on repeat in the last five minutes inside his head. His particular favorite? Stapling his soon-to-be victim’s pride and nether regions and plucking each piece of pronged wire one. By. One.
Luckily for the motherfucker, Tooru needs the thing to meet his deadlines scheduled for the end of the day so he’ll live to see another day. Probably. If he cooperates.
The elevator ferries him down to the labs, a fountain pen dexterously twirling around his fingers to restrain the murderous intent running amok beneath his skin and he’s almost vibrating with in place. Knowing him? Make that an italicized if.
One would think that having to witness the same ordeal as frequent as thrice a week, minimum, would be sufficient to desensitize the whole department to the ostentatious boom of the doors slamming open (they’ve lost count of the times they had to fix the cracks left by the collision of the handles against the wall); yet, the sight of a stoic Oikawa Tooru making a beeline for his appointment (as they've all taken the liberty to call his beloved rival) jolts them all from their positions.
Kindaichi springs from his seat out of reflexive courteousness, morsels of rice dotting the corner of his mouth. It is lunch hour. “Oikawa-san!”
The greeting goes unheeded as Tooru is already shoving the feet crossed at the ankles off a desk and swiveling the chair where his unsuspecting mark lounges to face him. Planting a knee next to the armrest, he bunches the lapel of a lab coat in one fist and drives the tip of his pen to the throbbing vein in the engineer’s jugular.
Everybody is swept in panic. Hinata rushes to his senior’s aid only to be grabbed by the scruff by Terushima, who’s imperviously inspecting a line of code on his computer monitor. The division’s head, Kenma, doesn’t look up from his game and kicks at his own desk to spin his chair around. The smartglass walls of his office switching to opaque follows suit.
In spite of all the ruckus and being the one currently pinned with a nasty hidden glare, Hajime simply glances down at the weapon trained on him then blinks up at his accoster with exaggerated innocence. “I’m under the impression that I might be in trouble.”
“Congratulations, Sherlock. Would you like a gold star?” Tooru bends down to level with those mirthful eyes. “Where is it?”
“Where's what?”
The nib stabs deeper into Hajime's neck—a millimeter shallow from drawing blood. “Where is it?”
The hostility rolling off of them in waves, to a spectator who has their bearings intact and human empathy functioning, would suggest that whatever it is that Hajime had not kept his hands to himself for must either be of serious monetary value or high sentimental worth. It would’ve thrown the normal joe into alarm, dialling 911 while the stand-off has yet to escalate.
Except to a spectator who has their bearings intact, human empathy functioning, and is a full-time employee at their company, intervening in their little game only falls at the bottom of the list of actions leading to desirable outcomes.
Not to mention, Hajime rather appears to be having the time of his life.
Tooru seethes, shaking him by the collar. “My stapler, you klepto!”
The thoughtful expression nearly makes Tooru skip through one hundred and forty-three methods of torture to jump straight into murder until Hajime snaps his fingers as though recognizing the object in question. “Oh, that thing.” He shrugs. “I borrowed it.”
Hinata is torn between begging for him to just surrender the stolen property before blood is shed and shrieking at him for ‘borrowing’ something the supply room is in full stock of from twelve floors above or so.
“Borrowed?” Tooru repeats. “Like how you borrowed my tape dispenser last week and it ended up inside the vending machine? Or like how you borrowed my pad of sticky notes two months ago to decorate my entire cubicle with it? — All of which happened outside of my knowledge and permission which ‘borrowing’ requires?”
None of the charges fazes Hajime. “Would you have said yes if I asked?”
“No, but it would’ve saved you a finger.”
The hand crumpling his uniform disappears and Hajime shamelessly ogles the man holding him hostage as Tooru leans over to rummage through the drawers. Terushima whistles from his own reclined chair.
Once finding what he’s after, Tooru backs away, missing the mournful look on Hajime's face and their audience's shoulders sagging in relief. His feet are already padding away, almost to the exit, when they halt. One beat, two beats, three beats pass—
Swifter than a blink of an eye, a fountain pen soars through the air and is pinched by its target around the barrel centimeters shy from drilling into the point between his eyebrows with terrifying precision.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re badly asking to lose more than just your fingers.” Tooru turns around, disassembled parts perched atop his palm.
Not even the slightest hint of sheepishness besets the manner Hajime taps the pen against his desk. “Oops.”
“I have paperwork due. At one.”
“All your deadlines are set at five.”
A brown eye twitches in irritation. “And just how are you so familiar with my schedule?”
In lieu of an answer, Hajime cheekily winks at him and pushes off his seat to saunter in front of Tooru, one hand slipping into his pocket and the other raised with its palm openly facing the ceiling. “Need some help?”
“I think I can manage.”
“Well, I suppose you can. Youtube is quite handy.” The insult is barely even disguised under the backhanded compliment it’s precursed with. “What you excel in accuracy I make up for sleight of hand, remember?”
Shockingly, whatever manipulation tactic that’s been employed works. With a withering lour, Tooru hands over the dismantled stapler and swipes his pen back. Hajime positively preens and struts back to his desk. “Might take me some time though. Get back to me—say, forty-three minutes?”
Tooru gapes. “But I need it—”
“Off you go then,” Hajime dismisses, coolly dumping the metal scraps onto his table and listening to Tooru fume for a final time before storming out of the lab. The team lets out a breath they hadn't realized they've been holding and Kageyama, who had been frozen in place outside of Kenma’s door, struggles to process what he’d just witnessed.
“Iwa-san.” Terushima cups the back of his head with both hands. “You know there are other ways of getting him to stop skipping meals that don’t involve him blowing a gasket, right?”
Hajime sorts through the tiny bolts he unscrewed earlier that morning. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Fifth Case: Juvenile Competition Resulting to Disorder in Communal Areas
Article 9. “Everything you can do, I can do better.”
Two out of a few unwritten rules passed on from the higher executives down to the newly-minted interns at the bottom of the corporate ladder revolve around the most eccentric pair the incorporation has ever met.
Number one: In exchange for their employment and in spite of their outstanding output and indubitable potential, the board is strictly instructed to turn the other cheek and abolish any notion of promoting Oikawa Tooru and Iwaizumi Hajime higher than their current posts.
Rumor has it, the edict was included among the many complicated clauses in their individual contracts and has been signed and approbated by the CEO, himself. However, there are those who doubt the validity of such a grapevine topic and believe that it had merely been inserted after the period of initial integration due to the rule that soon succeeded it.
Number two: Under no circumstance is anyone authorized to instigate, participate, enable, or question any feud regarding superiority between the two. Results may vary but will constantly take an ugly turn.
Exempli gratia —
“Hold the doors!”
The occupants of the elevator nearly jump out of their skins when they hear it—everybody except for one. Yachi Hitoka, from creatives and is closest to the console, goes to press the button to keep the lift open upon gathering her wits when out of her field of vision, a slender finger beats her to a different one instead.
The last thing she sees is a fondly annoyed (is that even possible?) Iwaizumi Hajime breaking into a sprint for them until the silver metal doors slide shut like stage curtains drawing to a close after the conclusion of a play. Balking, she whirls around to give the interloper or stutter out, really, a piece of her mind but squeaks upon coming face-to-face with a gratified Oikawa, who only greets her with his usual charismatic smile.
Once they reach their floor, she swears she didn’t imagine her Oikawa-san smugly glimpsing at something (or someone) behind the fire exit where the emergency stairwell is located while punching his time in.
In another instance, Akaashi Keiji from accounting has also suffered from being a grudging bystander during one of these duels. He and five others from production, that is.
He had been standing in line for one of the only presently operational pair of photocopying machines when a trainee tapped him on the shoulder. (Keep in mind that he’d been running high on three hours of sleep the whole week and ten gallons of coffee and was not in the mood to entertain a circus act from his seniors—but, here he was.)
“Akaashi-san,” the intern addresses him, scratching their jaw in hesitation. “Is this…average?”
By ‘this,’ the kid meant Oikawa and Iwaizumi engrossed in a contest on who can photocopy the most within the shortest time frame, occasionally casting dirty looks (in Tooru’s case) and smug grins (in Hajime’s) to their opponent. Who had been the challenger and the challenged, Akaashi couldn’t tell and could frankly care less.
“Should we step in?” A second trainee pipes in behind the first.
With a chug of his devil’s brew, Akaashi deadpans. “Any of you who doesn’t have the self-interest to play sacrificial lamb—please, be my guest.”
In the end, Akaashi herded the poor, frightened little things across the street to a store which offers cheap photocopying services and bumped into Hanamaki Takahiro who had the foresight to bypass the copy room.
“They still at it?” Akaashi could only nod, grimly.
According to Konoha, Iwaizumi-san had won only by arrant luck of Oikawa’s machine running out of ink.
(Nobody mentions that they’d seen the victor traveling back-and-forth from the supply room a couple of floors above, carrying a fresh batch of ink cartridges notwithstanding the fact that he’d already finished his load.)
Miya Osamu supports these claims by telling an account of how milk pudding became the currency of some aspects of their on-going war.
Alternatively, how it became the grounds for war even.
He’s no stranger to the comment about his job as the cafeteria chef being diminutively compensating and an affront to his culinary prowess. He’d laugh it off and explain how he plans to venture out with a business named after him soon and that the customer service experience would do him good in gauging public preferences.
To date, reception and feedback are flourishing that he's taken a bit more liberty to experiment with recipes as long as staples remain on the weekly menu. Confoundingly, although it can’t be helped that there will always be a least favored choice (especially since dessert isn't exactly his forte), among those is his notorious milk pudding.
Why the descriptor, you ask? Well...
On time with his wristwatch beeping a customary tone, the entrance to the cafeteria bursts open and in cannons his biggest fan, wearing his signature calculatingly placid countenance. Sharp, caramel eyes sweep the area like a predator out for blood and honestly, it’s as hilarious as it’s unnerving.
Once satisfied, he stalks the course towards the counter, guard marginally lowering. Sweat beads at Osamu’s nape and he plasters on his friendliest smile which Tooru immediately returns. “Did you save some for me?”
Terrible. Absolutely terrible. Not the excited stars and optimistic lilt. He doesn’t have the heart to—
A plastic cup lands with a loud thud inside the garbage bin across the hall. The ensuing silence rings in their ears and Osamu feels his bones lock in place when he senses the incensed aura instantaneously encompassing Tooru’s form. With measured movements, the latter winds his head to stare daggers into the uninvited presence like a mechanical doll.
Three o'clock in the afternoon brings the slowest rush of people into the cafeteria. Around that hour, the staff clears out to tend to post-lunch chores like dishwashing, wiping down the tables, and doing an inventory of leftovers.
It was during one of the seasonal releases when this modicum of peace was disturbed by a then freshly hired brunette demanding that they fork over all the milk puddings that was about to get chucked in the trash. Osamu still remembers the state he had come in—like death warmed him over—and ever since then, Tooru has been a frequent visitor.
An exclusive opportunity that had been short-lived.
Hajime is slumped over a chair, cleaning out a container of Tooru 's snack while watching them with a candid holier-than-thou curiosity. Waving his hand in hello, he launches the empty cup into the bin where about five identical ones reside. Bastard.
“As you can see…” Osamu attempts to pacify but is shot down when Tooru strides forward, purpose weighing on his every step. Oh, boy.
Fun fact, did you know that karate movies Hollywood keeps producing (and culturally appropriate because stereotypes can only get them as far as portraying it with the elements of kung fu instead) apparently do not hold a candle to the real deal?
“Aikido, Osamu. Also not the same thing,” Kita had chastised during one of his deliveries, entertained eyes following Hajime being flung onto the floor.
Twenty-seventh Case: Prejudice Specifically Targeting the Other Party
Article 13. Annual Interdepartmental Christmas Party.
Everything comes to a head when—you wouldn’t have guessed—pine trees and fairy lights get mixed up into the formula.
Yearly, the company hosts a mini contest wherein subunits vie for a thirty-thousand-yen gift certificate to the spa by besting the rest of the departments in Christmas decorating. (Allegedly, their boss’ fiance had been the one to spice up their holiday traditions because honestly, a guy as dry as wrung sponge could not have possibly come up with the idea. Bless his fun—howbeit a tad weird—soul, their redheaded boss-in-law.)
Since the winners are usually announced by the third quarter of December, the days that lead up to it are a cyclone of glittering ornaments, scratchy garlands, Santa Claus cardboard cutouts and Frank Sinatra. Oh, and the animosity between R&D and Marketing snowballing into full pelt. (Puns, intended.)
Week One
[ a chronicling by CCTVs #5 and #67 ]
Oikawa Tooru enters the elevator alone at 7:35 am on the morning of December 1st. He is seen pausing a second away from pressing on a floor number before eventually coming to a decision. The lift takes him to the lab and the cameras catch a split-second bristling in his stony expression. A few minutes of quiet observation later, he retraces his steps back into the elevator.
Upon zooming in, the phrase “white christmas” written neatly in cursive is being furiously crossed out from the list of themes on his notebook.
Week Two
[ a chronicling by CCTV #129 ]
Iwaizumi Hajime’s astounded expression can be screencaptured at the 08:11:56 stamp when he sees the walls covered with pop-up city skyscrapers and international landmarks with glow-in-the-dark stickers for windows. The gold of the actual bulb-shaped incandescent lamps spread out spider-like from the center blankets the office with warmth and the dynamism of an urban setting.
Oikawa Tooru wiggles his fingers in a triumphant goodbye, mouthing, “You’re going down.”
Week Two-point-five
[ a chronicling by CCTV #67 ]
Steam could almost be made out blustering out of Oikawa Tooru’s ears while Iwaizumi Hajime tips his red top hat at him, an unlit tobacco pipe clipped between his lips. Behind him, the lab is a resplendent display of artificial snow descending from the ceiling in light projections, along with the silhouette of a sleigh gliding overhead.
Fuck engineers.
Week Three
[ a chronicling by CCTV #129 ]
Oikawa Tooru mass bakes gingerbread cookies and sets up a stand near the entrance.
Week Three-point-twenty-five
[ a chronicling by CCTV #67 ]
Iwaizumi Hajime blasts a medley of Pentatonix covers and Frozen’s official soundtrack whenever the elevator button for their floor is pressed.
Week Three-point-five
[ a chronicling by CCTV #129 ]
All employees of the marketing department come to work in cosplay of Christmas movie characters.
Week Three-point-seventy-five
[ a chronicling by CCTV #67 ]
Santa’s elves and snowmen are now interactively being projected in the lab. Olaf has even sat on Hinata Shouyou’s shoulder.
Week Three-point-eighty-six
[ a chronicling by CCTVs #234 and #235 ]
At ten o’clock on December 23rd, Iwaizumi and Oikawa are engaged in a heated verbal dispute an hour into the party. At eleven, they’re being shoved inside the broom closet by their coworkers.
“You told everybody how I avowedly ‘plagiarized’ your idea.”
“Because you did!”
“First of all, you didn’t trademark the theme of White Christmas. It’s a natural phenomenon—”
“I didn’t say I trademarked it; I came up with it first! Ergo the rights of using it is reserved exclusively for me—”
“You do understand that that’s exactly what trademarking entails? Secondly, how could I have guessed that you’d had your eye on it among—well, knowing you—twenty other options? If you wanted it so badly, you should’ve sunk your claws in sooner—”
“Ha! Because unlike some people, I take comfort in contingency plans squarely because of the likes of you. Who knows? Maybe you hacked into security cameras which would explain a lot on how you were privy to information such as my schedule. And I was going to ‘sink my claws in it’ until your pompous, cheating ass committed a breach of regulations and got yourselves a headstart—Wait, did you sleep in the lab?”
“Why on earth would I ever go the extra mile just to provoke you?”
“You tell me! You’re the one who keeps treading on a retired assassin’s heels everywhere he applies for and has gotten us fired seven times in the last five years!”
The closet echoes with the revelation, along with a chorus of their heavy breathing. The fight drains out of them, as though realizing the magnitude of the conversation that has remained pending since their (one-sidedly) unprecedented reunion in a publishing firm.
Tooru lets his suspended fist drop and releases the collar of an equally roughed up dress shirt before dismounting his adversary's hips. He unceremoniously situates himself on the floor, unmindful of the soot and chalk sticking to his pants while Hajime sits up to lean against the wall.
Nobody speaks for a long while, both too stubborn to break the ice and inspecting every inch of their temporary cell as best they can in the dark. Their muscles are protesting from the amount of bruises and tiny scrapes reaped from their scuffle and Tooru is hit with a whiff of guilt for initiating it.
“I miss you.”
The confession rattles him to the core and snapping his head to meet Hajime’s gaze had been a mistake as the rawness in it only strips Tooru of his masks when a shiver of defenselessness hares down his spine.
“After you defected, you just…shut off. No brazen quips, no obnoxious confidence, just—” Hajime sighs, running a hand over his face and Tooru looks down on his lap where his thumbs fidget in agitation. “I miss you, Shittykawa. As you had been.”
“You deserted your agency, your job, who you were—because you missed me.”
“I left everything behind because you made me see that none of it was who I was.” The cards are being laid down on the table. “You brought something out of me. A laugh, a normalcy, a yearning for it. A...life.”
“What makes you believe all the things you miss about me are who I am?” Tooru sneers.
Hajime smiles. “Because the only time I ever draw out that similar spark in your eyes whenever you used to outmaneuver me in the field is when you’re vexed about staplers and milk pudding.”
For a second time, Tooru is rendered dumbstruck by the earnestness and he thanks the scant luminescence for camouflaging the heat that creeps up to his cheeks. Hajime moves closer until their knees touch and gently bumps his shoulder with Tooru’s. “I’m sorry about Miruku.”
For a lack of a better response, Tooru chuckles, reminiscing about a snowy ball of pomeranian fluff whose tragic mortality in a crossfire had prompted him to leave the dangers of his line of career. “Thanks.”
The concrete thrums with the festivities and the bass of the carol music downstairs. The pair of them almost makes for a sad yet comical sight. Two wanted hitmen, whose names are lethal enough for the underground to quake in their boots at the thought of mentioning alone, banished inside the janitor’s closet after subjecting an entire gathering of salary folk to their childish rivalry.
Nothing beats Christmas in the city they suppose.
“What now?” Tooru asks. “Do we run?”
“I don’t know.” Hajime tilts his foot so the toe of his leather shoes kiss the side of Tooru’s loafers. “I’m kind of attached to this place now.”
“It’s the big pay right?”
The soberness of the question rips a laugh out of his company and Tooru, preoccupied from studying the dust dancing in the moonlight, fails to notice the besotted curve of Hajime’s lips. The pinky finger lying a hair’s breadth from his own pale one twitches. “Among other benefits.”
Ah. Maybe he should steal his pencil sharpener next.
From: Wakatoshi Ushijima <[email protected]>
Sent: Tue, December 27, 2022 at 3:14 pm
To: Tooru Oikawa <[email protected]>
Hajime Iwaizumi <[email protected]>
Subject: Employee Complaints on Office Romance
Good day,
May this email find you both well and in good health.
Foremost, it is with deepest respect and highest praise to commend you, Mr. Oikawa and Engr. Iwaizumi, on the exemplary work and honor that you bring into the company.
HR has recently forwarded 150 pages of detailed employee complaints to my office and it has come to my attention that most of your colleagues are a little distracted by your strange social intercourses. All departments—including both of yours—have appealed for a mild sanction to be levied; as, albeit inappropriate, your attitudes toward each other insinuate a deep regard that renders this friction nothing but amenable.
I would only request that you fax a letter of apology to your respective directors, settle your differences in a more private setting, and instate professional borders between work and personal affairs. Attached to this email are contact details to a couples’ counselor and in the event that you decide to avail their services, all expenses will be gladly covered by company benefits.
Forgive me for overstepping and if you may find offense in my offer, I apologize. I assure you that it is the furthest from my intentions and you are free to discuss it with me anytime.
Congratulations on your relationship and on behalf of everybody, allow me to express my best wishes for the everlasting happiness and shared career passions it thrives on.
Sincerely,
Wakatoshi Ushijima
CEO