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REIGN’s personal security during public appearances is a lanky, surly, scowling man named Kyoutani Kentarou.

Prior to that, Oikawa had run through a string of security personnel (“babysitters”  “that’s actually fairly appropriate, Oikawa-san, since you act like a—”  “Hey!”) who would last a few weeks to a few months at a time. Reasons for their departures ranged from Oikawa firing them for pissing him off, to resignations because they were unable to put up with Oikawa’s schedule and antics. Kyoutani has lasted a whole nine months now, more exceptional because Oikawa takes particular delight in riling him up and because he seems to seriously piss Yahaba off.

It’s amazing, really. Put the two in a room together and Oikawa ends up with two hissing, spitting stray cats. Sometimes he doesn’t even need to start shit, just watches as they snipe back and forth. Yahaba will take a jab at Kyoutani’s state of dress; Kyoutani will protest that he’s in the goddamn suit, isn’t he. Yahaba will stomp over and aggressively straighten out Kyoutani’s admittedly sloppy appearance; Kyoutani will try to shove him off. Yahaba will try to strangle Kyoutani with his tie and Kyoutani will make a comment about sticks being up asses, at which point either Oikawa intervenes (badly) or someone shows up to tell them it’s go time. The two of them glare daggers together all the way to the stage, or the set, or wherever it is Oikawa’s meant to go.

They’re usually less stabby when Kyoutani leaves to drop Oikawa off at his apartment for the night. Oikawa usually attributes that to all-around exhaustion.

He’s actually pretty fond of Kyoutani, cantankerous personality and petty bickering aside. The man’s impressive scowl can deter most fans from getting too close, and his admittedly buff arms manhandle the rest away. Oikawa knows he’s never going to have peace given his popularity, but Kyoutani manages to provide a good half-meter buffer between REIGN and his screaming fan base. The man is effective at his job, Oikawa has to give him that.

He could probably pick on Kyoutani less, or try to make him and Yahaba get along better, but ah, well.

Then nine months, five days, five hours and twenty-three minutes after Kyoutani signs the contracts with Ao-Jo Studios, Oikawa walks into the breakroom. He’s just finished rehearsing his dance routine for his upcoming music video shoot. He opens the door, glances up, and comes to an abrupt halt.

Kyoutani has Yahaba pushed up against the counter. The coffee pot has been knocked over. Kyoutani’s mouth is on Yahaba’s neck. Yahaba’s shirt is unbuttoned and pushed open. Several hickeys litter his collar. Kyoutani’s own button-down is in disarray, open down to his chest, untucked. There’s hard candies all over the countertop. Yahaba has his hands tucked under the waistband of Kyoutani’s trousers. Oikawa doesn’t even bother checking where Kyoutani’s hands are because suddenly the ceiling is very, very interesting.

“Well!” he exclaims, smiling at the light fixture. “This has been enlightening. I am going to turn around and exit the room now.”

And he does just that, letting the door click shut behind him.

Oikawa walks down the two flights of stairs and ten meters of corridor all the way back to his designated rehearsal room. He opens the door, flicks on the lights, and walks to the back. Carefully, gracefully, he sits, sliding down the wall until his butt hits the wooden flooring.

He stays there for a moment, just breathing. Then he proceeds to have an existential crisis.

He’s just walked in on Kyoutani doing an excellent vampire impression on Yahaba’s neck and Oikawa doesn’t know how to handle this. He absolutely does not. He hadn’t even known they’d been friendly, let alone close enough to be doing — that. Things like that. God Oikawa needs to strike that image from his mind. When had that even happened? When had Kyoutani and Yahaba become close enough for that level of intimacy? Is it a hate thing? A sexual tension thing? When had they started? Where else have they done things? Have they made out in Oikawa’s rehearsal room? His dressing room? Is Oikawa going to have to replace the couch there, because he really likes that couch, it’s comfortable and good for napping and has nice cushions and he doesn’t have time to go to Ikea to—

“Oikawa-san,” comes a very polite voice somewhere to his right.

Oikawa turns his head mechanically to find a mostly-neat Yahaba looking down at him, somewhat contrite. There’s a small red blotch under his jaw. Oikawa tears his eyes away and starts humming his latest single under his breath.

His manager sighs. “Oikawa-san,” he repeats.

“Yahaba-chan,” Oikawa replies.

There is a pause. Then Yahaba sighs again and scratches at his neck. It redirects Oikawa’s attention back there and he hums louder.

“I will apologize for inappropriate behavior on company premises,” Yahaba finally says, a little stiffly. He sounds far more formal than Oikawa has heard him in a long while, at least when they’re talking to each other. “I would appreciate it if you did not mention this to anyone, of course.”

“Mention what?” Oikawa asks, high-pitched and wheezy. He turns his gaze somewhere to Yahaba’s left.

Yahaba stares flatly at Oikawa for a long moment, then sighs one more time — his usual sigh when REIGN is being particularly stubborn and difficult. Oikawa tries to smile reassuringly. He’s about 63% certain it comes off the way he intends it.

“You should go home for the night, Oikawa-san,” he says, tipping his head towards the door. “It’s getting late, and you have an early interview for SENSE tomorrow, plus a commercial shoot after lunch. Kyoutani-kun,” and Oikawa would admire the sheer lack of inflection in Yahaba’s voice if he weren’t still having a crisis, “will see you home.”

“Okidokie,” Oikawa says cheerfully. It’s not at all concerning how cheerful he is. “I’ll let Kyouken-chan bring me home then. This is fine. Good night.”

He doesn’t get up. Yahaba keeps looking at him. The air is thick with awkwardness.

“Kyoutani will be waiting by your dressing room.” Yahaba pauses, then sighs one last time. “Good night, Oikawa-san.”


The drive home is so uncomfortable that Oikawa considers retiring from his idol career and becoming a hermit in the Hotaka mountain range, just to escape the mortification. Kyoutani keeps scowling at him in the rearview mirror, and Oikawa keeps avoiding his scowl. He’s absolutely terrified that Kyoutani will bring it up, will say something; will make Oikawa remember that his pinched mouth had been earlier preoccupied with Yahaba’s neck and Oikawa is highly tempted to get out at the next stoplight.

They reach his apartment building without incident. It feels a little anticlimactic. Oikawa had been certain Kyoutani would threaten him to keep his mouth shut at knifepoint.

Then again, Yahaba had probably talked him out of it.

“Good night, Kyouken-chan,” he says faintly, as Kyoutani dutifully drops him off at his apartment door.

Kyoutani grunts in response. Oikawa enters his apartment and heads to his bedroom, intent on showering so long it gets rid of the heebie-jeebie feeling from his skin.


It should be the last time. Hopefully the two lovebirds? Hatebirds? Sexual-tension-birds? will be more discreet aka not anywhere Oikawa can walk in on them. And Oikawa mostly forgets about the incident, even if he’s reminded of it every time the two of them are within six feet of each other.


It is not the last time.


Oikawa squawks when his foot misses a step on the emergency stairwell, where he’d come to calm down after the Se!joh band members had dropped by his dance practice. He’d had to run through sections of his routine with Iwaizumi’s eyes on him, tracking his body’s movements, the way Oikawa breathlessly sang along. The feeling of being watched still lingers on his skin, and he needs to sit alone for a while so he can clear his head.

He’s walked two floors down when he stumbles upon Yahaba and Kyoutani aggressively making out.

The two of them break apart, gazes snapping around frantically to search for the source. Yahaba spots him first, eyes going wide for a moment before his expression scrunches. To Oikawa’s indignation, his manager actually looks annoyed. 

Kyoutani spots him after, and rolls his eyes before hunching in what seems to be protectiveness.


“Oikawa-san—” Yahaba starts, shoving Kyoutani away.

“Why are you two so — so — hormonal! ” Oikawa screeches, slapping a hand over his eyes and turning around abruptly. 

“...Oikawa-san,” Yahaba repeats flatly, unimpressed.

“Please use protection!” Oikawa tells the blank wall of the stairwell in a strangled voice. Then he stomps all the way back up the steps and off to his dressing room.

That is twice now. Twice. And who knows how many other times in between. He cannot deal with this. He cannot. Oikawa hasn’t gotten laid in months, and is possibly crushing on a guitarist and singer with a goddamn tattoo sleeve, and his manager is necking it with his bodyguard. He needs to process this somehow. Vent his emotions.

Oikawa does the sensible thing and opens his messenger app.


PRIVATE MESSAGE: m1llenium_t00ru > kuror0ro*
m1llenium_t00ru: tetsu-chan (+_+)
kuror0ro*: whats up princess
m1llenium_t00ru: tetsu-chaaaannnnn (╥﹏╥)
kuror0ro*: did u trip in rehearsal
kuror0ro*: did ur selfie flop i havent checked ig yet
m1llenium_t00ru: i walked in on yahaba-chan making out with kyouken-chan
m1llenium_t00ru: AGAIN
m1llenium_t00ru: i think i’m scarred for life Σ(°△°|||)︴
kuror0ro*: ok?
m1llenium_t00ru: …….. tetsu-chan ( ̄ヘ ̄)
m1llenium_t00ru: this is a PROBLEM
m1llenium_t00ru: you’ve seen kyouken-chan!! he looks like he could snap yahaba-chan in half!!!!! 。゜゜(´O`) ゜゜。
kuror0ro*: princess
kuror0ro*: rmb when i crashed ur zipper shoot in shibuya last yr bc i was in the area n i thought itd be fun
kuror0ro*: and it kinda ruined the schedule bc of the fans n bc the stylist had the ~brilliant~ idea 2 hv both of us instead
m1llenium_t00ru: yeah? (◎ ◎)
kuror0ro*: trust me u don’t need 2 worry about yahaba

Kuroo proves mostly unhelpful, especially since now Oikawa is burning with curiosity about what his manager had done to his friend after that shoot. He considers what to do now — confront Yahaba? Give Kyoutani the shovel talk? Ignore this ever happened and avoid any dark, deserted corners or rooms from now on, just in case? Before he can decide, there’s a soft knock on the door, and Yahaba’s voice says, “Oikawa-san.”

Oikawa’s been hearing that a lot lately.

“I didn’t see anything!” he calls out hastily, because he doesn’t want to have this conversation.

The door opens. Yahaba steps inside. They are, apparently, having this conversation.

“Tooru,” he says, and that gets Oikawa’s attention. He sits up to find Yahaba looking at him in equal parts fondness and exasperation, fists propped on his hips. The other man walks over to where Oikawa is sprawled out on the couch he hopes he doesn’t have to replace.

“So—” Yahaba starts, and that’s all it takes for Oikawa to crack.

“Yahaba-chan,” he says, very seriously and not at all hysterically, “I want you to know that while I don’t necessarily understand this relationship of yours, I am willing to respect it and your decisions, because you are an adult and a person, but please stop doing — things in my vicinity because my sensibilities are delicate and I don’t want to give Kyouken-chan the shovel talk — or you the shovel talk — I’m not sure who should be getting shovelled actually—”

Yahaba slaps a hand over his mouth.

“Tooru,” he says again.

“Mmmhf nnggnfffm,” Oikawa replies.

The other man looks torn between bursting into laughter and smacking him. Oikawa isn’t sure which option he prefers.

“I promise you,” Yahaba says, firm and deliberate, “we are fine. I admit we can get — carried away, sometimes,” and here the man turns faintly pink, but he perseveres, “but I am managing this. All right?”

A pause. Slowly, Oikawa nods.

“Now, if your rehearsals are done, give me a while to double-check tomorrow’s schedule, and then Kyoutani can bring you home.”

The mention of Kyoutani makes Oikawa’s expression scrunch up, but at a raised eyebrow from Yahaba, he just shakes his head. The hand pulls off his mouth, and Oikawa makes a face. Yahaba just snorts.

“Go get changed, you’re all sweaty.”




When Kyoutani opens the front door, it’s later than he’d intended. He’d first had to wait for Oikawa to wrap up for the evening, then drop off the idol at his apartment door. Then he’d taken the car back to the studio parking lot, walked to the train station, and ridden two lines to where Yahaba lives in his tiny apartment.

His preferred method of saying I’m here is making a lot of noise in the genkan, kicking off his shoes and dropping his bag by the rack. There’s a rhythmic sound of chopping from further inside, drawing Kyoutani to the kitchen. Yahaba’s at the counter, dicing an onion for a late dinner. Kyoutani sidles up to him, slouching against the counter as he watches the efficient motions of the man’s hands.

“How’d it go,” he grunts, going straight to the point.

Yahaba shrugs, a corner of his mouth turned up. “He freaked out,” he replies, chuckling, “but he’ll let it go. Just no more necking around in dark corners of the studio.”

Kyoutani frowns and opens his mouth. Yahaba lifts the knife off the cutting board. Kyoutani closes his mouth.

Sorata chooses this moment to show up, meowing plaintively as she winds herself between Yahaba’s ankles. Yahaba nudges her fondly with one ankle, before setting the knife down and picking her up.

“Here,” he says, depositing the cat onto Kyoutani’s chest. “Go sit down with the cat so you can get the stick out of your ass. Dinner will be ready in ten minutes.”

Kyoutani grimaces as he gingerly puts his hands around the cat to sort of — hold her in place, a little bit. It’s been weeks and he’s still not sure how to handle her, no matter how much Yahaba swears she likes him. Tiny claws digging into thigh do not scream affection. Neither do three shredded neckties.

“It’s his fucking fault I’ve got a stick up my—”

Yahaba lifts the knife again. Kyoutani obediently carries Sorata to the couch.

He sits there, brooding and poking at soft fur, which the cat seems to find endlessly amusing. She swipes at his fingers, rolling around in his lap. Much to Kyoutani’s chagrin, it does calm him down somewhat, especially when she settles and starts purring. It still catches him off-guard, and he frowns down at her as he idles a finger back-and-forth over her back.

He’s been lulled into a daze when he hears a shutter click from somewhere beside him. His head whips around immediately to find Yahaba holding up his phone with an unrepentant grin. He’s always catching Kyoutani in the worst compromising positions for photos (even with Sorata sleeping on his chest the one time he’d fallen asleep on the couch). And Kyoutani can never get the man to delete them, no matter how hard he scowls.

It’s not for lack of trying, though.

“I might make that my wallpaper,” Yahaba muses, pocketing his phone into his hoodie. Then before Kyoutani can do more than scowl harder, puffing up like an enraged bird, Yahaba kisses him quickly on the forehead and trots to the kitchen. “Come on, dinner’s ready.”

Sorata leaps off Kyoutani’s lap to go after her owner. Kyoutani spares a moment to glower at the cat. Then, trying not to think of pots and kettles, he too gets off the couch and follows. His irritable expression just earns a snicker as Yahaba settles at the table, but Kyoutani isn’t really mad.

(Not until the next day, when Oikawa shows up and very stiffly asks how his evening went, at least.)