Chapter Text
Senior year of undergrad was just as much of a bitch as everyone had warned Hanamaki it was gonna be.
Especially when he had changed his major, no lie, 5 times.
Hanamaki had always been someone who could roll with the punches. He wasn’t all that picky of a guy. It’s how he’s managed to pay for most of his tuition already– he truly didn’t mind working most jobs, applying for whatever was available all throughout high school and college and shrugging off anything that was demanded of him. Scanning groceries, taking calls at a desk, making coffee, lifeguard duty, waiting tables– it was all more or less the same to him. Just a completion of tasks. And if you asked any of his former bosses, they’d all tell you he was a damn good employee. Not because he had some superhuman skillset, but because he was easy to train and was too indifferent about the work to complain about any of it. He was happy to fill in for a sick coworker at the last minute, or to train a newbie, or whatever else would add more money to his paychecks at the end of the month.
That was the issue, though. He wasn’t really committed to any career path in particular. He knew that if he just went through the motions pursuing whatever fell into his lap, then he’d probably be fine.
But on days where Iwaizumi, his roommate, would come home rambling about some sports science mumbo jumbo with stars in his eyes like it was the most important thing in the world… Hanamaki wondered what it would be like to feel that kind of passion, too.
“You go to art school, Hiro,” Iwaizumi said in the midst of folding his clothes. Hanamaki watched him and made a mental note to do his own laundry soon. “I’m sure you’ll have some sort of crazy-ass epiphany soon.”
“Ooh, epiphany? When did you learn such big words, Hajime?” Hanamaki cooed. To that, he received a balled up t-shirt flung directly at his face. He ducked with a yelp.
“I’m trying to help you, asshole!” Iwaizumi chided, with not much actual bite to it. “Remember, one of us already survived undergrad.”
It was true. Iwaizumi had started his first semester of graduate school this year. They were in their third year of living together and became much closer friends than either of them had anticipated. As much as Hanamaki loved to give his roommate shit, he was grateful he had someone in his corner who went through the same hell only a year ago.
“It took me until my senior year to really have my shit figured out too, that’s all I’m saying.”
“Yeah, but,” Hanamaki grunted as he flipped over to his side to fully face Iwaizumi from the couch. “You at least had a general idea of what field you wanted to go into the whole time. I’m like, the Thanos of majors at this point.” That pulled a chuckle out of Iwaizumi, and Hanamaki silently celebrated the small win.
“You seem to really like this one so far though, yeah?”
Hanamaki started out as a freshman in the Fine Arts department. About halfway through the school year he switched over to Psychology. Sophomore year he decided to give Food Studies a try. Junior year, he changed his major to Architectural Design with a minor in Coding.
He felt fine about the classes. His grades in them were fine.
‘Fine’ was becoming exhausting to Hanamaki, though.
His advisor had told him that, while there was no stopping him from changing his major as many times as he wanted, the wisest thing was to find something to stick to for the entirety of his senior year.
So that’s how Hanamaki was currently working towards a degree in Communication Design with a minor in Museum & Curatorial studies. The major felt just vague enough that he could continue exploring whatever he wanted until something stuck. The minor was more for the “look what’s on my resume, please give me a job” appeal. And who knows, maybe he’d end up liking it.
It definitely held up its first end of the bargain, as when Hanamaki saw a job listing for a local gallery, he landed the position with ease.
Just like that, only a few months into his senior year, he was a part-time gallery assistant.
~
Black Crow Gallery was based near Shinagawa city. It was owned by Ittetsu Takeda and Keishen Ukai, a married couple in their thirties. Ukai handled the business and the numbers, while Takeda took care of the events and other “people stuff” as Ukai liked to call it.
While Takeda was eager to have someone new to show the ropes to, it was clear that Ukai didn’t know what to make of Hanamaki at first. With pink hair, a lazy grin on his face, and the ultimate Chill™ disposition, he was used to employers doubting how seriously he was gonna take his duties. But, after only a couple of weeks, Ukai accepted defeat to Hanamaki’s playful-yet-just-professional-enough charisma and strong work ethic. If anything, the two men had damn near become Hanamaki’s Tokyo parents.
Hanamaki appreciated the fact that his work days were always a little bit different. Some days he was taking inventory of the art pieces in storage. Other days, he was serving drinks at exhibition openings and trying to charm his way into getting buyers to make a purchase.
On many days, like this one, he manned the desk and greeted visitors, talking up the artwork and answering any questions he was asked while Ukai and Takeda were pulled away by phone calls or meetings.
As a family checking out the gallery thanked Hanamaki on their way out, Takeda walked out of the office, rubbing his temples.
“Hanamaki–” he interrupted himself to take a steadying breath. “Could you please move Matsukawa Issei’s consultation to next Monday in the calendar? He had to reschedule.”
Hanamaki immediately recognized Takeda’s high-pitched ‘I’m trying to keep it together but am this close to chucking my laptop at the wall’ voice. “He rescheduled again?” he asked, exasperated.
Gritting his teeth, Takeda nodded. “Yup. But it’s fine! It’s not the end of the world.”
Hanamaki turned in his seat to look at his boss. “It’s not fine, this is like, the third or fourth time. We had to move around other important meetings already to accommodate him.” Hanamaki got paid all the same regardless, but it didn’t stop him from being annoyed on Takeda’s behalf.
Takeda sighed, running his hand over his face. “I know. We don’t love it either, Hanamaki. But, this guy’s a bit of a rising star right now. It would be huge if we were able to sign him, especially if we got to host his first solo exhibition.”
Hanamaki had to suppress an eyeroll. It’s not that he didn’t follow Takeda’s logic but… if Matsukawa was one of those artists– and it was seeming like he was– then it was gonna be a long next couple of months. None of them had even met the guy in person yet and he was already giving them such a hard time.
~
“I just don’t understand why this has you so worked up.” Iwaizumi said over Facetime. Ukai and Takeda were both out running their own respective errands, leaving Hanamaki to watch the gallery alone for the day. They wouldn’t love it if they knew Hanamaki was calling his friends during work, but Hanamaki felt as though he was a more than competent enough employee in every other way so he didn’t feel too bad about it.
Hanamaki pushed his feet off the ground and let his chair spin him in circles slowly. “It’s because I know he’s a dick and I haven’t even met him yet.”
Iwaizumi just raised an eyebrow and looked at him through the camera. Hanamaki was too busy spinning to see, but he knew Iwaizumi well enough by that point to know the silence meant I’m judging you, but keep going.
“He’s cancelled meetings about showing his work here at the last minute four times now. Or, wait, three– one of those times he didn’t even cancel, he just ghosted us entirely.”
Even Iwaizumi had to flinch at that one.
“He never even gives a reason as to why. It’s like he doesn’t care how much it throws shit off here. Takeda skipped out on a lunch with one of our super loyal and filthy rich donors to meet with him yesterday just to get a text ten minutes beforehand that he couldn’t make it.” He paused. “Fuck that guy.” he muttered for emphasis.
Visitors walked in and out, interrupting Hanamaki’s rant on multiple occasions. He seamlessly went back and forth between putting his professional hat on to talk to onlookers and taking it back off to shittalk with Iwaizumi, who had grown used to the routine.
“Okay, yeah, he does seem like a bit of an asswipe.” Iwaizumi conceded. Hanamaki chuckled. Only Iwaizumi would use the word asswipe. “You just seem to be taking it really personally, I guess.”
To that, Hanamaki shrugged.
“I don’t know, just… I don’t like it when people disrespect Takeda and Ukai.”
Iwaizumi didn’t miss how Hanamaki said the sentence almost completely under his breath, not being one to enjoy the whole being mushy thing. But it was evident to anyone how much Hanamaki had grown to care about the couple.
“That’s fair,” Iwaizumi started with a sigh. “But you know them, they’re holding up just fine. I wouldn’t cry about it if they’re not crying about it.”
“I guess, but– Hi, welcome in! Let me know if you have any questions.” Hanamaki cut himself off to read the mental script that was basically on autopilot at that point as another guest walked in. The guest gave a polite nod in response, then slowly walked back to peruse the exhibit.
“–he just seems like he’s the exact brand of male painter that I hate.” Hanamaki huffed.
Iwaizumi couldn’t help the amused grin that began to form on his lips. “And what would that be?”
Hanamaki clicked his tongue. “Every now and then, some hotshot guy shows up in the gallery world and creates bullshit and comes up with flowery fake-deep words to accompany the bullshit to make himself seem like a genius.” Hanamaki was now skimming Matsukawa’s artist statement, and his eyes rolled to the back of his head.
“If his work was actually any good then maybe I could overlook it. I’m fine with giving credit where credit’s due. But this?” He was now sharing his screen with Iwaizumi, continuing to scroll through the painter’s website. “I feel like I’m being pranked.”
Iwaizumi blinked at the screen. “I mean, I can’t really weigh in. All abstract shit looks the same to me.”
Hanamaki waved him off. “Well, take my word for it. This shit sucks.” He should probably watch his mouth while guests were present, but it hadn’t been a problem up until this point, so he pushed the thought away. “Like this one right here.” He clicked on what looked to be his most recent piece. “I’m not Van Gogh by any stretch of the imagination,” he started, hearing Iwaizumi chuckle from the other end. “But this literally looks like a dog dragged his ass across the canvas, kicked some dirt on top of it for good measure, and had his owner come and sign it.”
Iwaizumi was thoroughly entertained by the colorful, if not obnoxious description. “Wow, Shakespeare. Ever considered a poetry minor instead of curation?”
Hanamaki shrugged, pretending to be bashful. “It’s hard being so good at so many things.” He smiled, before remembering his original point and feeling a pang of irritation again. “I’m just saying. If you’re gonna walk around like you’re the shit and not give anyone the time of day, then you better be God himself with a paintbrush.”
“Yeah… Yeah, this is perfect.” the man wandering the gallery said, eyes glued to one of the artworks. Hanamaki looked over his shoulder.
“Yeah, that’s been a popular one.” Hanamaki observed out loud. The man turned to make eye contact with him, eyebrows slightly furrowed.
“Huh? Oh, yeah the painting’s nice. I meant this spot on the wall, though. Will be perfect for the main piece in my show.”
Hanamaki squinted at him, confused.
...then his blood went cold.
The man didn’t react to the mortified look on Hanamaki’s face and continued talking. “It’s that one, actually,” he pointed at the piece of artwork pulled up on Hanamaki’s screen. “The one that looks like… a dog’s assprint? Was that it?”
It took everything for Makki not to leap over his desk and run as far as he could, leaving his laptop and wallet and anything else that would slow him down by stopping to grab it. But instead he just continued to stare ahead silently as if he had forgotten to use words. He heard a small noise from his laptop indicating that Iwaizumi had hung up. Oh, fuck him, he thought briefly, though he knew he’d probably do the same thing if it meant avoiding the secondhand embarrassment.
A hand in front of him snapped him out of his shock-induced trance. “Matsukawa Issei. Nice to meet you.”
He did whatever he could in the next five seconds to regain his composure, refusing to make even more of a fool out of himself. He extended his own hand and gave as firm of a handshake as he could muster.
Three things were running through his mind.
1) He was so getting fired.
2) This guy was a smug asshole.
3) He had nice hands, and the rest of him wasn’t bad either. Wait… no. Ew.
Fuck.