I Want To Hajime To Propose To Me - Blog Posts

iwaizumi’s driving both of you home—

and there was a part of you that thought, just maybe, tonight would be the night that he would propose. and maybe it was all just silly, to let the thought twirl around in your little head until it fell on the floor in front of you.

maybe you would say it shattered—all over your heels and the dress you know he likes and the floor of his buick.

and maybe, because every single one of your thoughts seems to start with that right now, maybe this is all just a little bit your fault. there were so many of those nights, curled into the sheets of your bed, the taste of liquor still resting on both of your tongues, that you’d asked him if he’d ever marry you.

and back then, he said yes. he’d laugh, an arm resting above his head, the other holding your lower back—his fingers would dip beneath your clothes and leave little searing paths of what you could only call home, but it was all to hold you close. his hand kept you steady atop of him, legs twined together, your chin resting on his chest.

but you could feel the laughter bloom in his chest and tumble past his lips, an absolutely sure to follow his tongue.

but then a few weeks would pass, five years of dating, both of you just past the age of 23 now, and you’d ask again. and maybe it had started the same, the same laughter, the same reply, the same graze of fingertips against flesh. and maybe the reply had never really changed, beyond a question of didn’t you ask this last week? or why wouldn’t i want to marry you?

but maybe that did it. maybe it finally got him thinking about all the reasons he shouldn’t marry you, and those started pile up until suddenly the cost-benefit analysis of it all didn’t really seem to stack in your favor.

because tonight, when you’re both now settled in 24, you thought would be the night. and if it wasn’t tonight—well, you don’t think it’s going to happen at all. and, of course, you’re driving home. so part of you is starting to accept this as your last drive home with iwaizumi. no matter how much it hurts.

he’s been playing a bit of beach rock on the radio, those old little tunes that you’d picked up through your college years, but it’s quiet and hardly does anything to mask the silence of the car. he’s not tapping his thumb against the steering wheel—he’s hardly spoken for most of the night, and back at the restaurant and on your walk around the pier, you’d put that all down as him being nervous.

who knows what the hell to think of it now.

you take a breath and smooth out the material of your dress as you roll to a stop at a light. it’s the one that iwaizumi hates—a gross intersection with too long of a red, and no one really ever seems to understand the design of it all, so he’s always been one to avoid this light when he can—but he’s here now, and you watch him stretch his hands on the wheel and tap his fingers against it in one little rhythmic motion. it’s not to the song, and you know it’s the motion he does when he’s about to say something.

and you, desperately, want it all to stop. because you know the next words out of his mouth are going to be somewhere along the lines of maybe we shouldn’t do this anymore or i’ve been thinking about this for a while, or maybe it’ll just be your name. but you know it’s nothing good and if you let him speak, then it ruins it all. if you let iwaizumi say your name you’re sure that your soul will escape with every last breath you give to him.

if you let him say your name, you’re sure that with it, he’ll take every last memory you could muster—the air from your lungs, every whisper he’s ever laid across your skin, every murmur of affection that you savored behind those closed doors.

if you let him say your name, it’ll all be gone, and you want to stay in his stupid buick for a moment longer as his girlfriend, even if it means prolonging the inevitable.

so you scan the cars around you, you look at the crosswalk until you see someone—a middle-aged man, a neon green cap on his head and orange sneakers hitting the pavement. iwaizumi takes a breath to say something, and you know he’s always hated being interrupted but god you don’t think you can stand not doing it now.

“man, what’s that guy wearing?” you say. it sounds less half-hearted than it feels. there’s a lilt to your voice and, if you couldn’t feel the weight in your chest, you’re sure it would sound like you’re clueless. you point to the man at the crosswalk, and iwaizumi’s gaze flicks there for only a moment before settling back on you.

“babe-”

“no, really, who would’ve guessed that neon was making such a comeback,” you interrupt again, and you hate it. it sounds unnatural, like there’s a joke somewhere in there that you just can’t find yet—and you both know you won’t ever get the chance to say it.

iwaizumi tries again.

“i’ve been thinking-”

“well i guess we can really see him in the dark-”

and iwaizumi says your name.

you’ve always hated the way time catches up to you.

you stop criticizing the poor man on the crosswalk, and then look over at iwaizumi—hajime as you’ve called him for years now, as you’ve said under the quake of your breath and between lilts of ardor.

you hum in reply to him, let the embarrassment of it all melt beneath his gaze, hope that maybe this break-up won’t be as bad as you always thought it would be. that he won’t be the one that got away for the rest of your life, that you won’t say his name in moonlight, starlight, and sunlight, hoping some divine power will hear it all and bring him back to you. more deeply, you hope you won’t have to move on without him—that the life you’ve built with him, from your home, to your friends, to your damn wardrobe won’t all burn to ash.

he takes a breath, he says your name again.

“hajime, what’s wro-”

“dammit, i’m trying to ask you to marry me.”

the red of the stoplight is reflecting on his face, the car smells a little like his cologne, and iwaizumi is looking at you—hands still tapping against the wheel.

“what?”

you watch the tips of his ears turn red as they start to blend in with the light. he turns back to the road, swallows and lets his tongue poke at his cheeks as he breathes again.

“sorry, that was-” he sighs, “not how i wanted to do that.”

you want to laugh at him a little bit, to let it all shake out of you in a quick moment of relief, but there’s a stutter in your chest that you can’t quite let go. it holds you close and churns your heart and your lungs until you can’t be sure what part of you is burning the most.

so you choose to whisper.

“how did you want to do it?”

and then iwaizumi laughs.

“preferably, a year ago.” you eye him. “i didn’t want you to think i was doing it just because you kept asking.”

you look forward to the light, you beg it not to turn green with everything you have—you hope with all that it’s worth that iwaizumi can hate this intersection for just a little longer.

“and what about tonight?”

he sighs again, in his old man way that you’ve always teased him for, and then he leans back—one hand on the wheel, the other finding its way to your thigh.

“at first, when you were getting ready. and then on the way to the restaurant, and again when you picked that one piece of broccoli off my plate, and then at the end of the pier, when you pulled me to the railing.” he laughs a little bit, and then his thumb rubs into your skin. “i didn’t know what to say, i just knew i wanted to ask you to marry me.”

the light turns green, and without ever really thinking about it, you say no. 

it’s not to him, it’s to the light and the situation of all things, but as he starts to drive you watch the blood drain from his face.

“what?” he asks, and you want to crawl into something much worse than just a hole in the ground.

“no, not like- sorry it was the light- yes, yes i want to marry you.”

“the damn stoplight made you say no to my proposal?” he asks, and though there’s that bit of scolding in his tone, you can feel the laughter rising in his voice as he speaks.

“no it wasn’t like that! you dick, i-”

“yeah, yeah, whatever, i’ll just return the ring then-”

“the ring?”

you both pause, and iwaizumi keeps driving, but he takes his hand off of you and, a little awkwardly, you might add, reaches into the pocket of his slacks—desperately trying to stay the speed limit (or, a little over), the whole time. 

but he pulls out a little black box and gestures towards you, and then flips it open with his thumb.

“i wasn’t kidding,” he starts, and then glances over at you. “marry me.”

and maybe you were right before. with just your name, iwaizumi could pull your soul and everything it carries with it out of your body. and maybe, in all that he is, you give it to him if only he were to ask—memories, whispers, murmurs, you’d give it all with only the raise of his brow.

“yes,” you reply. “of course.”

iwaizumi smiles, and at the next red light (one he hates just a little less, where the wait’s a little shorter and the intersection just a little less confusing), he puts the ring on your finger. and at that red light, he kisses you until you have to tell him it’s green.

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