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There were a lot of things about romance that Shota Aizawa didn’t really get. Like why people would talk to their partners sometimes in that cooing, cutesy voice one might use on a baby or an animal. It seemed demeaning to him. And why people liked to brag about dating someone new like it was the only thing they could think about. And why people who were going to get married had bachelor and bachelorette parties—why were they called that? Shouldn’t they be engagement parties? Weren’t they celebrating being engaged, not still being unmarried? Wasn’t it an insult to their soon-to-be spouse to be celebrating their last few days of being unmarried?
It was a good thing this notorious overthinker had someone like Oboro Shirakumo around to make most of it make sense and tell him not to think too hard about the rest of it.
Because when Oboro used that cutesy voice on him, he thought it was the goofiest, most darling thing in the world.
And when he and Oboro first started dating, they were suddenly the ones who wanted to brag about each other all the time. All the fun things they were doing, how happy they were. He was addicted not just to Oboro himself, but to every cherished memory the two of them created together.
And by the time he and Oboro were engaged and planning their joint bachelor party, he was much too excited about the upcoming wedding to keep insisting that it should be called an engagement party instead.
But he was adamant about one thing.
“No strippers.”
Oboro laughed when he brought that up, faltering mid-sentence while writing up the plans they were brainstorming together.
“What? People don’t really do that, do they? That’s only in movies, Sho.”
“People do it. And I want none of it at our bachelor party.”
A thoughtful look crossed Oboro’s face. He pouted a bit, gaze drifting up and away, tapping the pen slowly against his lower lip. Shota could practically see the cogs turning in that dumb little head of his.
“Oboro Shirakumo. Don’t even think about it. If we get there--”
Oboro’s laughter interrupted him, then he tried to argue, “I’m not thinkin’ nothing about anything! I’m just teasing you, Sho!”
But Shota continued, scowling and unfazed, “No, seriously, if we get there, and some other man, or woman, climbs up on stage, and starts—”
Oboro wheezed, wiping under his eyes like this very serious discussion was the funniest thing in the world. “Babe, stop, you’re too much!”
“I didn’t like it when Kayama walked around like that, and I don’t like it when anybody else does, either. It’s trashy. It’s unnecessary. And if it happens, I’m leaving the party immediately and sleeping on the couch for a week.”
“I won’t hire a stripper!” Oboro gasped, waving his hands frantically. “I won’t! I won’t. Promise. Pwomise. Pinky-promise, even.” He rested his elbow on the table and extended his pinky towards his partner in an offer for the ultimate, most sacred pact a couple of guys could make, a big, doofy grin stuck all across his face. “See? I mean it. Seriously, though.”
His expression softened, a now-familiar warmth and affection settling across his strikingly handsome features that took Shota’s breath away every bit as much now as it always had, and always would. “I would never do something that would make you that uncomfortable. Especially on a day that’s supposed to be all about us getting married and having our happily ever after! I wouldn’t wanna make my fairytale prince charming sad right before the big day. So, yeah. Don’t even worry. ‘Cause I pinky promise.”
… Alright, Shota couldn’t even pretend to be grumpy anymore when Oboro looked at him and talked to him like that. He was melted. A puddle of emotion. ‘Fairytale prince charming?’ Him? This overgrown grouchy cat in a human body? His fiancé was just too damn cute.
“Alright. Glad we understand each other.” He rested his elbow on the table and squeezed his pinky into the crook of Oboro’s, then leaned in to kiss him up above their joined hands, briefly but meaningfully. As he pulled away, he whispered, “You’re sweet. I love you.”
“I love you, too, dumpling.” Oboro booped the tip of Shota’s nose with the nib of the pen, realized that he’d accidentally used the nib instead of the back, and reached apologetically across the table to swipe the fresh ink stain off his partner’s nose. “Sorry, dear.”
“That’s alright.” Ink smears were a small price to pay for a guy like Oboro, he thought to himself, before deciding that was way too corny to say out loud. “Now, about our color scheme…”
* * *
“No. Oboro, you didn’t. You wouldn’t.”
The party had gone well, up until this point. It was small and intimate enough to suit Shota’s taste, while also big enough for Oboro to invite all of the people he wanted to invite. There was drinking, dancing, music, games, and lots of congratulations from all of their friends.
But then, a somewhat tipsy Oboro had let slip something about the strip show coming up, and Shota was insulted. Revolted. Devastated. He stared down at his hands, completely shellshocked, as if imagining blood splattered across them. The absolute carnage of a dishonored pinky promise.
“You… broke our pinky promise. You broke your pinky promise to me. The man who’s going to be your husband. I even gave you a kiss over it.”
Oboro’s wild, mischievous grin faded to a shy, guilty half-smile. “Awh… Sho, I didn’t mean to make you sad. I’m sorry. But trust me, you’re gonna love it! C’monnn. We’ve been together for years!” He prodded him lightly, playfully in the shoulder with one index finger, then the other, over and over again. “You think I don’t know what you’re about by now?”
Shota huffed, turning all the way around in his stool so his back was facing the stage where the stripper was presumably soon to take their place. “No. You violated our pinky promise. I’m not having any more fun tonight.”
“No, but see, that’s the fun thing, actually, is I didn’t actually break the pinky promise.”
Shota looked over at him, puzzled. “You just admitted there’s going to be a stripper. They’re starting the music. There’s—look. They’re putting a pole out on the stage.” He gestured with a disgusted flick of his hand, as if in the direction of a heap of putrid garbage he wanted hauled out of the room. “So, please. Explain to me how that’s anything but you going back on your promise.”
Oboro giggled, in that light, sweet way that often peppered his speech even when nothing particularly funny was going on, and it was maddening. Shota just wanted to… well, to kiss him, honestly, and it was frustrating, because Oboro was not engaging in kissable behavior right now, and Shota was not going to reward his unkissable behavior with kisses! What kind of lesson would that teach?
“I didn’t hire a stripper, Sho.”
“Then what’s the pole for? The dimmed lights? The mood music?”
Oboro wiggled his eyebrows up and down a couple of times suggestively, taking a long, tension-building sip from his drink, then answering in the exhale that came afterwards, “It’s for the stripper.”
Alright. Shota had just about had it, at that point. He was about to consider this man too drunk to reason with and call it a night… but then, he saw it. What he should’ve observed all along. The culmination of a few things he’d noticed throughout the evening, but hadn’t thought twice about since he was never one to care about fashion of all things. The odd placement of some clasps and zippers on Oboro’s outfit. The position of his bowtie, secured directly against his neck rather than tucked into the collar of his dress shirt. The fabric of Oboro’s suit, which was just off, almost like it was cheap.
Oboro stood up dramatically from his stool, rising to his full, impressive height.
“I didn’t hire a stripper, Sho.”
With all the theatricality of someone laying down an I AM the manager level plot twist, Oboro planted his fists at his hips, flipped his hair, and proudly announced:
“I am the stripper.”
As if on cue, the music kicked up at that very moment, signaling that it was time for him to get up on stage. But he lingered there, grinning dazzlingly down at Shota, awaiting his reaction… and his permission. Lord knew what his backup plan was.
Shota stared at him, stony-faced, for a long moment. Really let him sweat… but then he smirked, let out a soft tch! of a laugh, turned his gaze sidelong, and sipped from his drink, an embarrassed but smitten sort of heat rising to his cheeks. They wouldn’t have gotten this far if Shota didn’t have a bit of a thing for Oboro’s tendency to… show off. Opposites attract, right? It was only rational.
“… Okay, Oboro. Go do your thing.”
“Yesss!” Oboro fist-pumped, then clapped his hands together in a let’s do this! sort of gesture, and started making his way over to the stage entrance, walking backwards to hold eye contact just a little longer. “Stay right there, honey! Front and center, right where I want ya!”
He received a half-assed wave in return, and a promise of, “I’m not going anywhere.”
There was about as much of an excited, amused, and bewildered uproar as one could expect, when one of the two grooms-to-be climbed up on stage, took hold of the pole, and began to twirl alluringly around it. It might’ve seemed like a joke to anyone who didn’t know Oboro so well. But with complete and utter confidence, he proceeded with the rest of the show, with all the hip-swaying, ass-shaking, and perfectly-timed clothing removal of a guy who did this for a living. Everyone there got a taste of those heart-melting, perfectly-lined bedroom eyes of his. His well-muscled chest and abs, his broad shoulders, his soft skin glistening its warm caramel color under the lights overhead. And once the pants were off, nobody was leaving that room without at least a general sense of what this man had packing, and the certain knowledge that he manscaped.
It was all nothing Shota hadn’t seen before. But what could he say? He was in love. He never wanted to stop seeing Oboro like this. He never wanted Oboro to lose his showiness, his flair, all that effortless confidence that had enthralled him, a man who constantly struggled to scoop his self-worth up off the floor, since day one. The lights were dim, but that spirited man was bright as the sun up there. So happy, so carefree. Having the time of his life. And throughout it all, he kept making eye contact with him, and him alone, as if to let him know it was all because of him. How could Shota be anything less than the most captivated person in the entire audience?
For the most part, he watched with intense but silent interest. But as the show got spicier, cheers rang out, and the excited buzz of conversation around him grew, he felt he had to make a statement. Raising his glass at Oboro’s steady eye contact and approval-hungry simper, he shouted above the din to say, “Yeah, eat it up. Because this is all you’ll ever get. After this, he’s mine.”
People cheered for him and his playfully possessive words, and damn, was it affirming. But none of it so affirming as the way Oboro reacted to it. Grinning, blushing, and abandoning the pole to strut over to the edge of the stage, slink down on to his stomach, and kick his strong, graceful legs slowly behind him. He was face-to-face with Shota now, fluttering his pretty, pale-blue eyelashes, looking at him like he was the only person in the world.
“I’m already yours.”
The strip show came to an end not with a bang, but with a tender kiss. Right there, with one of them nearly-nude and sprawled out on his stomach, the other fully clothed and awkwardly nursing his drink from earlier but kissing back wholeheartedly nonetheless.
It wasn’t what Shota had expected his bachelor party to be like. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to forget that night for the rest of his life.