Chapter Text
The world presents three problems:
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Watarai Hibari’s devastating, all-consuming crush—
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On none other than his closest friend of six, seven years—
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And he is, ordinarily, too great a stupid coward to do much of anything about it.
The keyword being ‘ordinarily’, as he stares himself down in the mirror. White-knuckling the sink’s rim, glowering at his panda-eyed, rumpled expression. A loose shirt is twisted so thoroughly it hangs halfway off one shoulder; purple flyaways and shock-pink cowlicks make a nest of his hair.
Worried red, his reflection juts its bottom lip in an undeserving pout. Look at you, it sulks. What kind of man?
So he’d made a mess of himself last night, what about it? Tossing and turning, molars creaking under the force of tension in his jaw. The blankets ate one of his socks; he’s grounded now by his very cold foot. But it’s only one, which is fifty percent less than the amount of cold feet he normally has. A significant improvement.
His reflection jabs a finger at him and mouths in wide-eyed mockery, you fucking dumbass.
Watarai Hibari drags a hand down his face and groans.
Let’s rewind.
[[ —-≪≪ Saturday, February 28: Yesterday ]]
It’s a weekend, but Voltaction qualify as idols. Greatness has no patience for exhaustion.
Routine, phase one:
After morning activities, Voltaction endured an hour and a half of choreography correction that brokered an excess of sneaker squeaks. They dipped into the change-rooms, where Hibari endeavoured meditation with the following mantras—
There is no such thing as Fura Kanato’s bare skin. There is no such thing as strips of lean muscle, peppered in slices of scars silvered by age. There is no such thing as abs or thighs or—or v-line. What’s a v-line? He didn’t know. Fura Kanato’s v-line? Snatch a peek—no, don’t. Hibari was a monk thinking of nothing, and so there was nothing to peek at, since Fura Kanato didn’t exist and neither did his v-line. Mantra.
Great wall, he thought, which was something close to nothing. Then, damn.
Cue Akira, with something like, “My arms hurt. Sometimes, I feel too old for this.”
And Seraph cut in, “Aren’t you going to the gym?”
Gym, mused Hibari. His mind’s eye blared cinema flashes of toned arms stretching. Prudence blared red alarm in response. I am a monk. Buddha.
“I go there too,” he chimed, unhelpful, “But my legs are still killing me.”
Counterproductive to Hibari’s pilgrimage for enlightenment, the nonexistent Fura Kanato sighed, “I get you,” promptly reinstating his existence. Unfortunate.
Akira snorted, “You and Serao are the last ones I want to hear that from.”
Hibari was a monk thinking of almost nothing, while his mouth ran sympathies for Akira and envied Seraph’s infinite stamina.
Routine, phase two:
For healthy bodies belonging to healthy boys with healthy levels of testosterone, stamina is something of a pitfall term. Fast brains play this awful little game called word association: ‘stamina’ equals ‘endurance’. Multiplied by ‘hot-crush-in-the-changing-room’, ‘endurance’ equals ‘libido’.
Hibari drained his water, hacked out a first cough, pressed his mouth into a thin line and swallowed the second. At the best of times, he feels the slightest bit silly for being so utterly gone over a boy. At the worst—like now—he wanted to stomp his own toes and hiss to get a grip. Already debuffed halfway to Hell, he hardly needed to look an idiot for choking on water in a room of near-naked men.
Clearing his throat—ow—he reconsidered his options and came up with something true enough not to be obviously avoidant:
“You guys got anything on your schedule?”
Safe, easy, convenient, sensical.
“Rehearsal,” Seraph droned. A crunch of an emptied bottle followed.
After wrestling the top button of his shirt, Akira replied, “I have some things to attend to.”
“I’m free,” said Kanato, “Got something later though.”
Hibari, who hadn’t thought that far, went, “Cool.” Then, cramming his clothes in his bag, “I’m gonna get a coffee.”
Between him and Kanato, the ‘you coming?’ is normally implied. Hibari did not imply it here because, at that present moment, Fura Kanato did not exist and so could not be invited. Of course, Fura Kanato is used to the implication being there, and so he invited himself.
“Sweet. Vending machine or café?”
Yet another attack on Hibari’s valiant efforts to convince himself that Fura Kanato’s v-line wasn’t real.
Routine, phase three:
Here is where the routines begin to vary, depending on the day.
When the cracks in Hibari’s Tetris-block schedule are thin, a vending machine coffee is usually enough. But there are occasions where an hour or two—possibly more, if he’s lucky—will go home-free in the gaps. Sometimes, he fills them with a nap, or lunch with the first friend he grabs at the door. If Kanato’s available, the friend is often Kanato. Which was terribly bad luck off the back of dance lesson delusions.
Or maybe it was awfully good luck, because it wasn’t a date buuuuut… if Hibari tried hard enough, it could be? Then he remembered that Kanato was straight as hell, so it’s still terribly bad luck. His usual thoughtless smile expertly hid the recoil from the truth. Touché. Silver lining: he got Kanato to himself—not uncommon and conditions apply, but he won the boy. …Not that he did anything.
Inaction, the root of all Hibari’s problems.
There it is again: damn.
The HQ doors slid shut behind them. Masks pulled up, they ambled down the block toward the nearest café with private booths. Not for romantic purposes, but in respect of the fact that they are idols. Off-the-clock idols hold no patience for gawking fans.
Kanato talks with his hands—animated, with deft fingers often accessorised only by faint calluses. Every now and then, a ring or two, but on dance days they’re inconvenient. Even so, Hibari tracked Kanato’s movements in his peripheral. He uses hand cream to soften the calluses, did you know? Hibari does, down to the scent and the brand. And he doesn’t dream of a vanilla thumb tracing his lips, what are you talking about?
“—there’s this dog park near my place, and I can see it from my balcony—”
Humming, nodding, Hibari punctuated with obligatory ‘oh yeah?’s and ‘that so?’s. This was Kanato’s dog rant—he’s been here before, will probably be here again. But Kanato has a nice, nice voice, and so Hibari listened to his prattle about borzois and Bernese mountain dogs—o his gripes and groans about not being able to keep one.
Without Hibari’s participation, Kanato petered out halfway, making space for comfortable silence. The domestic bliss of passersby chatter and cars rumbling on the road. Hands stay tucked in pockets—who knows where they’ll roam otherwise. No matter how badly Hibari wished he could test the give of those calluses himself, it wasn’t worth the risk.
The café bell chimed—not Zeffiro, Zeffiro’s a bit further. But this one is cosy enough, with birch wood motifs and white accents that project spaciousness. In the off hours, they’re able to choose their usual booth behind the wood slat divider, where the living wall cuts them from view. Opposite each other, they slid into seats, legs stretched under a table too low to cross them.
“A black coffee,” for Hibari.
And for Kanato, “I’ll take mine iced today.”
The waitress bowed and scurried off. The masks came down—always after the order, so they’re less likely to be bothered by the time they have their coffee. A strategy that takes advantage of social etiquette understood most by café staff: do not bother the customers that want to enjoy themselves.
‘Enjoy’ is an overstatement for what was plain routine, but there are no complaints. The stuffy masks are set aside.
“Not hungry?”
Hibari blinked. Oh. “I forgot.”
Snorting, Kanato reached for the menu holder, took two brochures and slipped one to Hibari, flicking it across the tabletop. They know the main menu, but it’s comfortable movement. How easy it is to be lulled by familiarity; just as easy as it is to suffer its pangs. Familiar, so familiar—the sort of thing that registered as ‘ours’. Ours, but you will never be mine.
Across the table, Kanato skimmed the bonus menu—a laminated paper that fell from the main. “Hey, they have dog cookies with the March menu.” Hibari felt his shoes skip giddy under the table.
“March menu is out already?”
“Yup.”
“Like dog treats?”
Kanato barked a laugh, “No, dude. Like dog-shaped ones.”
Contagious. Hibari smiled despite himself. “They cute?” You’re cute.
“There’s no pictures, it just says ‘dog-shaped cookies’.”
“Order it and find out.”
When their drinks arrived, they requested two serves of the sakura ukishima. She returned with two plates of delicate, soft cake: coloured pink, green and white and lightly drizzled with sweet bean syrup. The dishes clinked, the spoons laid before them, and when the waitress’ arm withdrew, Kanato’s eyes lit up like a clear sky.
Charmed, he chuckled, “they are cute. How could anyone eat them?”
Looking down, Hibari found the two dog biscuits tucked on the side facing him: one iced yellow, the other purple. With huge and cutesy, boba-blob eyes on tiny biscuit bodies shaped in a puppy sprint. Super freaking cute. The shutter of Kanato’s phone clicked with the photo he took of his plate. They really are cute. Hibari plucked a cookie and shoved it in his mouth.
Scandalised, “What—Hiba!”
Hibari’s brows raised minutely. What?
“You’re terrible.”
But these sorts of things were made for cuteness aggression, weren’t they?
He chewed, swallowed, casually remarked, “they’re ginger. Nice.”
Twirling his fork in his hand, Kanato gave a noise of approval. “Dog cookies… man. I really want a dog.”
Back here again. It’s okay—it’s not as if Hibari ever truly tired of it.
“I know how you feel,” he agreed solemnly. Then, around a gob of very good cake, “Yummy.”
“Is it?” the fork prodded; a bouncy square was torn and spirited away into Kanato’s mouth. “Oh, you’re right.”
It was nice; the normal everyday is nice. Lunch between work blocks at the nearest place they both like, with good food and good coffee and good company that doesn’t demand anything. It is simple and gentle in the way their missions-by-night don’t permit. Brevity that forgets them; lets them forget themselves. Uncomplicated peace.
“Y’know,” started Hibari, “why not use doggy daycare? We have seniors that do.”
Elbow propped on the table, Kanato’s head dropped to the cradle of his palm. “They’re home more than me. There’s no point in having a dog if I’m never around to play with it.”
Fair enough. “Yeah, that’s true.”
“Maybe if I had a co-owner. Or, like, a roommate to help take care of it.”
“But you like living alone,” Hibari finished. He’d run the logistics on that already; conclusion was a loss.
“Yeaaaah.” Drooping, Kanato deflated. His second sigh of the day wilted his fork, too. “And I can’t even get a girlfriend anyway, so a dog’s impossible.”
Hibari’s arm stuttered. The uncomplicated peace that had settled over his mind glitched—one half-beat, off-beat, skip in the track, throwing off the rhythm of routine.
The muttering continued—“No dog and no girlfriend.” Kanato tossed a pointed glance at his conversation partner, looked away. Glanced again, then huffed, sagged further, and resigned himself to another bite.
Recover, Hibari willed himself. He tried for a chortle, fishing for literally any response he could pass back. Quick.
He came up short. Mind flying a mile a minute, Kanato got to it first, wagging his fork matter-of-factly.
“Did you ever hear that advice, Hibari?”
Another piece of cake. It was getting kind of too sweet, now. “What advice?”
Prim, Kanato recited, “‘If you can’t get a girlfriend, get a boyfriend.’”
That—jarred. What?
The record titled ‘Fura Kanato, as Hibari Knows Him’ squealed, scratching in a violent halt. The stylus slipped to the wayside and spat the disc across Hibari’s skull, where it clattered and fell out of his ears.
“Haha,” he said, because he knew that joke. A joke, right? Super funny joke! So funny.
But Kanato was chewing thoughtfully, jaw working. Mulling silence so thick, Hibari could feel dessert sticking to his teeth. Shown no grace but early empathy, the dog cookies were reduced to crumbs in a puddle of glaze. The death throes of his Kanato-logic cried uselessly for floss and a breath mint.
Hibari stared—tried not to stare. Stared anyway, eyes wide. Don’t be weird! Tried not to stare again, but failed; his reactions are dumber when his brain is screaming. Staring, but subtly, trying to be normal about it. But he really, really wasn’t, how could he be? Because—
“Wait, you’re serious?”
Shifting in his seat, Kanato scraped at his plate. Finding nothing to excuse his momentary aphonia, he drawled a slow, unsure,
“I mean. I’ve always said I want to try everything once…”
What. What? Are you coming out to me right now? Or, like—was it like skydiving? One-time thrill?
Hibari groped blindly for his cup of coffee, found the handle, lifted it, and did not drink. Long black: a double-shot edition of his own face in the surface tension. If he had his wits about him, he might’ve thought it was a fragrant aroma, telling of good coffee. But his inner dialogue was just a garbled string of ‘what’s and ‘huh’s, gradually rising.
“Cool,” he said, like an idiot. “So it’s—not just. Girls?” But it’s okay, because his voice didn’t crack and that cancels out his idiotic reaction.
At last, Kanato rested his fork and leaned back into the bench cushions. Hibari watched him check the world—the roof, the cuffs of his sleeves. The ice cream in his tall glass of coffee, melting lazily. Idly, Kanato tucked his hair behind his ear—awkward, he was feeling awkward. Hibari was making him awkward. Shit.
He scurried, but the record was gone. His train of thought, absolutely derailed—he didn’t know what track this was, even. Kanato never failed to surprise him, but how was Hibari supposed to know the rhythm? Unforgiving, the loop in his mind raced upward in pitch.
So he sat there, hopeless and helpless and completely speechless. Fixated on this enigma—who toyed with his bangs, averting his gaze to the window. Noon framed his contours, flirted with skin. Singled out that vulnerable, soft little smile that emerged to betray the boy beneath the man.
Why do you look like that right now?
“When it comes to men,” playing off sincerity with mild teasing. “I’ve thought about it for a while.”
On an everyday, average afternoon, Hibari was entrusted a secret in the world’s most beautiful tenor:
“There’s maybe one.”
And his brain blew up in fever.