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In a whisper, reverent, spoken in front of a crowd but meant for only one: 'til death do us part.
Unsaid, every night while journeying through forests, through foreign kingdoms, through familiar fields: 'til death do us part.
Through cracked and bloodied lips, light fading from a once-sharp gaze: 'til death do us part.
But that was a lifetime ago.
Koutarou remembers in bits and pieces. There's the softness of Keiji's hair, the lilt of his laughter, the brush of his lips.
There was magic in Keiji's soul.
It's not there anymore.
There was magic in the world.
It's not there anymore, either.
Koutarou misses both.
Akaashi has been working on writing a spell for nearly a week now. Koutarou finally notices the dark circles under his eyes from staying up late, translating arcane languages into usable words; notices the lag in his step and the scowl beginning to deepen perpetually; notices the furrow between his brow as they'd traveled north for the summer hunting season.
Koutarou watches, then. When they stop for the night, Keiji leans over his books in the light of their dying campfire, and Koutarou sits down next to him, unnoticed. Peering over Keiji's shoulder, Koutarou watches Akaashi's fingers wring together, hears him mutter words in unknown languages, and then curse in familiar ones.
Akaashi leans back and startles slightly when his shoulder bumps against Koutarou's chest, but then he settles, breath exhaling in a long sigh, and he deflates. “I need a rose.”
“I'll get you one,” Koutarou promises, but Akaashi is asleep.
Koutarou remembers Kuroo, and when they meet at a volleyball training camp in their first year of high school, he's ecstatic. But when he calls out, Kuroo's eyes don't recognize him in the crowd of his teammates. He doesn't remember magic, or adventures, or how to skin rabbits that Keiji had shot while they traveled.
He doesn't remember Koutarou.
So they start over.
Koutarou whispers Keiji's name into the darkness of his room each night.
'Til death do us part, but what happens after?
But maybe—maybe—since Koutarou has found Kuroo—maybe there is hope, still.
Koutarou sees flashes of Keiji wherever he goes.
It's the quirk of the mouth of the store clerk when he buys snacks after practice. It's the dark hair of someone he passes on the street. It's the gentle voice of another first-year when they confess to Koutarou before break.
He turns her down. His heart is spoken for.
Was. It was spoken for.
Until death did them part.
But not forever.
Keiji walks into the gym with more elegance and poise than Koutarou remembers. Koutarou is stunned into silence, and then he's anything but.
He lets out a screech, bounds over to Keiji, not heeding the calls of the third-years trying to keep him from abandoning their practice game. Koutarou ignores them.
“Keiji!” Koutarou cries.
Keiji's eyes land on him. They widen, surprised, and then narrow to slits. “Who are you? Please don't call me that.”
The world stops.
It's weird: to be the only person among your once-close group of friends to remember a life you've shared hundreds of years ago.
It's weird: to be the only person who remembers the taste of magic, the fire of dragons.
It's weird: to be so absolutely, entirely alone.
Koutarou wonders, maybe, if he's going crazy.
But he plasters on a smile, laughs at Kuroo's jokes, bothers Keiji as if they don't have this unspoken history between them.
Sometimes Koutarou wishes he could forget the past, too.
Kuroo was the best man at their wedding, an epoch ago. When the world was young and different; when they were young and different. Kenma, usually never one for wasting magic, cast something sparkly and undeniably happy over them, glitter falling into their hair. Kuroo sang a love song, the gentle timbre of his voice wistful and adoring, as Koutaoru placed a crown of flowers on Keiji's brow.
“I can't stay late today,” Keiji says. “I have a date.”
It hits Koutarou like one of the poison-tipped arrows Keiji's used in another life.
Except this Keiji does not need a bow to strike Koutarou down—only his words.
“Oh,” Koutarou manages, mouth suddenly filled with sand.
Keiji is watching him. “With Kuroo.”
“Oh,” Koutarou croaks, and tries to swallow the bile rising in his throat. “Okay.”
“Okay?” Keiji echoes.
Koutarou doesn't answer.
Koutarou keeps his distance. Part of him hopes: if only Keiji knew what they had before, then they could be together again. If only Keiji knew how much Koutarou loves him. If only, if only—
But Keiji twines his arms around Kuroo's neck and murmurs sweet things against his lips, and it kills Koutarou inside just a little bit more each time.
Keiji looks over his shoulder at Koutarou, and there's something too-knowing in his gaze, like he can see right through Koutarou's chest and peer upon his soul. There's something sorrow-touched there, too, and Koutarou doesn't know what to do with that.
When he goes to university, it's almost a relief.
They've just finished putting away everything in the university gym when Koutaoru's world shatters.
“I remember,” Keiji says.
It takes Koutarou a moment. “What?”
“I remember,” Keiji says. “I remember our life together. I remember our vows. I remember being with you and Kuroo and Kenma.”
It's a knife wound to Koutarou heart, worse than dragon fire on his skin. “You remember, and you're dating Kuroo?”
Keiji lets out a huff of a sigh. “It's not—”
“Don't you love me?” Koutarou asks. His voice cracks horribly, a croak barely above a horrified whisper.
Keiji closes his eyes. “Of course I do,” he says softly.
“Then, why?”
“But I love Tetsurou, too.”
Koutarou feels his nails bite into his palms. “...Does Kuroo know? Does he remember?”
Keiji nods.
Koutarou decides he's going to do something stupid. He ignores Keiji's voice behind him.
“You knew,” Koutarou snarls, when Kuroo stands before him in the doorway to his and Kenma's apartment. “You knew, and you betrayed me.”
Koutarou must look something furious, because Kuroo takes a step back. Slowly, he puts his hands up. “Keiji told you?”
“We're married,” Koutarou snaps.
“You were,” Kuroo says. “I'm not trying to take him from you, Bo—”
“But you have,” Koutarou cries. Distantly, he hears a door close—maybe one of Kuroo's neighbors coming to see what the shouting is for. “He's left me, and he loves you, now, and—”
Koutarou breaks off when he realizes he has his hands fisted in Kuroo's shirt, pressing him harshly into the door frame. And, despite his anger, the horror of the thought of seeing Kuroo hurt—of hurting him—makes Koutaoru turn and flee.
“Don't you dare,” Kuroo hisses against Koutarou's ear. “Don't you fucking—”
Kuroo's arms are tight around Koutarou's torso, hauling him backwards. The movement leaves pain lancing up his nerves from countless wounds, broken bones. Agony rips the air from his lungs, and he lets out a wheezing gasp.
“Don't die.” Kuroo's voice is hoarse, but Koutarou's mind has slipped into blackness.
He does not die that night, not yet, but he does spend—he learns later—three days unconscious.
When he comes to, bleary and confused and the foul taste of dragon smoke still lingering on his tongue, he gaze finally finds focus on his bedside companions.
Keiji, leaning heavily on Kuroo, breaks away to fling himself upon Koutarou, only barely missing the worst of the damaged parts of his body. It's rare, to see Keiji so affected.
It's rarer, even, to find Kenma is a solid warmth against Koutarou's other side, laying next to him in the bed.
There are times, where Koutarou doubts that he is worthy.
But as Kuroo slips close and runs his fingers absently through Koutarou's hair, Koutarou only feels like he's exactly where he should be, surrounded by the most important people in his life.
“You can love more than one person at once,” Kenma says softly. He sits against the headboard of Kotuarou's bed, looking at his phone, while Koutarou is sprawled across the mattress, taking up as much space as possible.
Koutarou buries his face into Kenma's leg. “I know. But since Keiji's chose me the first time, I'd thought...”
Kenma's hand lands in Koutarou's hair, fingers working against his scalp. “Did you ever think about why we all found each other again?”
Koutarou grunts.
“If you and Keiji were meant to be together, why did Kuro and I come back?”
“I don't know,” Koutarou whines.
“Maybe we were all meant to be together,” Kenma says lightly.
Koutarou's jaw falls open, and he gets a mouthful of Kenma's track pants.
“Keiji and Kuro have loved each other far longer than this lifetime,” Kenma says, as Koutarou sits up. “He chose you before because you forced him to choose, but there didn't need to be a choice at all. He can love you both.”
“Yeah but loving and—”
Kenma sighs. “He can date you both, too. If you'd stopped being dense and possessive.”
“I—what?” Koutarou falters.
“We all got wrapped up in the past, Koutarou, and things were good then, but they weren't perfect either. None of us were completely happy, but you were just blind to it. So I'm telling you that if you force Keiji to choose again, he will choose Kuroo, and he will hate himself for it because he still loves you just as much.”
Koutarou swallows. “So, Kuroo and Keiji and... me? All three of us?”
Kenma nods, but he looks away, not meeting Koutarou's gaze.
“What about you?” Koutarou asks.
Kenma's voice is a murmur of something longing: “I just want the people I love to be happy.”
And that's when Koutarou decides.
It's a learning process, he discovers.
It's a learning process, because he hadn't loved Kuroo or Kenma before, not like how he wants to now. Then again, he hadn't loved Keiji the way he wants to now, either.
Because he wants Keiji to be happy, and that means leaving his jealousy behind.
Koutarou wants Keiji back, and he wants Kuroo and Kenma and—he wants to be happy.
He wants all of them to be happy.
He'll figure it out, one way or another.
But he's not bulletproof.
“What if he doesn't want me anymore?” Koutarou whines.
Kenma groans. “I told you—”
“But what if?” Koutarou repeats, louder. “What if Kuroo doesn't want to work this out, either? What if you—”
“Shut up,” Kenma snaps.
Koutarou snaps his jaw shut.
Instantly softening, Kenma deflates entirely. He rolls over on the bed so he's hovering over Koutarou, hair falling in a frame around his face. “Everything will work out, but you need to talk to them.”
“Can I kiss you?” Koutarou blurts.
Shock flits across Kenma's face. He pulls back slightly, cheeks colored. “You... want to?”
Koutarou follows, leaning up on his elbow. “Yes.”
Very quietly, Kenma asks: “You don't want to wait for Keiji?”
“But I've kissed Keiji before,” Koutarou says. “I haven't kissed you. I want to.”
Kenma stays quiet for a moment longer, the color in his cheeks darkening, and then he says, “Okay.”
So Koutarou kisses him.
Keiji has been working on writing a spell for nearly four weeks now.
A little over two weeks ago, Koutarou had brought him a rose, to which Keiji had looked up with unbridled surprise. Since, Koutarou has lingered nearby, paying attention when Keiji absently mumbled things he wants for the spell. Koutarou got what he could. Keiji looked less and less startled each time.
By now, they're staying in a tavern in a mountain village. Keiji is sitting on the floor, Koutarou next to him, their knees brushing. Keiji alternates between scribbling in a journal and fiddling with a collection of spell ingredients Koutarou has collected for him over the last two weeks.
Finally, after some time, Keiji lets out a quiet curse, followed by, “This better work.”
He flips to the back cover of his journal, and extracts a single rose, dried and pressed between the last pages. Turning to Koutarou, he maneuvers until they're facing each other, cross-legged, knees touching, and maneuvers Koutarou's hands out in front of him, placing the rose in his outstretched palms.
Keiji mutters something, fingers dancing in intricate shapes. His eyes fall closed, eyelashes fluttering against his cheekbones, and Koutarou stares, awed, at the curve of Keiji's lips and the curl of hair against his brow. His fingers twitch with the desire to reach out, but he doesn't want to break the air of serene concentration that's fallen over Keiji's form.
And suddenly, there's a twitch of movement against Koutarou's palms, and he looks down to find the dried rose, green blooming along its stem again, red bursting into its petals, which reanimate with life before Koutarou's eyes. When its does, all is still. Koutarou holds his breath, and Keiji releases one.
Keiji opens his eyes, almost tentatively at first, and then his expression changes like the sun cresting the horizon, smile like the breaking of the dawn. Koutarou can't help but grin along side him, though he feels almost overwhelmed by the joy on Keiji's face.
And then Keiji is grabbing Koutarou's cheeks, pulling him forward, and kissing him right on the mouth. Koutarou has to drop the rose into his lap to avoid reactively crushing it.
An ambush occurs. Koutarou walks out of Kenma's room at the same time Kuroo and Keiji walk in through the front door. They all freeze.
“I'm sorry,” Koutarou says.
There's a moment of silence. Keiji blinks at him, and Koutarou, though its been years, knows him well enough to see the way his eyes soften, how his gaze melts from jagged ice to reveal smooth gemstone underneath. “Okay,” he says.
Kuroo grins at him. “We still good for the gym this Saturday?”
“We're good,” Koutarou says.
They come together in snapshots:
Koutarou brushing his hand against Kuroo's while they walk to lunch together, his heart pounding so loud against his ribcage that he's sure Kuroo would hear its rapid drumbeat.
Koutarou laying with Kenma, pressing kisses across his cheekbones, grinning until his cheeks hurt.
All four of them, wedged into the couch in Kuroo and Kenma's apartment, watching cheesy movies until they fall asleep against each others' shoulders.
But with Keiji, he waits.
Years ago, it'd begun with a rose.
Enchanted not to die, it had been a symbol of unending love, a spell cast beyond death.
“You used to sing ballads to me,” Koutarou realizes suddenly. “Those weren't jokes?”
Kuroo looks at him, exasperated. “You were so oblivious I knew you'd think I was messing around.”
“But they were real?”
“I've been so in love with you for so long.” Kuroo looks, for a moment, like he's done talking about it, but then he sighs. “You brought us together. We were fuckin' moths to a flame, and you were the sun. We revolved around you, Kou, entirely.” He sighs again. “We sti—”
“I love you,” Koutarou blurts, as poetry drips from Kuroo's tongue.
Kuroo closes his eyes, as if pained. “Don't say that,” he whispers.
“I mean it,” Koutarou says. His hands are clammy, his heart pounds, but his lips are sure.
“You love Keiji,” Kuroo protests.
“I do,” Koutarou admits. “I never pegged you as the cynic of all of us.”
Kuroo looks at Koutarou. There's something sad and simultaneously hopeful in his gaze.
“Tetsurou,” Koutarou says, and then he begins to sing.
Koutarou is helping Keiji make dinner.
Or, at least, he should be, except for the fact he walked into the kitchen and was struck by such a strong wave of longing that he felt all his limbs lock into place. Kuroo and Kenma are in the other room, watching TV. Now isn't the right time. But then, without meaning to, he drifts.
Keiji glances over as Koutarou hovers at his shoulder, but he doesn't falter where he's cutting a tomato into slices.
In high school, before everything fell apart, touching Keiji had been easy, contact had been familiar and comforting. Now, even now, it feels charged with something Koutarou can't explain. Even when he knows how everything should work, there's a lingering fear that this will crumble from Koutaoru's fingers like sand.
Like a man in a dream, Koutarou brings his hand up and presses his fingertips against Keiji's shoulder.
Keiji stills, leans back against Koutarou. “I never meant to hurt you,” he whispers.
“I never meant to force you to choose,” Koutarou whispers back. “I don't intend to.”
Keiji tilts his head enough to look at Koutarou's expression out of the corner of his eye, brows furrowed. “You don't intend...?”
Koutarou brushes his lips against Keiji's temple. “What do you need me to do?”
Keiji watches him for a moment longer, and his lips part, eyes falling lidded, in a way that has Koutarou drawn to him even more.
But then: “Can you wash the potatoes?”
“Just talk to them,” Kenma pleads quietly. “They don't need grand gestures.”
“Words mean nothing with action to reaffirm them,” Koutarou protests.
“Koutarou, please,” Kenma says. He goes over to where Koutarou is sitting on the floor, covered in glitter and paint. He leans down and wraps his arms over Koutarou's shoulders, letting Koutarou take his weight. “You're torturing yourself over nothing. You're torturing me for nothing, and I'm sure you're torturing them, too. We've waited so long, already.”
“I have a lifetime of making you all suffer, so I have to make it up to you somehow.”
Kenma sighs, breath tickling Koutarou's neck. “Make it up to us by bringing us together.”
In an era before now, Keiji wrote a spell to make dying things live again.
Koutarou watched the life begin to bleed out of Kenma, snuck glances when he could spare them from the battle he faced to watch Keiji kneel over Kenma's body. It was warm, fighting dragons, but his entire body went cold when he heard Keiji's anguished cry.
Kuroo, at his side, turns to look, and is promptly thrown across the cavern by the swipe of dragon claws. Koutarou hears another scream, and every muscle in his body cries out to go to Keiji, but he knows that he's their last line of defense.
Kenma's de—
There's a blinding flash of light across Koutarou's vision, and he's alive again.
Koutarou didn't mean for it to happen this way.
Kuroo stares at him from across the couch, something unreadable in his expression. “What?”
“I love you,” Koutarou repeats, though this time is much more hesitant than the way he'd blurted it out a few moments before, right in the middle of their Smash game.
Kuroo looks away from him, looking strained now. He bites his lip. “Koutarou, stop this...”
“I love you,” Koutarou repeats. And since he's already committed, “And I love Keiji, and I love Kenma. And I think we should all be together.”
At this, Kuroo's gaze snaps to him. “You what?”
“I said—”
“No, I heard you, I think. But you—you were against—”
“I didn't know,” Koutarou whines, because it pains him so much that his simple-mindedness has caused all this. That there's so many lost years between the three of them. That its his fault they've never been truly happy. “I'm sorry.”
“You're not shitting me?” Kuroo asks tentatively. “You're not using this as an excuse to get to Keiji?”
Koutarou shakes his head. There's broken trust here, doubts built up over a lifetime. It hurts, but Koutarou knows that it will take time to regain that trust. Even if Kuroo's words do bring tears springing to his eyes. “What,” Koutarou asks hoarsely, “can I do to show you?”
Kuroo's eyes dart between Koutarou and his own lap. Softly, he asks, “Kiss me?”
Koutarou moves instantly, scooting from his spot on the couch until he's pressed close to Kuroo. Kuroo's leaning against the arm of the couch, feet up on the cushions, so he lets his legs fall open to let Koutarou close.
Kuroo looks awestruck, though there's still doubt swimming in his eyes. Koutarou intends to fix that. Slowly, he brings his hand up to caress Kuroo's cheek, and at the contact, both of their breaths stutter. Kuroo lets out an incredulous chuckle, more an exhale of breath that catches in his chest on its way out.
“I love you,” Koutarou says again, with as much conviction as he place into his words. He leans forward to press his lips against Kuroo's, gentle and just a little bit terrified. His hand, if it wasn't pressed against Kuroo's cheek, would be trembling; he can feel the adrenaline simmer in his veins.
After a moment, Koutarou begins to pull back, but before he can, Kuroo's hands come to clutch into his shirt and drag him close. Caught off guard, Koutarou bumps his head against Kuroo's, and their teeth clack together before Koutarou catches himself against the armchair.
And then they're kissing properly: Kuroo greedily licking into Koutarou's mouth, nipping at his lips. Kuroo's fingers are clinging to Koutarou's shirt, tightening as if Koutaoru will try to run if he lets go.
But Koutarou does not want to run. He lowers himself against Kuroo, pressing close, soaking up whatever contact he can get. Koutaoru can feel wetness against his cheeks while they kiss, and he doesn't know which one of them is crying, and he doesn't know if it matters.
Kuroo pulls away first, gasping for breath and tear tracks down his face.
Koutarou burrows his face agaisnt Kuroo's collarbone. “I love you,” he chants. “I love you. I love you.”
Kuroo moves to wrap his arms around Koutarou, fingers digging into his shoulders, and whispers, “Finally.”
Kenma, with Tetsurou's help, convinces Koutarou to ditch the glitter. But Koutarou wants something, still, to prove he's worth it. Years ago, it was trinkets and spell ingredients, a flower crown while Tetsurou's voice rang out around them.
When Keiji lets himself into Tetsurou's apartment and, instead of Kuroo, finds only Koutarou waiting for him with a bouquet of roses, his suspicions are raised. “Where's Tetsurou?”
Koutarou drops to one knee.
Keiji's eyes widen, and then he narrows them. “Koutarou, this—”
“Hear me out,” Koutarou manages through a dry throat. “Akaashi Keiji,” he begins, “Will you do the honor of marrying Kuroo Tetsurou?”
Keiji stares at him. “What?” He pauses for a heartbeat. “Are you proposing for Kuroo? Is this Kuroo's idea, or yours? What kind of—”
“It was mine,” Koutarou admits. “What's your answer?”
Keiji's eyes narrow further. “If this is some sort of joke, no. If this is a weird but genuine proposal, then yes.”
Koutarou grins up at him. “Will you also do the honor of marrying Kozume Kenma?”
Confusion washes over Keiji's expression. “What are you talking about?”
“Will you do the honor of marrying me?”
Keiji fumbles through words for a moment, and then finally manages, “Koutarou, this is ridiculous. Where's Tetsurou?”
Keiji starts into the apartment, but Koutarou stands in the way before he can slip past. “Keiji, I told you I wouldn't force you to choose, not this time.”
Keiji pauses. He doesn't look at Koutarou, lips pressed together in a prim line.
“I am sorry I'm an idiot,” Koutarou starts. “But I realize now. I want us to try being together—all of us. Kenma's been helping me brainstorm, but really he was just shooting down my ideas, and I would have totally made you a massive glitter poster if—”
“Koutarou,” Keiji interrupts.
“Right,” Koutarou says, and his mouth is suddenly dry. “I love you, Keiji, but you've always known that. But I've realized I'm in love with Tetsurou and Kenma too, or maybe fallen in love with them, or—I don't know, but I—I don't want to be the reason we're unhappy, anymore. I want us to be together, and I want us to take on the world, like we used to.”
“You're serious,” Keiji realizes.
Koutarou reaches out and takes Keiji's hand between his own, letting the flowers fall to the floor. He drops to his knees again, pressing a kiss to Keiji's knuckles. “Will you marry us?”
Koutarou can see Keiji's hesitation, see the way he tries to work out the logistics, see how he stalls on the what-ifs and but-onlys. Koutarou also sees the exact moment that Keiji decides it doesn't matter, watches as a smile tugs at the corner of his lips, and he whispers, “Yes.”
It was a grand gesture, if technically meaningless, Koutarou knows, but he buys them all rings, anyway. A matching set of four that Tetsurou helped him pick out.
It's not an instant fix. They still have wrinkles to smooth out, but they all seem too tired of being apart to bother with petty jealousy or resentment.
So they slip into each others' lives and stick there like the thistles that would cling to them during their travels, almost impossible to get rid of. They latch on to each other, and they don't let go, because they'd spent a lifetime reaching, reaching, and never quite managing to grasp on.
Koutarou looks at the three people standing in front of them. Two of them wear wizard stoles, the markings of some of the noble houses of mages. The third is dressed in what looks to be stealth gear, knives tucked into his belt.
“We're looking for a warrior,” one of the wizards says. “We've been hired to slay some dragons. We heard you were the man for the job.”
Koutarou grins at them. “I'm the perfect guy for the job.”
Koutarou watches his boyfriends walk ahead of him. It lasts for a minute or two before they notice Koutarou lagging behind.
Tetsurou glances over his shoulder first. “Checking out my ass?”
“It's a great ass,” Koutarou answers.
Keiji glances back at Koutarou, and then glances behind Tetsurou. “I'll have to agree.”
Tetsurou's cheeks darken slightly, but then Kenma, without looking up from his phone, mutters, “Koutarou's is better.”
Tetsurou's embarrassment promptly turns into mock indignation. He reaches across Keiji and plucks Kenma's phone from his hands, holding it above his head so Kenma can't snatch it back. “That's it. No more games. You have to actually talk to us for the rest of the night.”
“I just did,” Kenma points out, looking displeased. “You didn't like it and took my phone.”
“He has a point,” Keiji says, and reaches up to take Kenma's phone back from Tetsurou. He succeeds only because Tetsurou wasn't expecting betrayal and lets out a squawk when he loses his grip on the phone. Keiji hands it back to Kenma, who shoves it into his pocket.
Koutarou slips back into the group, between Kenma and Keiji, wrapping one arm over Kenma's shoulders and the other around Keiji's waist. They both lean against him, gait automatically accommodating the extra person.
Keiji presses a kiss against Koutarou's cheek.
“Do you think there are any dragons left?” Kenma asks.
“No,” says Tetsurou, “We were badasses. We killed them all.”
“Not all of them,” Keiji murmurs as he digs in his pocket to find the keys to their apartment.
“Most of them,” Tetsurou points out. “The rest died because they couldn't find any mates 'cause we killed all the hot ones.”
Keiji gets the door open and they all squeeze through, still touching in whatever ways they can maintain: a hand held, fingertips brushing at a waist, fingers curled into belt loops, arms linked together.
“I really don't think that's it, either,” Keiji says, but he's smiling. “I think the dragons died with the wizards and the goblins and the adventurers. We are memories of bygone era.”
“So dramatic,” Kenma mutters.
“Like you don't love it,” Tetsurou quips. “The wizard dramatics are in your blood, too.”
Keiji turns away from them and slips his arms around Koutarou. He presses a kiss to the corner of Koutarou's mouth. “What about you?” he asks. “Still got any warrior's blood in you?”
Koutarou kisses him back, a quick, chaste thing. “Of course.”
Over Keiji's shoulder, Koutarou catches sight of the vase sitting on their kitchen table: one rose, still living, among eleven withered stems, from the bouquet Koutarou had confronted Keiji with over a month ago.
There may yet still be some magic left in the world after all.
He grins at Keiji, then turns to watch Tetsurou pick up Kenma in a fireman carry and haul him towards their bedroom.
“Shall we join them?” Keiji asks, pressing another kiss against Koutarou's jaw.
“Of course,” Koutarou repeats. “Let's slay some dragons.”
Keiji pulls away to squint at him. “What kind of euphemism is that?”
Koutarou shrugs. “Dunno,” he says, and grabs Keiji's hand to pull him towards the bedroom.
Tetsurou had said that Koutarou was the sun, once—that they revolved around him. But it's different now: like magnets, they pull towards each other, poles always aligned so that no matter where they are, they draw back together.
They come together, and death cannot part them.