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Just shortly before a nuclear missile landed in the Odaiba bay, Mrs. Yagami had boasted a full collection of constantly clattering wind chimes. Koushirou would sometimes spend days too cold to play outside lounging along the Yagami apartment floor with Taichi, tracing his eyes along their silhouettes through the drawn curtains like other children watched clouds. They made him think of galactic squid, imagined them phasing in through the balcony above to dangle their tentacles in the breeze. In his own way, Koushirou could understand why she kept them.
Until the wind blew and so with it the tempers of every person in earshot. When they met a rather mysterious, very untimely end, only one person ever missed them.
Sora remembers them, too.
Koushirou suspects so from the face she pulls at the sound of her spoon clinking against the crystal of her near-empty fountain glass. Koushirou feels his chest bubble with a bitter nostalgia to hear it. After that summer, the sound had only conjured in him the sense of fleeting time; a Pavlovian sickness that stains his tongue with the taste of Oolong.
The chiming sounds louder than it should through the midnight hours of the local diner. Across the room from them, the wait staff huddle over a table, prepping for the inevitable rush once the bars take their last call. The clatter of silverware and hushed conversations between them is the only consistent noise when conversations lull between him and Sora.
Excepting, of course, every invariable swear wafting up from the floor of the entrance.
“Another goddamn spider,” Taichi’s voice grumbles. Yamato’s amused snort follows.
Sora gives a cursory look over her shoulder. Her grin when it rounds back on Koushirou feels, oddly, conspiratorial. Hands cupped under her chin, accented by the curve of her auburn bob, she looks absolutely storybook charming.
“It’s a good thing we’re in love with those losers,” she tells him, grinning. Which, decidedly, is a very uncharming thing to say. Specifically for as far as her voice carries.
Koushirou chokes on her presumptions, hiding the hiccup by grabbing for his neglected glass of water. It splashes on the table and parts of his shirt when he lifts it. The waitress had been heavy handed when she last came by to fill his still half unused glass. “Precisely who are you implying I’m–?”
Sora beams at him.
Over her shoulder, Koushirou catches Taichi’s eyes just before the man resets his sights back on the rows of Gashapon machines, fingers curling in request until Yamato relinquishes yet another coin. Under the harsh, spherule pendant lamps, Koushirou reads the glint of something mirthful, impish in his gaze.
He is not the only one who sees it. The manager spends interminable periods of time by the register, tapping through papers and taking stock again and again. He wonders how often grown men buy children’s trinkets as a rouse for robbery. Koushirou hides the curl of his amused smile under the curve of his fingers at the thought. Sora, not privy to his internal thoughts, smiles with a similar amusement back at him.
Yamato makes his way to the table first, alone save for the plastic capsules balanced dangerously against his chest. Sora scoots over in the booth to allow him to sit next to her, but he only offers his bulbous collection to her with a shrug.
“Accept these tokens as a gift of my affection, my love!” He proclaims, voice high and pious. The thought of Yamato, flaxen haired and pale skin atop a white steed feels poignant in Koushirou’s mind.
Sora eyes the mountain of multicolored plastic bubbles, amusement wrinkling her brow and lifting a side of her mouth until a single dimple emerges. “Be gone, sir,” she returns, whipping her head in the opposite direction. “Your measly trinkets bore me!”
They both shriek when Yamato, instead, releases his hoard upon them, little plastic bubbles hopping about the table.
The restaurant becomes still around them.
“I sure hope you’re going to pick those up,” Sora stage whispers. She squashes her hands together, mouthing an apology to the employees until they turn back to their work.
“Of course,” Yamato snorts. “I wasn’t raised in a barn.” In a good faith effort, he leans down and grabs a few off the floor at his feet, catching them in empty glasses still scattering their table.
Koushirou flinches, mostly on instinct than from any pain, when a few stray capsules rain off the table and plop against his thighs. “Do you still think it’s a positive attribute, Sora?”
She furrows her brows at him for a moment until she catches on, her lips quirking into a secretive, rueful little smile. “I meant it more for their sake,” she clarifies.
“Do I want to know?” Yamato frowns at them. The fabric of his jeans squeak on the taut vinyl material when he slides in next to Sora finally.
Sora smirks at him and very pointedly steals a fry from the neglected tray in front of him. “Nope.” She makes a show of biting down on half of it to Yamato’s scandalized expression.
“Rude,” he says. “Stealing a man’s fries in front of him is low, Sora.” He picks several up and crunches down on them at once. Koushirou grimaces, wondering how cold the fries must have grown since they were first brought out.
“Should I have done it behind your back?” Sora giggles. She laughs harder when Yamato intercepts her fingers from taking any more, lacing his own through hers.
Koushirou turns from the couple then, cheeks heating over the flirtatious display. There’s a half empty basket of fries on the table beside his, and guiltily, he wonders how Taichi would react if Koushirou tested his theory on how cold the fries actually taste. He pats the empty space on the bench next to him and frowns.
The front end of the diner is quiet now, vacant. When Koushirou glances around he notices the manager has snuck back into the kitchen, his salt and pepper hair visible over the counter's window. The waitstaff have gone back to their work; when he meets the eye of their waitress he has to shake his head at her unspoken question if they need her.
“Where’s Taichi?” He asks when his survey of the restaurant yields no results.
He turns back to see Sora pop her head up and away from Yamato’s shoulder, eyes hawking the area for their fourth member. “Yeah, where did he go?”
Yamato sops up the remnants of Sora’s shake with a swipe of his fries over the rim of her glass. “Getting ready,” he says. He pops his chocolate soaked fry into his mouth, grinning with satisfaction as Sora eyes him with mock disgust.
“Ready for what, precisely?” Koushirou asks.
He sees it again. The conspiratorial little glint of something sparking in Sora’s eyes, lips crawling upwards again. It catches in Yamato’s expression when he meets her gaze, the two of them sharing a jubilous energy that Koushirou cannot fathom.
But his patience barely wanes before the bathroom door slams open across the diner, catching the attention of their group and the adjacent wait staff. The manager rushes out from the kitchen to purvey the scene and they all stare at none other than Taichi, his hair slicked as far back as water alone will tame it down.
“Here he comes,” Yamato says, sounding like a host before his audience. “Taichi Yagami, rocking the drowned rat chic look. Super popular this year.”
Koushirou snorts when Sora gives him a soft whap on the arm. He looks back down the long hallway at Taichi, who has taken to waving at every booth, empty or not, as he descends on their group. His pageantry is well rewarded with attention. Their waitress waves back when Taichi passes by their set-up station. His shadow is long under the lights, falling across Koushirou when he comes to stand before him.
“Your hair–” Koushirou starts, instinctively starting up to his feet to let Taichi take back his seat at the far end of their shared booth, but the rest of his sentence is swallowed by surprise when Taichi drops before him instead.
One knee bent to the linoleum, he reaches into the pocket of his pea coat and Koushirou, rightfully, feels betrayed when Taichi lifts yet another capsule up to him.
“Koushirou Izumi,” he says, timbre reminiscent of a Shakespearean actor. “Please accept this token as a symbol of my affection."
"You line thief,” Yamato accuses him, pointing a soggy fry at the culprit. Taichi crinkles his nose in the blonde’s direction, and Koushirou feels vaguely proud that he has matured beyond sticking his tongue out.
Koushirou narrows his eyes at the offending bauble. “Is this what you squandered all that time for?” But he cannot stop his own lips from quirking up on their own as he plops back onto the seat. It lets out a soft puff , like a resigned sigh, sounding off through a hole in the seat cushion that had been just barely tapped down to keep the stuffing inside. Tentatively, Koushirou plucks the bobble from Taichi's pronged grip.
Taichi beams up at him, watches expectantly as Koushirou attempts to remove the pink little cap from the top. His expression is not dampered even when Koushirou’s grip proves useless to separate the two pieces his first few tugs.
“When I saw it,” Taichi begins, still watching the struggle before him with a wide grin, “I knew I wanted to get it for you."
Silverware clatters again. Koushirou’s own heart feels like it could be playing the drum, for the tempo in his chest is thunderous. It’s an orchestra lending itself to the affair, but the importance of it all falls flat as he loses in his bout of strength against the cheap capsule.
Yamato reaches across the table, motioning for Koushirou to hand him the present instead. It does not yield immediately to him, and Yamato digs into his forgotten coat for his keys. The grooves scrape along the plastic sphere, wedging underneath the lip of the lid. Next to him, Sora beams back at Koushirou when their eyes meet, her face soft and only vaguely apologetic. Eventually the edge gives way with a soft pop and Taichi intercepts the return, holds the rounded bottom up on three fingers in front of Koushirou like an impromptu pedestal. Yamato’s keys have left their teeth marks indented into the side, white blemishes standing out starkly against the cloudy, gray clearness of the rest of it. He peers over the lip and frowns.
Inside the capsule’s plastic basket is a small, circular item and Koushirou knows that it is a joke, that there is no meaning beyond a simple laugh and a simple, logical connection that had spun the plan into action. But even if Koushirou knows , it is not logic that his heart works on.
“Taichi,” Koushirou snorts. It sounds as hollow as Sora’s now cleaned out milkshake glass. He pulls the ring from it’s home, rolls it around between careful fingers to investigate it closer. A tiny, little ladybug cast from resin and cheap paint sitting atop an even cheaper, adjustable metal strap. Beady, poorly drawn on eyes stare up at him. “Rings carry a connotation, you know?”
Which is, honestly, a joke, too. A bad joke, but one nonetheless.
Taichi folds the capsule that had contained the ring back into his coat pocket and then beckons Koushirou to return the present. There is a small, petty part of Koushirou that almost refuses to relinquish it. It had, after all, been meant for him. I wanted to get it for you , Taichi had said, and that weight leaves him dizzy.
When he does surrender it, Taichi puts up the palm of his other hand.
“Take it,” Sora stage whispers across the table. It might as well be a scream, because the wait staff hear and turn to watch the spectacle again. Koushirou feels his face heating as he takes the proffered hand.
“Taichi,” he grits out, quietly, but he stops from any admonishment when he meets Taichi’s eyes. That same glint of mirth is there, undiminished since Koushirou had first spotted it, shining with the road lights through the window to Koushirou’s back, but it feels like there’s more in it that he had never quite allowed himself to entertain before now and it quiets his tongue.
“Koushirou Izumi,” Taichi says, puffing up his chest, straightening his back. Koushirou hears Yamato hiss as Sora delves out a quick apology. When he glances at them, she’s rubbing the top of his hand with the one not currently holding Yamato’s still, smiling sheepishly up at her boyfriend. Koushirou looks back at Taichi and breathes in, tightly through the little spaces that the butterflies in his chest allow him. “You are my best friend. I’m under strict orders to mention that Yamato and Sora are runner ups.”
“ Thank you ,” Yamato says, pleased sounding.
“Sora is clearly in second, though.”
“Fair,” Yamato decides.
“Anyway,” Taichi says. This time his grin is definitely tinged in embarrassment, the reddening of his cheeks enough evidence. It’s endearing . “I hope that I’m yours?”
Koushirou nods along. He can feel his lips curling, but he isn’t quite sure that it comes off as a smile. He’s not really sure of anything. He could be dying and this time there are no wind chimes to send him on his way.
“And I want to be your best friend forever,” Taichi adds in, slowly. “So what I’m going to ask, well, I hope that doesn’t change anything between us. Actually,” Taichi laughs, rubbing at the back of his head. “I hope it changes a lot . But in a good way,” he clarifies. Koushirou watches, not quite sure who the confirmations are supposed to be directed towards: himself or Koushirou.
Taichi sucks in a deep breath, like he’s about to go cliff diving off a waterfall and Koushirou somehow understands. “I really, really like you. I’ve been afraid for a super long time that if I acted on it or told you, that maybe I’d somehow chase you off. But it’s not fair to hide this from you.” His cheeks are a brilliant red now and his eyes moves further down Koushirou’s face, settling somewhere along his jawbone. Where their hands are connected feels warm and comfortable. Koushirou wouldn’t mind if he didn’t let go, ever. “And well, it feels like it would be a new adventure. We’ve got a great track record with those, you and me.”
“Taichi,” Sora whispers in an ushering tone. He looks astonished for a moment, as if he had forgotten where they were, that others were in the audience. Koushirou had.
Taichi takes another long breath in and finally sets his grin up with more confidence when he asks Koushirou, “Whaddya say? Will you go out with me, Koushirou?”
Pinched still between Taichi’s fingers, the ladybug stares up at Koushirou expectantly. Something clinks in the background and for once, it does not feel bitter or terrifying, but it does seize his chest, reminds him of the clicking clock and everything that has laid stagnant in fear.
“Most people would simply just ask for a date,” Koushirou manages to say. He breathes out. “But I suppose it was a display worthy of a yes .” He thinks he hears a round of applause, but Koushirou keeps his head down, doesn’t dare to look up. It is only partially from self-consciousness, and mostly because Taichi’s smile is so efferesent, Koushirou thinks it could light all of Odaiba for the rest of their lives. He’s not sure his is any less exuberant.
He pushes the ring up and onto Koushirou’s ring finger. Made for children with tinier hands, it barely passes the first knuckle before they have to tinker with the adjustable strap, but soon it settles to the base of his finger, rather nicely and hideously. “When have I ever been most people?”
The manager waits for them at the register. His stern expression speaks to his lack of amusement experienced from their shenanigans, but Koushirou cannot even find a sense of shame this time. It feels like someone has replaced his heart with a spectacle of sparklers, a sky filled with fireworks. Taichi squeezes his hand, but he thinks that only makes it worse.
When they leave, for the last time, Yamato deposits a single capsule into the hand of every employee unfortunate to pass them. He makes sure to pat the manager on the shoulder on his way out, as if parting from a dear friend. He bestows the man with a rubber bouncy ball. Koushirou knows this only because it follows Yamato out the door a beat later. Sora waits for him to finish, sitting on the cement stoop and blinking up at him slowly when he rushes down to meet their group.
He returns the look. "Gifts are polite,” Yamato says, indignantly. His arms are still plenty full of toys, like the santa of rock stars. “I told you I wasn’t raised in a barn.”
The rubber ball plummets down each step slowly, poking around Yamato’s shoe and finally plopping into Sora’s lap. She looks down at it, pressing her lips together.
“Debatable.”
For months following, Koushirou spots souvenirs of that night on Sora, makes a game of counting every bauble she had transformed from forgotten toy to eccentric jewelry— a tiny car hot glued to a hairclip; earrings fashioned from glow-in-the-dark alien busts meant for backpack straps; what had once been spider rings now adorned a nondescript, navy blue headband.
Koushirou had admired her inventiveness, but he had kept the ladybug ring just as it was, let it sit pretty on his finger even when it stained his skin a sickly, gangrenous green until Hikari had taught him the simple miracles of clear nail polish.
Tentomon would goad him into sharing the story time and time again, admiring the ring without a hint of irony. "The resemblance is uncanny!" he would say, setting his face against the resin ladybug for comparison. Koushirou hadn't the heart to correct him, even when it was to Tentomon's favor. Especially not when he buzzed with excitement, and told Koushirou, "It is as if I'm always with you."
At parties, Koushirou made sure to brandish it for all of their friends, holding it up just as he'd seen people show off diamonds on their social media, in celebrity gossip rags.
"Cost me a few pretty coins," Taichi would brag. "Cost Yamato more, though."
"It's that financial savviness that truly won me over," Koushirou would add in, fluttering his fingers for effect. Yamato, if present, never failed to ooh and aww his efforts.
"It was very embarrassing," Sora told everyone when she could. She would wink at Koushirou when their eyes met, fiddling with the rubber bouncy ball that had been punctured into a necklace.
But even when the joke dies, when sweet memories come as often as waves, or as multiple as Mrs. Yagami's wind chime collection had once been, Koushirou never finds the heart to discard of it. It's a reminder, he reasons, of the way Taichi's eyes had shone so brightly under the diner lights, of the laughter he had shared alongside his friends.
It is Koushirou's intention, no matter how unreasonable, unduly sentimental, to keep it. Forever, if possible.
Up until he loses it.
“They’re bad luck,” Koushirou presses the day Taichi hangs a wind chime off their balcony, just shy of a week of moving in together. It is, he feels, an absolute betrayal.
Taichi gives a hearty laugh in response. “I haven’t heard that superstition yet.” He pets the edge of one of the metal crescent moon charms with the tip of a finger, and it trills where the curved end swings against the broadside of one of many stars.
“It’s a working hypothesis.”
“I don't know. Makes it feel like home,” he says, smiling affectionately at Koushirou.
Which, really? Unfair.
But Koushirou can't deny when the October wind sweeps by, picking up the little charms in a melodious dance just above the crop of Taichi's hair, that he feels anywhere but at home himself.
And so begrudgingly he admits, "I suppose they aren't the worst," and stretches his arms out, over the expanse of Taichi's shoulder to bat playfully at the charms himself. Taichi leans down, touching their foreheads together, and Koushirou takes one last swat at them.
That is precisely when he sees it. Or rather, doesn't .
“It might be in one of the boxes,” his mother reasons. She is easily distracted over the phone, speaking to Koushirou’s father as he comes and goes through the room. He has to call her back to attention and she assures him, “We’re moving some of the furniture around your old room this weekend. I’ll let you know if we find anything.”
They don’t.
"It might be in one of the boxes," Taichi reassures him with his mother's words. Koushirou follows the sound of his yawning out of the master bathroom and into the bedroom, just to pin his boyfriend with a considering glare. His toothbrush whirls and hums still where Koushirou doesn't bother to turn it off. He crosses his free arm over his chest as Taichi blinks up at him from where he's strewn himself across the air mattress. A sleepy, wobbly little smile sits on his lips. "Tomorrow's Sunday. We can work on going through them when we get up."
At Koushirou's continued stare he laughs and adds, "It wasn't because of the wind chimes."
Koushirou's toothbrush makes two quick, loud hums to signal the end of it's full cycle. "I still ascertain," Koushirou starts, tracing his way back to the bathroom and spitting into the sink, "those wind chimes are bad luck."
Taichi laughs again.
Koushirou finishes washing off his face and pads over to him, plopping to the carpet and pulling one of the small bedroom boxes towards his lap to lightly dig through its contents. All that's left inside is a comb and some of Taichi's socks. He sighs.
"Maybe they're good luck," Taichi persists. He drops his hand over the bulbous edge of their temporary bed, fingers squeezing in a motion for Koushirou to take hold. He weaves his fingers through Taichi's, dropping a soft kiss to the edge of his temples, despite his blasphemy. Taichi makes an appreciative noise and then continues on with, "Without them maybe you wouldn't have noticed the ring was missing."
It's a point. Koushirou will concede that.
But his hand feels barren when he looks upon it, hates the way there's no resistance on that particular finger when Taichi squeezes his hand.
"I'll get you a new ring," Taichi promises. It comes out on a tired, little breath, and his eyes stick close longer than the second it takes to blink. "I'll even go back to the diner if you want. Spend all of Yamato's cash if necessary. Only the best for you, babe."
His cheeks burn where Koushirou cannot stop the spread of his smile. He runs his free hand through the soft tufts of Taichi's hair. His boyfriend closes his eyes, and this time they do not open.
"I think you're still on the ban list," Koushirou says, quietly.
Taichi breathes out a laugh. "I'll wear a disguise. Can't keep me out."
And then he's lightly snoring away.
Koushirou lays his head down on the edge of the pillow, position very much to the protest of his back and neck, just to watch his boyfriend sleep peacefully for a short while longer. There may be a vacancy on his hand, but his heart, Koushriou thinks, is in no danger of feeling empty.
"Decimal system, right?" Taichi asks, but he doesn't pause in his sorting of the books, already reading over the labels plastered onto each of the spines to himself and placing them on the shelves into their proper space. Just in accordance to Koushirou’s particularisms. Such a simple thing makes his heart swell.
“That’s why I—” Koushirou stops. His fingers tighten around the spine of the book he had been pulling up. He swallows the former sentence down, let’s the connotation of his unspoken words sit heavy in the pit of his stomach in hopes that he was not caught.
Taichi notices.
“What?” He asks, keeping out his hand to take the book from Koushirou. This time he keeps it instead of sorting it away. Koushirou does not look, but he feels Taichi's gaze, steady and sturdy on his face.
“It’s not really anything,” Koushirou murmurs, handing over the next book to keep busy. His cheeks feel hot and he says, ”I was just thinking it's so rare to find someone who accepts your unique habits so naturally."
Taichi shrugs. "Everyone has a way they like things."
"Right," Koushirou agrees. He licks his lips and busies his hands finding the next book in the box. "I suppose it was more of an internal processing error, because this feels natural," he continues. Koushirou knows he's babbling, but he is also astutely aware that once it has begun he is at a loss to stop himself. "We've been dating for seven year, of course, but it was quite a leap." His fingers scrape along the cardboard bottom and he realizes that they have emptied yet another box. When he tilts it forward to peer inside it is less out of hope that he will find the ring and more to hide his face. "I improperly got ahead of myself."
Taichi's stare is still steady and resolute on his profile. Koushirou swallows heavily. "I almost misspoke and stated that was the reason I…" he squeezes the ears on the box in a tight grip and quietly continues on, "that I married you."
When he looks up, Taichi is still staring, books firmly grasped between both of his hands, and Koushirou can read the shock.
He swallows. "I apologize."
"No," Taichi interjects quickly. The books in his clutches clatter into his lap and slip down, collecting on the floor. His face looks red, and guilty. Koushirou feels a pinch in his chest. "It's not—I mean it's early, but not— are you saying you would?"
Koushirou watches the myriad of expressions cross Taichi's face while silence settles in between them. He cannot remember the last time it was uncomfortable and Koushirou feels as if he awoke some landmine he had not intended.
"It's really not—" Koushirou pulls the cardboard box closer to himself, wondering blearily if he could crawl inside and make a home of it.
Just outside the window above Taichi's head is the balcony, and Koushirou can hear the wind chimes clinking together. They sound like a death toll. It's four when he catches the clock, checking on his time of death.
Taichi breathes in, collects himself for a second, and then hops on his feet. "Just wait a second," he calls from down the hall, before ascending the stairs to their bedroom. "I just need to get something!"
He calls down a while later, just before Koushirou can whip out his laptop and buy a one way plane ticket to anywhere else, " And don't ruminate while I'm gone!"
Eventually Taichi comes back, socks sliding along the hardwood floors. He stays standing before Koushirou, nervously. Behind him the living room stand-up light burns brightly and Taichi looks like an angel where it settles along his hair, brightens the chestnut highlights on his fringe like a halo, but his shadow feels tall and impending where it swells against the wall. His hand plays with something in the pouch of his dark blue sweater.
"I was going to give it to you next week," he says. "They're all going to kill me but—"
Out from his pocket, Taichi produces a plastic capsule held tight with a pink lid.
Koushirou stares.
Taichi's cheek are on fire when he admits, "It's hard to keep things from you."
"Is this from the diner?" Numbly, Koushirou accepts the bauble from Taichi's hands. "When did you have time to go back?" He asks, awed. "I can't believe they still had them."
Taichi hums distractedly. Koushirou tests the plastic container with a little shake. Something smacks against the insides, dull but heavy.
"I still can't fathom that they let you in," he continues, thumbing under the lid, tilting the capsule to pop it open—and stills. Through the cheap plastic, he recognizes a few, healthy sized indents. In his mind, he can see Yamato's keys, the metal slipping harshly against the plastic and blemishing the side.
“ Taichi .” Somehow the single name feels rushed through his lips. He looks up quickly. “Is this the same capsule?” Koushirou doesn't know why his voice cracks; his heart pulses at the tip of his fingers.
“Open it,” Taichi insists. He beams at Koushirou—tempered and soft. It's about as much of an answer as he needs.
With some coaxing and prying with a butter knife, Koushirou finally wrestles the top off. But it is not his ring inside.
It's neither a replica of it, nor resin.
But it is a ring.
" Taichi," Koushirou hisses. He tilts the capsule over until the jewelry piece inside spills onto his palm. It's a simple, pretty little band, golden and lovely against his pale skin. Along the top is a trio of gems; a simple ruby flanked on either side by smaller onyxes.
Koushirou looks up, but Taichi has already descended to sit before him, one knee propped up. He holds out his palm for Koushirou to deposit the ring into. Tacihi keeps his hand instead of letting Koushirou pull away, pressing his thumb gently over the top of Koushirou's knuckles.
"Koushirou Izumi," Taichi starts. He clears his throat for a second before repeating his name. His cheeks have gone from tinged red to crimson and Koushirou thinks his own might be a perfect mirror. "Uh, I just want to say, well done us. We did it."
Taichi grins up at him under the fringe of his bangs. Koushirou knows that it is illogical, perhaps medically unsound, but he is frightened for a moment that his heart may burst.
"I love you," Taichi says, softly, and though Koushirou has heard it a million times, just this morning even, the words pin him like a weight.
"I love you, too," he manages back. It sounds like a hiccup.
Taichi's face melts at the words. "I know," he smiles genuinely. His fingers squeeze around Koushirou's own where they're still connected. The wind chimes sing along outside just as Taichi coughs, clearing his throat once more.
"Koushirou Izumi," he starts again, straightening up just a little and running his thumb along Koushirou's knuckles. "What I really wanted to say is, thank you." Koushriou searches his eyes, for something facetious, for a jest, but all he finds in the ambers of Taichi's eyes is sincerity. "You've always been one of the constants I can depend on, you know? I'm still waiting for you to come to your senses, but for as long as you'll have me, I want to be the best man I can be. For you, and with you, and because of you.
"So thank you, for taking the chance on this adventure with me." Taichi breathes out, sharply, and Koushirou follows, realizing only now he'd been holding his own. When he breathes in it sounds like a sniffle, nose stuffy and eyes smarting with an abundance of unshed tears. He must look a right mess, but Taichi's gaze is unwaveringly fond. "I was hoping you'd accompany me on another one?" He lifts his hand still holding the new ring between his index and thumb, dragging Koushirou's attention briefly back to it. "Will you marry me, Koushirou?"
There are many things Koushirou wishes he could say in the moment, feelings he cannot fathom articulating with the vocabulary at his disposal— but he supposes there's a promise there, somewhere in the rest of our lives , to discover them. To share them with, and to show them to, Taichi.
And so he settles on simply saying, "I love you," and brushes his palms along Taichi's wet cheeks, curling his fingers into the man's thick hair, pulling him forward to seal his answer with a chaste kiss. He can feel Taichi laugh against his lips when the man pulls away for a moment to ask, "Can I take that as a yes?"
"You may," Koushirou tells him with a short laugh of his own and another swift kiss.
When Taichi grabs back his hand to slip the ring on, Koushirou isn't sure which of them is shaking more. "It fits," Koushirou says, bordering astonished, moving his hand around to test how steadfast the ring holds to his finger.
Taichi silently coaxes Koushirou to hold out his other hand. Something drops atop his palm.
A gaudy little ladybug stares up at him, every black dot exactly as Koushirou remembers them. He stares up at Taichi curiously.
"You left it on the bathroom sink a little bit ago. I needed a way to double check your finger size," he answers, sheepishly. "So I figured this was the best way to get it while still keeping it a surprise. I was going to discreetly sneak it to you just before you noticed it was gone." Taichi gives him an unsure, half smile. "I'm sorry for taking your ring behind your back."
"I suppose," Koushirou starts, slipping his old ring onto his opposite hand instead, adjusting the band to fit it's new home, "I'll forgive you this once."
"I appreciate it," Taichi says with a bright grin.
Koushirou returns it.
"Still think they're bad luck?" Taichi wonders when they relocate to the balcony for some fresh air. His cheeks are still red, from the cold and excitement, and Koushirou leans into his side, for warmth, for companionship. Above them the wind chime trills and sways as if to taunt him. The metal charms catch the fading rays of the sun and twinkle as if they were alive and organic.
Koushirou makes a mock huff of indignance. "Perhaps not all of them are," he compromises.
They watch the real stars come out, the city lights glow and burn along the distance. Koushirou holds his hand up to admire the new band upon it, the gemstones glinting in the lights as if they were stars themselves, too. Finally he wonders, "How much did you have Yamato invest on this one?"
Taichi chuckles, placing a gentle kiss atop his hair, then against the plump of Koushirou's cheek. "Don't worry," he says in a reassuring way, "I made sure he invested quite a pretty penny." And then he tilts Koushirou's face to look up at him and steals his lips again.
"There's that financial savviness," Koushirou whispers between them, and his grin will not seem to melt away even when Taichi kisses him again, and again, his own uncontainable smile melding perfectly to Koushirou's and he does not think a lifetime is enough to ever grow tired of kissing Taichi. Of kissing his future husband .
This time when the wind chimes sing above them in the early evening breeze, Koushirou doesn't mind them; they ring a lot to him like wedding bells than omens and so he lets Taichi keep it. But only the one.