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“Wake up.” There’s a warm weight weighing down on Daisuke’s cheek, and a slight stinging that follows.
“No.”
“Wake up.” Another smack. Typical, Daisuke notes, snuggling deeper into his satin pillow.
“No.” Now instead of a smack, the flesh of his right cheek burns between two nubs forcing pressure on his skin. Daisuke only thinks it endearing. Haru loves to pinch.
“My God, are you shitting me? At nine in the morning, and today of all days, no less!” Haru whines, despite his age. “At least look at me, will you? It’d be a delightful gift.” Daisuke thinks he can hear him smacking a palm against his forehead.
“Hm. Too early,” Daisuke retorts. He knows damn well the significance of this date, the significance of starting it all. It only gives him more reason to keep provoking Haru. After all, irritation is and has been the very basis of their relationship; a starting ground. “Later.”
Sometimes more than Daisuke likes to admit it, he looks at Haru some days and his mind takes him back to the days of anticlimactic bridge-plummeting and staring down a falling body. It brings him much joy to think that such a horrid conclusion to his and Haru’s first day of meeting one another for the first time could bring him all the joy he could ask for now.
Daisuke has never once regretted just standing there, overlooking the end of the bascule bridge like it was a cliff, smirking down at Haru whose forehead had bled, red spilling down and past his temples. He has never regretted causing the sight of taupe hair, that he now knows to be infinitely soft, stained crimson.
It’s quite bittersweet, almost. It’s been a while now, and Haru has aged just slightly. Daisuke finally decides to put the gears of his brain to good use despite the nine o’clock daze plaguing him. Ninth April… 9 April 2019. Then he thinks again. Today, second May… 2 May 2020? Yes.
It never ceases to astound Daisuke just how much a year can warp and turn one’s life upside down. He’s been blessed with fortune all his life, and he knows it. From mansion to mansion, specially-bred pet dogs, piano lessons with renowned pianists, a personal library, homeschooling by the elite, special training across the globe in England.
But he knows only this year, this change, to be the greatest fortune of all bestowed upon him.
Daisuke peeks an eye open to see just how much he’s riled Haru up, not forgetting to shoot him an unmistakable smirk. It’s become routine.
“A signature, that smug smirk of yours. Anyone told you that before?” he recalls Haru telling him once, over a cramped table where he’s chowing down on cup noodles. His favourite flavour, the blue one… Seafood, Daisuke recalls vividly.
Daisuke also recalls and ponders on the fact that Haru’s likes and dislikes have been the only humanly facts he’s bothered to remember in all twenty-seven years of him living and breathing. It took him twenty-seven years to find reason in remembering someone, to make space for remembering what brought joy to that very someone.
It took the likes of Kato Haru, a twenty-nine-year-old detective who’d been booted from the Metropolitan Police Department’s elite First Division, bumped down to the Modern Crime Prevention Task Force. It took Kato Haru, who’d stood his ground when faced with Daisuke’s boundless, unlimited riches for Daisuke to feel something remotely human for another human. Sure, there were his parents and Suzue, but human emotion for those dearest to in blood and proximity was a given.
This love he’d come to find for Haru, however, had been an unprecedented one. A love nurtured by the concept of polarising morales, opposing beliefs and repulsive impressions.
It’s also the only time in these twenty-seven years that Daisuke has thought, I’ll take what I can get, for with a lip of a butler he’d be blessed with all his desires.
Haru, however, was starkly different. He’d been the only person in his life to not spare a glance at him merely for the overflowing green spilling out from every angle of his body wherever he went. He’d been the only person in Daisuke’s life who wouldn’t, would never be swayed by the notion of money be all yours.
Which is why Daisuke immediately came to forget the concepts of monetary fortune and vast rooms, instead taking in the boxy studio apartment that just reeks of Haru, Haru, Haru. He didn’t bother fighting against this new, foreign thrum that his heart sings along to. For a feeling so alien, he seemed to have zero qualms about it.
The apartment’s not the only thing he takes in. He takes in the messy mop of Haru’s taupe hair falling just below thinly-arched brows, spilling softly onto long lashes. He takes in the tiniest hint of a wrinkle beneath Haru’s right eye, eyes that behold a distinct pale gold. A gold I’d never be able to buy with my own money. A kind of gold money can’t buy. A kind of gold that was the first of its kind.
And that’s when he knew that money wasn’t everything there was to life.
Daisuke meets Haru’s eyes, eyes filled with mirth from a satiated appetite. Haru seemed to have noticed Daisuke’s introspective silence. “Daisuke? Earth to Kambe!” Haru waves a questioning hand in his face. “Your smile, Daisuke, anyone’s told you about it before?
“No,” Daisuke answers. “You’re the first. I hope it’ll stay like this.” Daisuke allows his right glove to slip off his hand, exposing it. It’s a cooling sensation, with air directly bouncing at it.
“I hope you’ll be the first, the last, and the only one, Haru.”
Daisuke’s gone and done it: first names. No more Kato, just Haru, and only Haru now. He cares not what Haru’s going to think. He could only think: Haru.
And smile he did, too, because he knows Haru’s been robbed of the opportunity to pull the first-name card, seeing that he worked hand-in-hand, too, with Suzue.
Daisuke voices again, “The first and only to really know me for Daisuke first, Kambe second.”
A final declaration, he raised an ungloved palm, away from his body and hovering above a table that looks to be for only one, to rest and tighten itself just so gently around a hand gripping onto chopsticks, narrow strands hanging from their pointed ends.
There was a soft gasp, and Haru’s hands began to deposit the strands back into the plastic cup with blue accents, abandoning the chopsticks they’d previously been holding down onto the table, a speck of oil flying.
Before Daisuke knew it, the speck of oil wasn’t the only thing flying, for the very same gold he’d allowed his mind to ponder on came flashing in a blur alongside a warmth that crashed onto his own lips, showering his lavish taste buds with what Daisuke can describe only to be: Sodium. The distance of the table between him and Haru was not what he could see any longer. The warmth on his lips continues to stay. Sodium, huh. Tasty. Daisuke’s eyes fluttered closed.
Daisuke’s lips move too. He feels the heat on his lips curl and curve; a smile.
In that sea of black swallowing his vision, he’d felt another kind of warmth reach up to heat up the sides of his face, gripping both cheeks of his. Daisuke could feel the callouses on them, rough and flush against his skin. His grip had gone cold, the palm trapped between his gone.
Sodium. Sodium.
It was only after what felt like a blissful lifetime spent in paradise that Daisuke’s lips were back to being hit by the cold Tokyo wind pouring in from the window beside him, into the little apartment. He felt a sense of loss, thinking it emotionally and literally.
His cheeks do feel much warmer than before when a small wisp of cool air caresses them, like a congratulating handshake reminding him of happy successes. It prompts him to gaze up at Haru, who’s on the opposite end of the table.
Haru’s cheeks burned scarlet, his lips pouted swollen, the tips of his ears glowing pink. I see. So, he’s one to blush. The pupils of his gold eyes were focused elsewhere, unseeing of the man studying his face.
Then, the irises return to orbit and stare ahead right back at the only other eyes around looking right back at him. Their eyes met, and Daisuke’s lips curved downwards. They’d let themselves, anyway.
This time, however, Haru did not look away. His lips curved too.
“I hope so too, Kambe Daisuke.”
That’s when Daisuke had decided once and for all that if someone had held him at gunpoint, telling him to decide between his insurmountable wealth or Haru, he’d choose Haru in a heartbeat, the same way he’d chosen between money or safety to solve the messes presented to his face.
Money isn’t everything.
Thank you, Haru.
Last but not least, Daisuke had made the mental note to save this date, the third of barely any, the first being ninth April and second the second of May.
Eighth December in the year of 2019 it was, where Daisuke fully realised he did, in fact, have a heart and simultaneously who this long-lost-now-found heart beat for, belonged to.
Daisuke blinked, to make sure it wasn’t all a dream. Blinked again and Haru was still right in front of him, dreamy eyes eyeing him dreamily. It seemed impossible for it not to be a dream.
But, I’ll take what I can get. Be it a dream or reality with you, I’ll take it, Haru.
Haru.
His heart hurt too; it was bursting like it never had before. It’d never been so vulnerable, so naked this way, heart on his sleeve for another to see. A heart long-sheathed taking its first trip outside, all exposed to the elements. It was a first, and a fortunately exhilarating one at that.
It was a starting ground. A perfect one, at that.
Daisuke made a silent prayer to the gods and deities he’d never believed to have existed, thanking them for all the fortune they’d blessed him with. He made sure to thank twice, for good measure, for how fortune now had two faces, one shining brighter than the other, however.
The brighter one shines a luminous, pale gold.
Suddenly, Daisuke’s eyes just had to blink shut; just like his heart, they began hurting from staring.
Perhaps from staring too long at a blinding pale gold.
-
And then, the slow and languid lull of morning serenades that same heart back to second May 2020. Daisuke feels the brush of cool satin sheets against the exposed skin of his legs. He vaguely recounts those same legs tangled with those of another pair.
It’s then he realises the once-occupied space beside him is cold, gone, empty, vacant. It’s unlike when he’d gone to bed, a full body in his arms. Just a little taller than him, though.
Haru, oh, Haru.
Last night, he’d worn his usual black and blue robes to bed and offered Haru his spare pair, but Haru opted to stick to his habitual fix of a loose t-shirt and boxer briefs.
(“The good shirt. You mean the one where your collarbone shows,” Daisuke asked, gaze still fixed on the book in his hand. Haru had just showered and padded his taupe hair dry, but his head still felt warm yet cool on Daisuke’s exposed shoulder where he lay. “I guess?” Haru concurred. “What, you noticed? Jesus, Daisuke, no one would’ve made you out to be so observant about things like that, now, hm?” Hypocritically, he slid a hand just under Daisuke’s robes where his thighs sat.
“Funny how you say that, Haru,” Daisuke flipped a page, tone still nonchalant. “You turn thirty in the morning and you’re here now, your hand on the thigh of someone younger than you. Some fetish for youths? I’m reading now, if anything.” As if to ratify this, he flipped yet another page of his book.
Haru’s hand on his thigh disappeared, away and out from Daisuke’s robes. “What, calling me the perv now? And what, a youth fetish? You know I’d never stoop that low. You can’t compare being a junior by three years to something like that!” He takes the thigh-hand and pinches at Daisuke’s cheek. If it’d done anything to change his demeanour, all Daisuke does is to wrinkle his nose, then go back to reading right after. Flip. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for my lifelong ambitions of being a cop. Hey, lifelong,” Haru’s body slides off Daisuke and his back’s against the bed. Flip. “A life lasting thirty years starting tomorrow. Bizarre, don’t you think? Where life takes you.”
It’s unspoken but both of them know despite Daisuke’s persistent eyes never leaving the pages of his novel, that he still listens. Daisuke’s always been a great multitasker. Fortune, it always is. However, as much as he’d like to relate, Daisuke couldn’t. He never had to really think nor know where life took him exactly, so to speak. Heir to the family fortune, Daisuke never had to worry about fateful things like that. It’s all fortune, he thought. Sometimes I envy people like Haru, they have the liberty to decide and work for their aspirations. I just work with what’s given to me and I’m good at it, so I’ve no complaints. Flip. All things considered, my life is perfect. It would be nice, however, if I could just follow what I want. To be given a choice.
Daisuke shut the book closed with his fingers. As it turned out, life did present him with various choices, just not outrightly in his face. He had the choice right there and then to deliberate on whether he’d continue reading the novel or taking a rest.
He also had the choice to use that rest to focus on what life and fortune had given him, and it just so happened to be that Haru’s existence in his life was a gift to him.
I’ll take…
Daisuke knew outrightly, though, that he could take Haru right there and then, the way he knew he liked. He also knew Haru took birthdays very seriously. Daisuke turned on his iPhone and eyed it. 11:22pm.
What I can get.)
Loose shirt or robe, it hadn’t mattered for Haru went to sleep with his body barren of garments.
DEE. DEE. DEE. DEE. DEE.
Nuisance. Daisuke feels a vibration from under his satin pillow and he grabs at it, putting a stop to its incessant whirring and ringing in his ears. It stops. At last. Daisuke doesn’t have to look at his phone to know it’s 10am. Oh, I went back to sleep for an hour. He has this habit of setting only one alarm every morning at ten, the latest time he allows himself to wake up. At timings like nine, he doesn’t have to, because Haru’s usually up and about or trying to get him out of bed, as was today’s case. Daisuke could’ve definitely complied and gotten out of bed, but agitating Haru and seeing his reactions, hilarious, was something he’d be more willing to dedicate himself to.
This time, though, the absence of Haru’s body bothers him. So, he calls out.
“Haru. Haru?”
Silence greets him in return. He doesn’t hear an orotund voice calling back to him the way he usually would on weekends, from just down the corridor in Daisuke’s study. Weekends, yet Haru always brought along his laptop and a file from work, tapping away at keys and flipping through documents at about ten. He’d then make breakfast at eleven. (“I just prefer getting some work done before making breakfast. Been a habit of mine since junior high, I think,” is what Haru had told him when Daisuke questioned him about working on an empty stomach.) Daisuke smiles at the memory of this quirk, one of many he’d come to learn about Haru.
What does greet him, however, is the unmistakable aroma of butter smacking him in the nostrils. If Haru isn’t here with him nor is he hunched over a laptop screen, there can only be one place. It’s now that Daisuke does look down at his phone, reading what’s on its lit screen. 10:12. He’d been daydreaming for twelve minutes, and Haru’s almost an hour early.
Daisuke decides to put the daydreaming to a stop and let it fade out into reality by dragging his feet over to the bathroom to wash up, but not before slipping on his black, tailored indoor slippers. He pats his face dry, and trails down a flight of stairs in the direction where he knows the aroma’s come from.
Slippers setting foot into an expansive kitchen that’s decked with various and many cabinets of polished black marble, Daisuke spots Haru standing at and over one of many counters of the same black marble. No, a stovetop.
In addition, Daisuke observes that Haru decided to put on his left over shirt (“The good shirt. You mean the one where your collarbone shows” ) and boxer briefs from last night where they lay unused and clean. As per its signature, the collar of the shirt has slipped from this neck to rest sideways on his left shoulder, exposing a trail of red from his nape all the way down to where the collar droops down. The dark imprints of teeth also show.
Daisuke takes a moment to admire the handiwork of his from afar, but continues to walk up to Haru nonetheless.
Haru as he raises an arm up in the air, a ladle in hand as he scoops pancake batter from a large bowl over onto a pan, where it makes a crisp sizzle. “Wow,” Daisuke hears Haru exhale to himself. He seems to have not noticed Daisuke creeping up from behind him. Daisuke thinks it could be thanks to the silent padding of his footsteps, of exquisite Vicana wool from Peru handpicked by his designer.
Fragrance of warm butter flooding his senses, Daisuke loops his arms around Haru’s waist and peeks up and then down at the pancakes from the head he’s perched on Haru’s shoulder. The same shoulder littered with constellations of red. He has to tiptoe just slightly, though. (“Suck it up, Mr Rich Man Whose Life Is Perfect, I can’t do anything about your lack of five centimetres,” he hears Haru pause. “Uh, height.” Daisuke says nothing.)
“Daisuke-” Haru yelps. And then there’s warm pancake batter on Daisuke’s lip from where Haru has abruptly retracted his ladle, so much so that the batter was sent flying. “You scared me. Tsk.” Haru twists his body so that he’s facing Daisuke in their proximity, and he takes his free hand to wipe at Daisuke’s lip.
He takes the same hand and licks at the remnants of the batter from his fingers. Wow.
“Serves you right. You’re an hour late,” Haru taunts, acting as if he hadn’t just eaten raw batter. Daisuke’s in a bit of a trance. “I tried to wake y-” Haru’s words are cut off as Daisuke rams his lips against his for the first time that morning.
There it is, the pale gold of Haru’s eyes he’s come to love. They flit shut just after a moment. Then, Daisuke tastes what he makes out to be mild sweetness, a sweetness he thinks ideal for pancakes, just the way he likes them made. Wow.
The kiss is broken as Daisuke pulls back his head to lean back down on Haru’s bare shoulder.
“Happy birthday,” Daisuke vocalises. And then because he loves to see Haru riled up, he lays a small, ghosting kiss upon the red trail on his shoulder. Upon closer inspection, the red has mellowed out just a little. Well, what could one do about love bites healing? He makes sure to smile against Haru’s skin and bore his eyes into Haru’s. “Haru.” The name comes out slightly muffled.
Haru, being Haru and knowing Daisuke, catches on. “Conceited asshole, aren’t you-” Haru’s breath catches. Though, he grins. “Thank you, Daisuke.” Daisuke smiles again, this time a loving one. Haru does too. Then, his eyes go back to focusing on the hot pan and his hands move again, this time with a spatula.
They stay like this for a while.
-
The pancakes have been plated and they wobble. Souffle. Daisuke offers to help Haru garnish and sift powdered sugar onto them, but Haru refuses. Perhaps it’s the pride of reaching a decade milestone or just pure chef’s pride, but Daisuke can’t find reason to protest.
So, Daisuke resorts to setting the cutlery on the table of his bedroom’s balcony. They’ve called off the butlers today to have the day to themselves, as per Haru’s request. By chance, Suzue’s also away on vacation, so it’s a bonus. Daisuke pulls out a chair from where the seat’s under the circular glass table. Then, he walks over to the other side to pull out the other one too. Daisuke stands there, thinking he’s done setting the table, but something just doesn’t feel right.
Oh, right.
Daisuke steps away from the balcony and back into the spacious bedroom where the bedsheets stay unkempt, and he treads over to his walk-in-wardrobe and scans the various cabinets. Then, he opens one and out comes a little cyan box in his hands, light yet carrying weight.
Daisuke shuts the cabinet back into place and paces back to the balcony. The air is just shy of chilly, the temperature just cool enough that it’s nice they won’t have to worry about shivering over breakfast. Daisuke takes a seat. He checks his phone. 10:56 AM. He waits, staring out at the flora that decks his residence. Birds chirp.
Ears pick up the grating of chair legs against the floor, and Daisuke’s attention is taken to the chair across him. Then, a porcelain white plate is being slotted towards him, clinking against the glass of the table. “Breakfast, hope it’s to your liking,” Haru utters. He takes the seat opposite Daisuke and pushes it in. His covered feet brush against Daisuke’s. Daisuke peeks just under and sees that Haru did, after all, decide to take on his offer of wearing his spare pair of slippers. As well as his spare pair of robes, adorning him like a jacket. Daisuke’s figure may be smaller than Haru but his robes are definitely loose enough to drape themselves comfortably over Haru’s bare shoulders. Daisuke still sees the marks he’s left.
Suddenly Daisuke’s aware that this is possibly the smallest table he has in this enormous mansion residence, but playing footsie only has him appreciating this fact even more. It takes him back to reminiscing about Haru’s tiny table in his tiny apartment. He smiles, and Haru smiles back. I’ll never be bored of that smile, that face, that… Haru. His eyes seem brighter than usual today. It’s got to be the charm of maturing.
“To my liking? Haru, have I not told you to resign from the Police Force and become my personal chef instead? I could sponsor your life savings from just one shift,” Daisuke muses, thumbing the cyan box in his left hand. Haru chuckles, as if an old man, “Multiple times, yes.” He takes a sip of orange juice. Oh, the one he made. Fresh from last night. Daisuke follows his gesture. Haru wipes at his mouth and continues, “You make me sound much older than I actually am, Daisuke. But what can I do, seeing that it’s today of all days.”
“What’s it like reaching your third decade of life?”
“Not all that different, actually. You’ll get there soon. Spent the first second of it in pain, though.”
“Was the pain a good one, though?”
“I don’t know, you tell me.” Haru sips at his orange juice again.
“Well, was it a pain in the ass?”
Haru audibly chokes.
“Fuck. You got me there,” and there Haru goes, wiping at his mouth again. Then, his eyes widen, in shock of what’s just come out of his mouth. “Oh, could be taken literally, what I just said.”
Haru being Haru, Daisuke smiles.
“Don’t you think the food’s going cold, love? I’m thinking we should start eating.” Oh, there’s the sweet, sweet L word.
If Haru’s eyes could blow any wider, Daisuke’s glad he’s there to see it and know that it’s all because of him. All because of a simple word. Daisuke thinks it’s because it’s the first time he’s used it in such a context. This is a start, isn’t it. His hand curls tighter around the cyan box in his hand, resting dormant on his thigh.
The telltale tint of red has crept up to envelop Haru’s face upon his utter realisation, and he has to set his glass of orange juice down to bury his burning face in his hands. Thirty, yet still blushing like a teenager. Or so, Daisuke believes, from the teen flicks he’d seen in his youth when homeschooling left him void of social interaction with other teens, but full of boxing lessons and pet companionship.
He’s still red. Daisuke can’t help but fawn a little at the sight. “Happy birthday again, my thirty-year-old love. Thank you for the meal.”
Haru snaps out of his stupor and peeks at Daisuke from the crevices between his hands shielding his gold eyes. Daisuke can see the smile in them and it warms the heart he’s still surprised he has.
“Yeah, Daisuke, my love. ...Love. Love. Yeah, let’s eat.”
-
White porcelain plates had previously been topped with soft and fluffy souffle pancakes topped with maple syrup and butter, with raspberry drizzle on the sides. Now, those white porcelain plates are devoid of any sizable remnants. Merely crumbs and a smudge of raspberry remain, like errant strokes on a blank canvas.
“Good enough for your liking? For your exquisite, Kambe tastes?” Haru smirks, knowing the answer to his own question as his eyes scan the two empty plates spanning the distance between them.
“Offer’s still up for replacing my personal chef.”
“No way.”
“I’ll pay you.”
“No way. You never learn, do you?”
“I have and I do, just a little. You’re an influential one of sorts.”
“It’s my honour, Mr. Kambe.”
Haru’s hand reaches out and stacks Daisuke’s empty plate on top of his own, and he rises up from his seat, head turned to face the shut balcony door.
“Wait, Haru.” Daisuke, too, has risen up to pull back at Haru’s arm. Haru stops his movement and turns back to look at him. Daisuke lowers himself back onto his seat, and Haru follows suit. He places the two plates back onto the table.
Haru’s head tilts at Daisuke and then he perks up, “Oh, right, the cutlery! Thanks.” He’s scooping the forks and knives onto the stack of plates and does the same with their cups.
Daisuke extends his palm to cover Haru’s.
“No, Haru, stay. I’d forgotten to do something.”
His free hand grabbing at his sides, Daisuke finally feels the velvet of the cyan box he’d unintentionally left abandoned, and so he brings it up onto the table.
“Oh?” Haru looks on.
If he doesn’t like it, make me poor all over. “This is for you.” Daisuke takes the box in his hands and opens it, fanning it out for Haru to see. He motions for Haru to take it.
Haru peeks into the open box, confused at the initial layer of silk cloth that’s concealing it. Picking it aside, a pale shimmer of gold reflects against his features, and Daisuke is once again mesmerised by it.
Eyebrows arching with lips pressed into a straight line that slightly trembled, it doesn’t take long for Haru to burst out laughing.
Definitely not what I was expecting.
“Oh, oh, oh. Oh my God, Daisuke. Ohhhh my, oh my God. Are you serious?!” Judging by the way his eyes widened in pure shock at the mere sight of the gift, Daisuke doesn’t know if he is about to get lectured once again about spending that much money.
“Twenty-four karat gold for a cup noodle enamel pin?! My God, only you would. Ohhhhh, my God,” Haru wheezes. He’s doubling over as he takes it out of the cyan box, positioning it where it meets the rays of sunlight. It glints so brightly. The shine of its blue and white paint lights up on his face too. He’s still laughing, face flushed.
“Do you not like it? I can send it b-”
“No. No… Wait, no , I mean I love it! But it’s just so-” Haru coughs. “It’s just… so amusing. It’s uniquely you that you’d use real gold for something so simple. Cup Noodles, and my favourite flavour no less. Seafood.” He’s breathless, and so the laughter begins to cease. “Never stop, Daisuke, never stop. Though it doesn’t mean I approve of this frivolous spending, you know.”
“I learn and never learn when it comes to you, Haru.”
“Yeah, I know that very well.”
“Check the back of it. I got custom engraving for specific dates.”
“What.” Haru flips the cup noodle enamel pin to its back and he’s back to a laughing fit. “I think I’m going to cry. Custom, and custom to the next level. It’s in your handwriting! Ohhhhh, I think I’m dreaming. This damn pin probably costs more than my apartment.”
“I doubt so. It’s eight grams and a half, with custom engraving, design and paint, shipped straight from Australia. Price is about eight hundred and fifty.”
“I- I’m speechless. Apartment aside, it costs more than my phone. Gosh, Daisuke, gosh!” Squirming excitedly in his seat, Haru holds the pin in his palms gingerly, eyeing it the same way a toddler would with a swimming tadpole in their hands. He’s beaming, the whites of his teeth showing. Adorable.
“Comedy and amusement aside, I’d thought of you bringing your crossbody bag out on our dates and your customary diet of seafood cup noodles, hence-”
“Ninth April nineteen, the fateful day we met. I hated you for months. Still do, but it’s not the only thing I feel towards you now,” Haru interjects, studying the back of the pin. “Eighth December nineteen. We… yeah, you know. Kind of interesting though, the way you loop your ‘eight’. Looks like infinity. ‘You telling me something?” Daisuke stares at him as blankly as he can manage. “Just as I thought. And second May. Who would’ve known you’d be so thoughtful.”
“You’re the only one. You’ll be the only one forever.”
“There you go, sappy shit all over,” Haru smiles smugly to himself. Daisuke thinks Haru, too, has learned a thing or two from him. It took three months to get him to actually smile at me. Daisuke holds this teaching close to his heart.
“Enough of all that. Happy birthday, H-” Daisuke’s well wishes get cut off by a flash of pale gold all up in his face and suddenly the cold air around him goes still. The chirping birds go mute. Empty plates fade from his sight. Doubt ebbs away from his head. The glass of the small table forging distance between him and Haru disappears. He knows that very same distance, too, has vanished.
What does come, though, is a familiar warmth on his lips and calloused weights on both sides of his face.
Sodium, Daisuke’s instinct says. This time though, instead of delightful MSG, he tastes a mild sweetness and a hint of butter. Searching for a better grasp of the taste, Daisuke places his two hands on Haru’s cheeks and pulls him forward the same way he did last night, tongue delving into Haru’s mouth. He thinks he hears Haru keening.
Abruptly, time and his senses have broken out of their reveries and colour floods back into Daisuke’s vision. Haru’s all red and panting in spite of the chilly Tokyo air. His ears are painted pink and his lips shine in the light, slick.
“Thank you, Daisuke,” Haru says in an exhale. “I love you.”
There it is, the L word.
The floodgates open up.
“Say that again.”
“Say what?”
“You know what I mean, Haru.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Shut up. Out with it.”
“No.”
Daisuke’s ears mourn this loss, but if having Haru in his life has taught him anything, he’ll accept it.
I’ll take what I can get.
Something Daisuke does not mourn, though, is him thrusting his body forward, above and across the glass table so strongly it wobbles, taking in the flash of taupe and pale gold right ahead of him and crashes into it, lips doing the work.
Daisuke tastes pancakes. He also tastes the remnants of love on Haru’s tongue.
And damn right, Daisuke’ll take what he can get.