Chapter Text
annus mirabilis/ˌanəs mɪˈrɑːbɪlɪs/ noun. a remarkable or auspicious year.
Summer 夏
I.
If Toru were to hazard a guess, he would say the strange happenings probably started even before that summer, acknowledging how generally oblivious he is to such things.
At first, he was able to shrug off the little things: the spare set of indoor slippers that mysteriously appear one day in his genkan, the packets of the shiso furikake that he discovers in his pantry, and the bottles of genmaicha tucked behind those of his preferred jasmine tea in his fridge.
They’ve been busy with their upcoming album and preparing for their Orchestra tour, so it wouldn’t be far-fetched that in his tiredness, he had simply forgotten that he had purchased such items.
But the first time he cottons on to the fact something’s not quite right is when he’s sorting through his freshly laundered clothes and happens upon some socks that appear to have shrunk because they’re nowhere near the size he wears.
“Are?” he questions, after he turns one half of the pair inside out to reveal a brand name he doesn’t recognise. It’s foreign-sounding and speaks of the type of luxury that spawns television ads with gorgeous celebrities who throw sensuous gazes at the camera and feature a cello score. He stretches the fabric to test it and, while he appreciates the high quality, he’s not sure he would ever pay that much for things that wear out within a year.
The guitarist is still puzzling over the mystery when he finishes his house chores and finally collapses his wearied bones on to his couch. He sits at one end, arranging himself so that his head rests on a pillow and his calves and feet dangle over the opposite end of the tiny two-seater. (Ugh. Why’d he have to be so tall? he thinks, momentarily distracted.)
Rubbing his face, Toru lets out a yawn and closes his eyes.
Outside, the faint buzz of faraway cicadas provides a soothing white noise while the sun slinks beyond the horizon. Moisture beads on the outside of the bottle of chilled beer that sits forgotten on his coffee table.
Within moments, he is asleep and the matter of the mystery socks is relegated to his mind’s ‘later’ pile.
II.
The next night, Toru sits quietly in the corner of the rowdy karaoke room, discreetly stretching his neck - an unfortunate legacy from never making it to his bed the night earlier.
Masato and Taka are drunkenly belting out ‘A Whole New World’, with Taka’s naturally high register a surprisingly good fit for Jasmine. Tomoya sways, eyes shut, with his cellphone’s torchlight on, while Ryota chats (or yells, more like) to Kenta over the music. Others huddle over a songbook, picking which songs to butcher next, and someone Toru can’t see across the dark room yelps when a cube of ice is snuck down their back. Boisterous cackling ensues.
Seungri, who is on break from his band’s world domination, sits to Toru’s right and nurses a single-malt on-the-rocks, so to speak.
“Ah, I see you’re a man of culture as well,” Toru nods and raises his own glass.
“Kanpai!” the singer responds, clinking their glasses together before they each take a sip.
He doesn’t know the man that well, having only briefly met him that one time in Hong Kong earlier that year, so the conversation quickly dies out.
“Uh, so …” the singer starts, grasping at something to talk about, “… nice couple earrings?”
Toru’s face pinches in confusion, at first thinking that he’s misheard him, and raises an eyebrow when it is repeated exactly as it was first said.
“Couple?” the guitarist dumbly repeats.
“Yeah, you know,” the singer gestures towards Taka, who teeters as if he’s as high as a magic carpet ride. The last few notes of the song die out and the figurative Aladdin and Jasmine take a theatrical bow.
The guitarist returns his gaze to Seungri and shakes his head in protest.
“We’re not -,” Toru starts before he’s interrupted by loud exclamations of “ehhhhhhh?!”.
On the big screen, the title of the next song appears: ‘Chandelier’. Those in the know groan loudly when Ryota makes his way to the makeshift stage.
(“One day, you’ll see,” the bassist had vowed, “you’ll be begging me to replace Taka.”
“Never,” Toru had countered, meaning it.)
Toru turns his head away from the chaos, meaning to refute the assumption, when out of nowhere Taka plops himself sideways on the guitarist’s lap, slinging one arm over his neck and snatching his drink from him with the hand of the other.
The petite man drains the glass in a few long gulps and sighs when the last drop falls on his tongue.
This close, Toru realises that Taka’s earrings are indeed a perfect match to his own. He had gifted the guitarist the jewelry after the last time they’d been in downtown L.A. and Toru had pointed them out through a shop window.
Why’d he buy himself the exact same pair …? the guitarist vaguely ponders, the thought suddenly lost when the man in question pecks him on the cheek.
“Thanks babe,” Taka says, setting down the glass before promptly rolling off and wobbling in the direction of the songbook.
(In the distance, Ryota pinches his own nipples in a vain attempt to reach that near-impossible F#5.)
Toru, having recovered his composure, turns back to his companion and catches his lifted eyebrows and pursed lips.
“Riiiight,” the singer drawls.
III.
The following day, Toru is mindlessly scrolling through the news on his tablet when Taka finally sits up from his fetal position on the couch, rubbing his eyes.
After opening his arms wide to stretch out his back, the vocalist cries out when he tries to roll his head in circles to do the same with his neck muscles.
“Ite-ite-ite,” the smaller man whimpers, the pain no doubt compounded by a killer hangover.
“Poor babe,” Toru chuckles from where he sits at the breakfast table, knowing both feelings all too well. He’s so amused that he doesn’t notice his odd choice of wording: a Freudian slip following the precedent of the other’s.
“The water on the coffee table’s for you,” the guitarist points out when his laughter dies down.
“Want me to cook you something?” Toru continues as Taka takes sips from the glass.
He receives a death glare over the raised glass in reply.
“I’m hungover, not suicidal,” Taka rasps, placing the glass back down.
“Fine, let’s order in,” the guitarists responds, exiting out of the news website and tapping on the local food delivery app.
He’s scrolling through the options, weighing up a between a shogayaki special or some unadon when Taka rounds the table and places his head on his shoulder.
When Toru shifts his gaze, he realises the vocalist’s head isn’t even facing the tablet; instead, the smaller man seems to be just resting there.
Now, Toru would normally be unphased with such a gesture, since the vocalist is renowned for being more touch-feely than the average Japanese person. But the look on Seungri’s face is fresh in his mind, courtesy of being the designated driver last night and having drunk so little. The weight and warmth of the physical closeness stirs something, too, that gives the guitarist pause.
“What do you want?” he murmurs quietly in the other’s ear.
The vocalist mmms in response, the vibration of which Toru feels where their skin touches.
“Na,” the taller man cajoles, poking a finger to Taka’s forehead when it appears the vocalist is about to doze off again.
“I trust you,” is the soft reply.