Work Text:
They're fickle things, dreams. Inkling thoughts, like little stars a child wants to collect into his jar. Spring under bare feet, knees stained with grass smudges and dirt. Not a hint of worry in their vast, childish mind. The same mind that wants to collect those dreams, because it's worth the collection. Worth the adventure. Worth treasure.
Adults... not so much.
Haru wonders when he grew up. What hour of what day did he come home from school and forgot to read his favorite book one last time? One last time, when did he dismiss the thought of pulling on his cheap, store-bought rainboots and trampling on the puddles that mark the end of rain? Pave the messy road to school?
When did he grow up?
And precisely when did he forget to dream?
Inklings, thoughts, powerful, peaceful, beautiful now stale; like bread left on the counter far too long.
Haru didn't know. It's not worth the thought.
The world changes. Or, he was just given the mind to see it. A small mind, one that asks little questions and wonders even less. The world - the people - give him labels, and pulls the carpet from under his feet when he dares to refuse.
When the only label he wants is love… Love, kindness. Human.
Autumn rain, a wool blanket and a warm body behind his.
It's morning.
And Haru wouldn't have it any other way.
The sun isn't up. Won't be for a good while either, veiled behind grey clouds of a Sunday morning rain, the gentle rhythm sliding down the window like a paved road of poems. Haru sees this - thinks this - because he's the first to wake up under the thick blue blanket, his eyes struggling to open under the warmth.
Silence. A subtle smell of chocolate, from the salvaged box of cheap Valentine's Chocolate from the nearest convenience store. From Haru. Beside it, a large empty plate, where there sat a delicious variety of expensive Sushi last night, obviously from Daisuke.
Obviously very much eaten.
Haru closes his eyes again, and tries to pry his hands from under the blanket to stretch his arms, get him ready to actually wake up and be the reasonable adult he definitely is.
He doesn't stretch his arms.
Or rather, he couldn't.
He's not the only one, under this thick blue blanket worth more than his own futon, blanket, and pillow combined. And though he would have once shown explosive embarrassment if he were under the same blanket with no other than Kambe Daisuke…
Not this time.
Hopefully, never again. Mostly because Daisuke, pushed against the couch with one arm under Haru and one above his waist, pulling him closer to his warm, warm chest is his only anchor that keeps him from falling.
Mostly because he loves him, too.
Mostly, because this and many more can be said about him. About them.
About us.
The thought brews a childish, dream-like excitement in his stomach, because, yes. Many people love. Many, many people. Some love a spouse. A friend. A partner. Parents, children, family and the baker at the corner of the street that remembers your order; the cat that rubs against your leg when you take a break in the park you're passing by, the postman that delivers an expected letter from a friend.
People love. So do Haru and Daisuke. And unlike most love, theirs has no label.
It never needs one, and Haru breathes the words out heavily, seeking ever closer to the warm body behind him; frowning childishly when Daisuke moves and regrettably, pulls back a hand.
"What time is it?" groans Diasuke, dropping his hand back on the blanket with a sigh after checking the time, "Too early."
"Good morning to you too, Daisuke."
Daisuke hums, and Haru furrows his brows, "You… Is something wrong?"
The weight behind him lifts, and Daisuke is looking down on him, a sharp smile on his lips, "What made you think that?"
Some heat flushes to his cheek. Haru doesn't let go of it, "Sometimes I forget how much of an asshole you are when you're sleeping."
"You bought this asshole chocolate. Cheap chocolate."
"Chocolate on sale!" corrects Haru as the broke, friendly neighbourhood police officer, throwing back his side of the blanket to defend his pride as the already defeated thing it is, "Not all of us can afford first class meals. Additionally — "
Haru finds himself back on the couch before he has room to argue, this time facing the back of the expensive thing with Daisuke pressed behind him, the blanket haphazardly thrown over them. Careless. Too soft.
The rain drums softer, and keeps going.
"You know, officer," Daisuke murmurs against his skin, close to his ear, the arms around Haru's waist loose. The hand resting on top of his disheveled pyjama top moves to capture Haru's wrist, fingers sliding between his and clasping their hands together, "Sometimes, you should listen to the rain."
What were they doing now? While Daisuke presses gentle kisses to his neck, Haru listens to the rain, tracing his fingers over the skin that spelled out the mark.
The beautifully cursed thing about Kanji is that it could spell many opportunities, connect many lives. For his mark alone, Haru knew of four different ones, each unique. Each word a life he could have lived, had the person bearing it shown up before the mindless man behind him, drunk in his own kisses.
Haru cranes his neck around. Daisuke stops, arching a brow when Haru clumsily turns his body to face him, pressing their foreheads together.
"Haru?"
"Did you ever regret it?" Haru asks, dropping their connected hands, averting eyes, "We're not perfect, Daisuke."
"We don't need to be'" Daisuke mumbles, also averting his eyes to Haru's long, lovely fingers, "We don't have to be perfect to love."
Haru chooses to lift his hand then, to Daisuke's messy hair, the usually perfect thing now sticking out in all directions, unruly from a long night's sleep. It's perfect in the way that Haru's the only one who's allowed to see it this way. Who's allowed to see Daisuke this way. His little flaws, his lazy mornings. The drop of his shoulders when he comes back home — home. Home because they've made it exactly that, found each other and built on it — to find Haru confident in his stance when he makes it known that they were one, and there was little he wouldn't do for him.
And yet, 'we don't need to be perfect to love' sounds exciting when it's Kambe Daisuke. Kambe Daisuke. The man with the power to tip the world in his hand. The man who's smiling as Haru runs his fingers through his hair.
"You're amazing. You're everything I'm not," says Haru, drawing them closer, tangling their legs under the sheets, "Did you know that?"
"We complete each other. That I know," whispers Daisuke, voice traced with emotions he felt and had no words to explain. Hundreds of them. Thousands. Like books spiralling up a shelf, filling him with the wondrous fear that he'd never be able to read them all.
That person is Kato Haru. Imperfect, a little too soft and a wonderful fit, Kato Haru. His arms sliding around Daisuke's waist when work got too much, a kiss to the crown of his head and placing a hot mug of tea on the table. Just for him.
This is home. Sometimes it's too blurry to see it, and sometimes it's mornings like these that make it easier to find.
"And what about the fact that… that I couldn't be them?"
Daisuke frowns, "Them?"
"You know what I mean," Haru whispers, eyeing their marks, "We… I'm not normal. I never have been. We — Valentine's is for romance, right…?"
"Haru — "
"But we're not... I mean I'm not like that. I can't be," he said dryly, blinking away the wetness in his eyes, "I'm just… I'm Haru, and I'm not normal."
"And if you'd given me a moment — " Daisuke catches Haru's wrist again, but this time lifts it to his lips, butterfly kisses trailing on his skin. Right above his mark, " — I would stretch that second into an infinity, just so I could tell you how I never once regretted you. Us. How extraordinary you are in the little and big ways, and just how much Katou Haru isn't normal because he is perfect. Perfect for me, for us."
Haru flushes, but Daisuke doesn't stop there, their foreheads touching again, "We have our love, Haru. And it's not perfect. No love is. But it is ours."
"And ours it will always be," Haru finishes for him, a soft smile on his lips. Daiske returns it, kissing his forehead and pulling Haru closer, pressing him against his chest. His chin rests on top of Haru's head, and Haru breathes in his warmth and comfort.
"Our love is home," Daisuke whispers.
"You're my home."
"And you're everything more."
The rain doesn't stop.
And on this Sunday morning in autumn, it doesn't have to. Because here, they are human.
They are home.
故郷 ( ふるさと , furusato )→ home town; birthplace; native place; one's old home