Archive of Our Own

“Blue or white?”

It takes Ryou an unreasonably long time to register what he’s looking at. The entire rack is covered in nothing but folded rectangles of mystery cloth, all different colors and patterns hanging in their half-clear packaging. He frowns, squinting at the labels. Curtains.

Ah, right. Curtains.

“Curtains,” he blurts, as though it needs to be repeated. As though anyone else could’ve possibly been as confused as he was just a few moments ago.

It’s obvious that Fubuki isn’t paying too much attention, though, because he doesn’t comment on it, just nods distractedly.

“Yes, curtains. Blue or white? What do you think?”

Ryou glances at the paper in his hand, trying to remember which colors they already have. His handwriting has declined somewhat as the day has worn on, so his notes are a little on the indecipherable side, but he eventually manages to put the pieces together. They do need curtains. His list also indicates that every room with a window still needs curtains, though, so which room is Fubuki even picking for?

“Are these for the kitchen, or...?” He asks, even as his fiancé bends down to examine a third color, blue again, supposedly a different shade despite the fact that it looks exactly the same to Ryou.

“Bedroom,” he replies, somewhat absentmindedly. “Hm, I like this lace pattern...but then we’d need another layer.”

Consulting his cheat sheet yields little assistance, as the only thing Ryou has scribbled under “bedroom” is “unchanged”, which means absolutely nothing to him. Perhaps that would’ve been helpful three hours ago when he could still remember what year it was, but at this moment, he hasn’t the slightest clue what color their current set of sheets and pillowcases is. Every detail about his life has fled his mind, leaving only a stumbling fool who can barely string a coherent thought together.

What does Fubuki always say about color-matching? White goes with everything?

“White goes with everything,” he recites mechanically, as though possessed by some particularly exhausted spirit of interior design. Fubuki looks at him over his shoulder, frowning.

“Are you okay?”

Ryou just stares at him, unable to answer a question that has nothing to do with furniture. Fubuki glances back at the rack, shakes his head, and selects a packet of white curtains.

“Let’s just buy what we have and go home,” he sighs, steering Ryou out of the aisle with a hand against his lower back. “We can figure the rest of this out some other day.”

Being home sounds a lot nicer than being here. He says as much. It isn’t meant to be funny, but Fubuki laughs a little, anyway.

The short of it is that they’ve started renting a new apartment.

They’ve had their old one since they first moved in together, and while they’ve gladly called it home for those ensuing years, the time has come for—oh, what did Fubuki call it, again?—an emotional and spiritual upgrade. Their lives are steady, they’ve been engaged for a few months, and they can well afford the adjustment. It isn’t just about living somewhere with more space, it’s about the impact that a change of scenery will have on them. A different view. A new layout. A place signifying another fresh start.

That was kind of how Fubuki had sold it when they’d first started discussing the matter, anyway, and it isn’t like Ryou disagrees, necessarily. The new apartment is very nice, and it’s definitely a lot bigger. Moving somewhere else even gave them an excuse to finally ditch that couch they both hated but couldn’t get rid of because it still served its purpose. Planning with Fubuki how they’re going to decorate has been fun, and even though he’s still getting acclimated to the layout of the place, he can’t say that he dislikes it. They’re both confident that it’ll be home soon enough.

However, the apartment is unfurnished. Fubuki had wanted that to be the case, and initially, Ryou hadn’t seen a problem with that. The more effort they put into personalizing the space, the more it would feel like it was theirs, after all, and his fiancé had just been so excited that Ryou couldn’t say no.

Really, he should’ve seen this coming. He knows Fubuki loves decorating, that he’s drawn to pretty things, that he has the practice of impulse-purchasing down to an art form. He’s an absolute menace in any department store, let alone a place that sells sequined pillows and light-up vases and barstools detailed in glitter paint. What begins as one little thing turns into a hundred little things, and it’s all Ryou can do to keep his fiancé on-task sometimes.

(Seriously though, who the hell paints their barstools with glitter?)

The alternative scenario isn’t much better, though. As in everything else, Fubuki’s stamina wildly outclasses his own, so while he can shop for an entire day, Ryou starts dissociating after a few hours of trying to discern which two nigh-identical shades of purple would look better in the bathroom. After a while, Ryou isn’t even trying to stop Fubuki from making frivolous choices anymore, he’s just trying to survive.

It doesn’t help that he’s inherently not very good at this. Sure, he knows some basics, but he’s no expert when it comes to interior design. His three main criteria for furniture are as follows: is it functional? Is it reasonably priced? And, does it hurt my eyes to look at it? If the answer is yes to the first two and no to the third, then he usually isn’t too picky past that point. This served him just fine when he lived alone during his professional career, but since he’s started living with Fubuki, he’s been forced to realize that his sensibilities simply do not line up with his fiancé’s vision of a home, sweet home.

Which is fine, obviously. The extent of Ryou’s vision is living somewhere with Fubuki. Shopping misadventures aside, he’s more than happy to let his fiancé do the decorating, especially since he really is good at it when he can focus. So long as he doesn’t get distracted, Fubuki knows what he wants. Ryou doesn’t really know what he wants, but at least he knows what he doesn’t want.

Starting with that hideous couch.

Ryou stares at it, uncomprehending. He’d been comparing shelving units as per Fubuki’s request when his fiancé had latched onto his arm and dragged him halfway across the store, gushing about how he’d found them the cutest seating for the living room. Ryou had already been suspicious from his particular choice of adjective alone, but when Fubuki had presented the sofa to him, his wariness had morphed into full-blown horror.

It actually takes him a moment to realize what he’s looking at, the conformation of this thing is just so utterly baffling. It’s—it’s a rose couch. And not just a rose-colored couch or a rose-patterned couch, oh no. A full-sized, rose-shaped couch.

(“It’s a loveseat,” he hears Fubuki complain from somewhere in the back of his mind. “It’s for two people, not three.”)

If Ryou gets his way, it won’t be for any people, let alone two.

“What is this?”

He can’t hide the sheer dismay in his voice, not that Fubuki seems to notice. He’s too delighted by this monstrosity to catch on.

“It’s a loveseat shaped like a rose! Isn’t it perfect?”

Oh, it’s perfect alright. Perfect for burning. Ryou turns to his fiancé, not wanting to look at it a moment longer.

“Fubuki,” he pleads, desperate to make him see sense. “This isn’t going to work. Just think about it.”

Fubuki—oh no—pouts at him, glancing longingly at the stupid sofa and its ugly, petal-shaped pillows.

“But it’s pretty,” he insists, and Ryou closes his eyes. Pinches the bridge of his nose. Counts to ten. They’ve been here for three hours already.

“It really isn’t.”

He knows he’s being blunt, but he needs to stand his ground. This isn’t a battle he’s even willing to compromise on, let alone lose. He will not be able to live in his own apartment if he has to see that thing every day.

Fubuki has the audacity to look wounded by his obstinacy, as though Ryou has insulted him personally, which he hasn’t. After being here for so long, he lacks the patience to empathize with him on this particular matter. Maybe if he’d found this nightmare when they’d started—

—oh, who is he kidding. It would still be the ugliest thing he’s ever seen.

“We can’t decorate an entire room around that,” he says, trying a different tactic. “Especially—especially not the living room. That’s the first room anyone who visits us will see, and it needs to look—you know—not like that.”

Fubuki’s expression is oddly unreadable by now, which makes Ryou nervous. Has he gone too far with his disdain? Has he actually hurt his fiancé’s feelings? Or is it just too obvious that he’s making this up as he goes, trying to take the words that Fubuki always uses when he’s talking about interior design and turn them around to suit his own needs? Is he even saying what he thinks he’s saying? They’ve been here for three hours already!

His steadily-devolving thought processes are interrupted by a light cough. Returning to reality, he notices all at once that Fubuki is smiling at him now, a signature blend of fond exasperation that Ryou really doesn’t think is merited at the moment. He isn’t the one wanting to buy a rose-shaped couch (loveseat!).

And yet his fiancé is stepping closer, reaching up to tuck a few strands of hair behind his ear, the touch lingering against the side of his face. His deep brown eyes are practically twinkling with amusement, and Ryou frowns.

“Aren’t you upset?”

Fubuki chuckles, shaking his head.

“Not at all.”

“But you—”

“Hush,” he commands softly, pressing a finger to his lips. “Thank you for keeping me in line.”

They’re in the middle of the furniture store, right where everyone can see him doing that. Right where everyone can see Ryou slowly turning red at the contact. Right where everyone can see Fubuki’s tiny smile shift nigh-imperceptibly to a teasing smirk. He says nothing, though, and withdraws his hand after a few moments.

Even with his declaration, he still glances at the loveseat again, a little too much longing in his expression for Ryou’s comfort.

“You know, we could—”

“We need shelves,” Ryou cuts in, grabbing his arm and pulling him away before he can continue his musings. “All your little collectibles are going to break in those boxes.”

“I packed them carefully!” Fubuki protests, but allows himself to be led to the shelving displays. “We will need a couch eventually, you know.”

“I would rather sit on the floor forever than even consider buying that,” Ryou deadpans, and Fubuki’s laughter carries all the way to the ceiling.

Stress. Marufuji Ryou is made of stress. He is surrounded by health hazards, by accidents just waiting to happen, by literal death traps. The walls are lined with them. The shelves are laden with them. The displays look poorly-constructed, precarious mountains of sharp objects and potential threats. Nothing is safe. Nothing is safe.

He will never bring Fubuki to a hardware store ever again.

They needed Home Improvement Things. Load-bearing hooks. Nails. Storage units. Industrial-strength adhesive. He has A List. The plan was to be out of here before lunchtime.

In fairness, it isn’t lunchtime yet. They haven’t even been here for that long, but if he’s being honest, that’s the problem. It has only been ten minutes and Fubuki has already almost died four times.

His fiancé, of course, is blissfully unaware of just how many near-death experiences he’s had in this wretched place. He’s accustomed to this routine, Ryou supposes, this nigh-literal song and dance of being the most gracefully clumsy person in the universe. As far as he’s concerned, there’s nothing unusual about this, but to Ryou? The whole building is lit up with danger lights, alarms going off in his head anytime Fubuki gets too close to something sharp or unstable or expensive. Ryou has no choice but to hover at his fiancé’s elbow, latched onto his arm as they make their way between the shelves, searching in vain for a recognizable label.

He’s so desperate to escape this place that he actually goes out of his way to flag down an employee for assistance. Him. Marufuji Ryou. Is intentionally engaging in conversation with someone who isn’t Fubuki. His psychologist would be so proud. Sure, he could’ve been less direct about it, but at least he said excuse me and could you please help us and not get over here. Fubuki is more than happy to handle things from there, socializing with all the graces offered to him by benevolent beings on high, and Ryou takes the time to catch his breath as they stand mercifully still for a moment.

His fiancé is focused, at least, following the employee’s every word with rapt attention. Ryou doesn’t think he ever saw him engage this intently with any class lecture back at Duel Academy, and briefly wonders how their teachers would feel about that. Then the employee he flagged down is leading them to another section of the store and Ryou has to stop Fubuki from tripping over a power tool display.

It’s going to be a long morning.

Ryou will admit that temporarily not owning a couch or a coffee table or really anything of that nature actually has its perks. It leaves them a lot of flat, empty space in the living room, which is perfect for a quite a bit of their early decorating process. Seeing as they’re currently trying to put shelving units together, it’s especially useful.

When they’d purchased these, Ryou had been quite proud of himself. Fubuki had given him the task of figuring out the most functional DIY shelving and storage units available, and Ryou had approached it with as much seriousness as he did everything else—which was, to say, quite a bit. What they’re presently building is definitely the best the stores has to offer, and their appearance isn’t too utilitarian, either. The dark wood contrasts pleasantly with the off-white walls and, when they’re up, will hopefully add a bit of depth to the room that it lacked before.

The shelves are a little...fussy, though. The pieces fit together easily enough, but it would seem that the price for quality is complexity. Which is fine, honestly. Ryou enjoys a good challenge, and assembly kits were one of the few toys he actively played with as a child. His meticulous, methodical approach to most tasks makes things like this come naturally to him.

However, the same cannot be said for Fubuki. It isn’t that he lacks the patience, necessarily—heaven knows that he has it in spades—but he certainly gets restless when forced to pore over directions and instruction manuals for too long. The same rule applied to textbooks, as Ryou learned firsthand when they were in school together. Needless to say, assembly of this nature...isn’t his strong suit.

That isn’t to imply that he’s being unhelpful, though. Of course he isn’t. While Ryou dutifully puts the shelves together, Fubuki is a whirlwind of other, equally important activities: cleaning, rearranging, making snacks, cheering him on. All of this, he takes quite seriously (especially the last one) and Ryou is more than content to experience his limitless energy as it steadily fills the apartment.

(This is the kind of thing that really makes it feel like home.)

As if summoned by his thoughts, Fubuki plops onto the floor behind him, hooking his chin over his shoulder to observe his progress. He smells fresh, almost a little intoxicating, like citrus, gardenia, and morning sunlight—probably a combination of the cleaner he was using and the fact that he’s been lovingly sprucing up their balcony with an assortment of flowerboxes.

“How are we doing, my brave architect?”

Ryou snorts, setting down the directions leaflet for a moment. The mostly-built shelf lies impassively before them, stubborn, but not insurmountable.

“Well enough. I think I’ve figured it out.”

Fubuki hums, kissing his cheek. It’s a soft, fluttery brush of contact, and it mirrors the feeling Ryou gets in his stomach.

“Got its strategy locked down?” He asks, his voice low and teasing, and Ryou smirks.

“Yeah. Took a few turns, but I saw the pattern eventually.”

His fiancé dissolves into charming giggles, burying his face in Ryou’s shoulder and wrapping his arms around his chest.

“You’re so cute.” The words are somewhat muffled by his shirt, and Ryou makes a displeased sound in the back of his throat.

“Surely, you can think of something better,” he complains, and Fubuki squeezes him tighter.

“Surely, I can!” He says brightly, and Ryou already knows he’s going to regret challenging him even before he finishes with, “You’re adorable!”

Ryou folds his arms, a meaningless gesture with absolutely no heat performed solely for Fubuki’s benefit. As predicted, his fiancé only laughs at his mock-obstinacy, the sound glittering in the air, and Ryou smiles to himself as he settles back against his chest.

They remain there for a while, Ryou listening to Fubuki’s steady breathing, Fubuki tracing idle patterns over his heart, comfortably pressed together despite not needing to be so close. As mentioned before, they have plenty of room right now. It isn’t like they’re squeezing into the same shower stall or trying to fit on the same piano bench or hiding behind the same washing machine—although they’ve done all of that and more, too—they just want to be like this.

That last example had been a pretty tough fit, actually. At their previous apartment, there had been a little bit of space between their laundry unit and the left wall, just enough to manage a particularly flexible person if they folded up their legs, but definitely not enough to be comfortable.

Somehow, Fubuki had wedged himself in there, anyway.

He’d...hidden his feelings for a while there after they graduated. While he was helping Ryou recover, he was always...adaptable. Strong. Optimistic, but not overly so, just...hopeful. Resolute in his convictions that things would get better if they fought for it enough. He bore everything—the stress, the physical strain, Ryou’s fluctuating moods, the lengthy and frequent hospital visits—with unyielding grace, his façade never once cracking. Even on the rare occasion that Ryou lashed out at him, temporarily lost in the depths of his frustration, Fubuki never pushed back, only stood his ground. He was Ryou’s lighthouse in the dark, stormy sky, always burning, always at his side.

But Fubuki wasn’t invincible. He was fragile then, too, vulnerable beyond belief, and there were days when Ryou tore him to pieces, compelled to action by love and fury in equal measure. I don’t need you. You should stay away from me. Just leave me here and find someone who can give you what you deserve. After it was all over, after Fubuki had soothed the jagged wounds in his soul and taken his desperate apologies and sang him to sleep, he would hide next to that washing machine, fold himself up, and cry.

Sometimes, he would cry for hours.

After a while, Ryou stopped letting him do that by himself. When Fubuki would leave, he would follow, clinging to the walls as he staggered, sometimes even crawling on his hands and knees when he couldn’t be bothered to try using his wheelchair. He would get as close as he could, saying nothing, and Fubuki would sob uncontrollably into his back or shoulder until his tears ran dry.

In a way, he misses that spot. Those shared moments strengthened their relationship, kept them close through times that are hard to even think about now. Their old apartment was full of things like that, little places and objects that had begun to carry their own significance as the years wore on. It’s a bit...strange to think that they’ll never see those places again.

Even so, he knows that they’ll find things like that here, too. That the company one is lucky enough to keep is what makes a house a home. And they could be anywhere, but home will always be where Fubuki is.

“...what are you thinking about?” His fiancé asks him, his voice very, very soft. Ryou tilts his head back over his shoulder and closes his eyes, basking in the quiet comfort brought from this alone.

“You.”

As far as antique shops go, Ryou has seen dustier. He has also seen messier, so really, he’ll consider this a victory. Fubuki’s knack for finding hidden gems of establishments has come in handy once again.

However, Ryou will admit that he’s...a little turned-around. The shelves are tall, almost like a fancy library’s, and he appears to have lost track of his overly-enthusiastic fiancé. He can’t be far (this place isn’t that big), and given his penchant for humming absentmindedly while he does...well, literally anything, Ryou will probably hear him before he sees him.

...or, he realizes, as his phone vibrates cheerfully in his pocket, he could...feel him, instead. Isn’t that something.

Fubuki: I found the CUTEST set of crockery! ( ≧∇≦)/

Ryou frowns. For all the love he holds for his fiancé, he knows better than to interpret something like this with anything but suspicion. Fubuki’s tastes vary wildly across an incomprehensible range of colors, patterns, and shapes, so this message feels more like a warning than something to celebrate.

Me: Where are you?

Fubuki replies almost instantly.

Fubuki: In the section with all the dishes! ( ✿◠‿◠)

Fubuki: Go straight down the center aisle and take a right at the big rack of china! (*^3^)/~ ☆

For once, Fubuki’s directions are actually correct, and Ryou finds his way to him much faster than he’d anticipated. Fubuki waves when he spots him, which is stressful, because he is surrounded by fragile, breakable items—truly, the sooner he can get them away from this particular area, the better. It is with no small amount of hesitance that he approaches.

“What did you have to show me?” He asks, voice even quieter than usual as if fearing that anything above a whisper will cause the expensive china all around them to spontaneously shatter. Fubuki doesn’t seem to have the same reservations, though, because he beams at him, his reply as cheerfully unrestrained as ever.

“These!”

Displayed before him on the shelf is...an orchid plate. And, like its predecessor the rose couch (loveseat), it isn’t simply an orchid-colored plate or an orchid-patterned plate, no. That would be too easy. It’s a giant, orchid-shaped plate.

And it is not cute.

It’s tacky, poorly-designed, a stain on the face of all (or most, he supposes) flower-themed decorations. It isn’t pretty like orchids actually are, it’s just...tasteless. And, even worse, it comes in a set. With equally-tasteless matching bowls and cups and such. Fubuki is enamored, and Ryou is petrified. How in the hell is he going to get out of this one? He’d barely escaped the previous mess—he sincerely doubts he can pull that off twice.

“...are you sure about that?” He asks weakly. “What we already have is plenty good enough.”

The set they currently own is absolutely good enough—it was a gift from Fubuki’s parents. Those plates and bowls and cups are far superior to these plastic pieces of junk. Plastic. And it isn’t even sturdy plastic. Fubuki has standards, Ryou knows he does. Why is it that he always gets distracted from quality by bright colors? And come to think of it, this is an antique shop. What are these even doing here? Too many questions, no satisfying answers.

Fubuki—of course Fubuki pouts at him. He looks so put-out, full lips pursed, the perfect picture of petulance.

“But they’re fun!” He insists, and Ryou barely resists the urge to bury his face in his hands. “You don’t think so?”

“You said you wanted to find a decorative tea set. Did you forget about that?”

Something dawns in his fiancé’s expression, and Ryou realizes (with no small amount of exasperation) that he had, in fact, forgotten. Likely as soon as he’d spotted these hideous plates. Unbelievable.

“You’re right!” Fubuki grabs his arm and, much to his terror, drags him off with absolutely no regard for the delicately-laden shelves. “You’ll have to help me, though—it’s important that you like it, too!”

Ryou is certain he could live with a few ugly decorations, so long as he doesn’t have to use them. But Fubuki is also a big fan of those European-style tea sets, what with all their extra little dishes and cups, and if left unsupervised to pick out something like that...who knows what could go wrong. Besides, they came here together—the point, always, is to shop as such. To spend as much time with his fiancé as possible.

He knows well what Fubuki likes, knows that their interests do intersect quite a bit. That makes this easy. To search for something that draws his eye...for something that stirs his heart. Such a feeling is rare when it comes to inanimate objects, but it is not impossible.

Ryou pauses when he catches sight of something that does just that.

It’s a tea set, alright, exactly as Fubuki wants—as far as Ryou can see, it even has all the pieces still. And it’s...pretty. The porcelain cups are crafted vaguely in the shape of lilies, and the whole set follows this motif. Each exquisite “flower” is awash in soft colors, delicate shades of pale purple and pink fading smoothly into cream, and every piece is accented in gold.

Ryou tugs lightly on Fubuki’s sleeve to get his attention, offering him one of the cups when he turns around to look.  

“Is this to your liking?”

Fubuki’s eyes widen slightly at the sight of it, and even by the awestruck way he takes the teacup, Ryou can tell that they’ll be bringing this home. Regardless of their mutual fondness for lilies, it’s just a very lovely and well-crafted tea set. It suits the more...refined side of Fubuki’s sensibilities perfectly, and up close, Ryou is certain that it suits his own, as well. Something about it...brings him peace. It reminds him of all the various flowers he would get while recovering, brightly-colored bundles of well-wishes and support, living reminders of everyone else’s love for him.

His fiancé is still holding the cup, something faintly tremulous in his expression as he lightly traces a finger along a porcelain petal.

“...it’s beautiful,” he says softly, and Ryou knows they’re thinking of the same things. “Can we...do you think...?”

Ryou slides a hand along his lower back and nuzzles his cheek. His voice is warm when he replies.

“I think it’s perfect.”

Fubuki kisses him in the middle of the antique shop, mouth soft and sweet against his own—for once, where they are doesn’t matter at all, and kissing him back is the easiest thing in the world. 

“We really should’ve hired someone for this,” Ryou deadpans, although his delivery is mitigated somewhat by how utterly winded he is. He’s sunk into their new armchair, posture utterly horrendous—sure, he did about half as much work as Fubuki, but just watching him was more than enough to make him sweat.

His fiancé laughs breathlessly from his place on the floor, flat on his back, chest rising and falling rapidly. He has been lying there for about five minutes now and does not seem particularly inclined to move.

“What, were Juudai and Jun not helpful?” He teases. Ryou frowns.

“Not with a couch.”

Yes. They’ve finally done it. They finally found a sofa. What’s more is that they found a three-piece set, so it came with a matching loveseat and armchair, too. It’s a nice, subtle color, it’s very comfortable, and it’s fucking heavy. Getting it into their apartment had been such a fucking chore, even with Juudai and Manjoume’s impromptu assistance. They’ve been gone for a while now, paid in full with Fubuki’s lovingly hand-made snacks—all of this exhaustion has come from trying to find the right spot. They’ve moved the damn thing. Three times now.

Thankfully, Ryou thinks this might finally be The Spot. Fubuki also seems to think this might finally be The Spot, as he also moved the armchair, the loveseat, and the coffee table along with it. That seems to signal some level of serious commitment, at least.

Fubuki giggles at that, the sound slightly less breathless than before.

“Hey, we got it here, didn’t we?”

Ryou considers reminding him that Manjoume almost got squashed, but decides against it in the end. Fubuki is right—they got it here. The couch is nice, it isn’t an eyesore, and it’s in a good enough place to just...leave it for now.

“It’s better than the old one, at any rate,” he mutters, and Fubuki groans.

“What a piece of garbage.”

Thing is? It wasn’t, not really, and they both knew it. It...functioned. It was very plain, but that was perfectly fine, and it wasn’t...uncomfortable. The shape of it could’ve been better, there was a Mystery Stain on the back (that Fubuki kept permanently covered with a throw blanket), and one of the cushions was permanently deformed, but it could’ve been so much worse.

And yet. For whatever reason, they’d both declared that couch Public Enemy No. 1. It had become a comedic fixture of their lives back then, something to vent at, if necessary, an inside joke and an actual grievance all at once. It was silly, but it was stability. Stability that, at the time, they had sorely needed. Even when everything had started to fall back into place, the routine had just sort of...stuck.

Ryou pushes himself up out of the armchair, deciding to give their new couch another proper test, instead. The cushions feel firm and even, which is a relief. Juudai had proclaimed it comfortable enough to be a bed, but Ryou had maintained reasonable suspicion at this claim—after all, Juudai could literally sleep anywhere. So can Fubuki, for that matter, which makes Ryou the real judge of comfort here, and...well, he thinks he might actually be able to sleep on this. Maybe just a nap, though. When the day is over, he would much rather sleep in his own bed with his fiancé.

From his place on the floor, Fubuki sighs, one hand trailing absentmindedly along his toned stomach, bared by the tied-up tank-top he’s currently wearing. His little jogging shorts are low on his hips, further adding to the picture, and Ryou can’t help but remember the first time he’d seen him dressed like that. At Duel Academy, Fubuki never could’ve gotten away with wearing a crop-top and short-shorts outside—it wasn’t dress code appropriate, after all—but in their dorm room, he was free to do as he pleased, provided that his roommate (that being Ryou) was fine with it. It had taken something of an...adjustment period, considering he’d never seen that much of anyone’s skin before (not even his own), but he’d nodded mutely when asked for his permission nonetheless. It was hot, after all, and they were technically just exercise clothes.

Now, though, he’s free to appreciate it for what it is: attractive. The shorts accentuate his long legs, his toned thighs, and the tied-up shirt emphasizes the slender curve of his waist. He looks graceful there, stretched out on the floor, even though he isn’t moving—he doesn’t have to. His ever-present allure remains intact even after such intense manual labor and is, perhaps, only served by it. The flush on his face and the faint sheen of sweat glowing on his exposed skin even go so far as to remind Ryou of...other things. The visual is enticing, for lack of a better word, and he gets. An idea.

“...get up here.” Ryou tells him, gesturing to the couch. “Better than the floor.”

Fubuki seems pleased by this suggestion, and Ryou enjoys watching his muscles flex and shift as he rises to join him. He has always been fascinated by the way he moves, by the natural grace that flows through even the most everyday of actions. Walking. Shifting his weight. Changing into different clothes. When Fubuki engages in more involved things—dancing, sports, dueling—his economy of motion only becomes more elegant, the energy of control and perfect bodily-kinesthetic awareness extending all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes. Even when he trips over nothing, what should be an awkward stumble for anyone else becomes a fluid swoon.

Now, Fubuki makes a grand show of falling dramatically onto the sofa beside him, reclining back against the arm as though it’s a chaise lounge instead of a Lawson. At the very least, he’s careful not to kick Ryou in the head as he stretches his legs out on either side of him, grinning widely at the flat look he shoots him.

“What? You invited me!”

“Sofas are for sitting,” Ryou stresses, even as he makes a show of crawling up between his legs, in turn. Fubuki watches his movements with no small amount of interest, quirking an eyebrow when he leans over him, putting their faces closer together. From this proximity, Ryou can see every fleck of gold in his fiancé’s eyes, every flicker in his expression—he can see the way his pupils expand slightly at their positions, and he smirks, gratified by the complementary mood (and the immediate feedback as his eyes only darken further).

“Ryou, are you...?” He starts, but Ryou doesn’t let him finish. He kisses him, soft but deliberate, an obvious intent present in his actions that Fubuki responds to immediately. His hands come up to clutch loosely at Ryou’s shirt as he matches his warm, steadily-deepening pace, an appreciative sound vibrating between their mouths. Yes. He’s so amazing. Ryou pulls back slightly, encouraged by the new flush on his fiancé’s face, by the obvious desire in his eyes.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, running a hand up his bared stomach. Fubuki shivers. “Absolutely stunning.”

He leans down to kiss his neck, nipping teasingly at his smooth skin. Fubuki gasps, giggling, and threads his fingers through Ryou’s hair.

“Darling, are you sure?”

Ryou nods, gripping his thigh. The firm muscle tenses reflexively beneath his touch.

“Needs to be broken in,” he mutters, mouth pressed to Fubuki’s collarbone. Beneath him, his fiancé bursts into startled laughter, the sound ringing bright in the sun-filled room.

“Well,” he purrs, arching up as Ryou trails kisses down his chest. “I’m...certainly not objecting.”

Fubuki’s breaths start to come shorter as he moves lower, lips grazing over his stomach in hot, open-mouthed kisses as if he knows that it’ll get him worked up (and, funnily enough, he does). Ryou is careful to pay extra-special attention to his waist (firmly, of course, as Fubuki is a bit ticklish there) and his hips (even going so far as to slide a hand up his shorts, which makes Fubuki squeak with surprise). Slowly, deliberately, Ryou works his way back up, appreciating, worshipping every inch of him with his mouth, up his tensing abdominal muscles, over his chest, back to his throat. By the time he captures Fubuki’s soft lips again, his fiancé is a shuddering, hypersensitive mess, tugging at his clothes, his hair, to bring him closer.

“Ryou,” he whimpers, kissing him hard, glowing with warmth and passion. “Please, love. Please.”

Ryou pins Fubuki to their new couch and gives him everything he wants.

“Blue or white?”

Ryou frowns, thinking hard. He...he really feels like he’s been here before. This array of strange, rectangular-shaped packages...yes, this is familiar. Blue or white. Blue or white. Curtains. Yes, curtains. Curtains for the...? He glances quickly at his notes. Kitchen. And living room, but kitchen first. His frown deepens.

“I thought you wanted yellow for the kitchen,” he says in lieu of answering, and Fubuki makes a surprised little noise in his throat.

“Well, yes, but—but we decided it was too much, remember?”

He sounds a little sad about it. Ryou makes the executive decision to rectify that as soon as possible, turning left down the aisle without explanation. Fubuki lets him go, focused on his own conundrum.

Surely there is...a compromise to be found here. Yellow doesn’t have to be too much. If Fubuki has taught him anything, it’s that seeing and trying things from varying perspectives is important. Their kitchen has dark wood cabinets and feels elegant overall, but is...a little too sleek to be home. Fubuki had wanted to cheer the space up a little with some brighter accent colors, to make it “cuter”, but they hadn’t been able to figure out exactly how. Yellow had come up in the conversation at some point, but so had a lot of other things. This color matching business could be...truly tiring after a while.

White goes with everything, Ryou’s brain supplies helpfully, and he takes a packet off the rack.

“Let’s try these,” he suggests as he approaches, handing the item in question to Fubuki. His fiancé studies the preview, eyebrows raised: white curtains with a soft gradient to pale yellow. Fresh, clean, and subtle. He smiles.

“I like them,” he agrees, his pretty brown eyes full of adoration when he looks back up at him. “Thank you!”

Ryou shrugs one shoulder, a little embarrassed.

“Lucky guess,” he mumbles, and Fubuki kisses his cheek. Trying to stave off a deeper blush that he’s sure is inevitable, anyway, Ryou clears his throat. “So. Blue or white for the living room, too?”

Fubuki nods, although a thoughtful dent has appeared between his eyebrows.

“I think so? But I’m sort of playing it safe. I’m...just not sure which exact scheme I’m looking for there.”

Ryou studies his shopping cheat-sheet, thinking hard. So far, they have a lot of brown in their living room. The walls are off-white (in a warmer tone, Fubuki had pointed out, not a cooler one) with clean, white trim, while the wooden floors are a pleasant, somewhat muted cherry. The coffee table, end table, and shelving units are all in darker wood, while the sofa set is a shade somewhere in between the wood and the walls. Fubuki wants to buy an accent chair at some point, but that has already been relegated to later. For now, they just need color.

“We’ll have plants eventually,” he asks without asking, and Fubuki nods. “And you have pictures to put on the walls. So it won’t be so empty that we’ll need...a lot.”

“Right. Just some pillows, a rug or two, maybe a throw-blanket.” Fubuki confirms. “The curtains are for privacy more than anything else—they can stay to the side all day to let the light in. I would just prefer to have the balcony doors covered at night.”

“Mhm. And since our color base is neutral...”

They both stare at the sheet for a while, then look at each other.

“Almost anything works.”

“Yeah.”

Fubuki sighs, almost running a hand through his hair before remembering that he has it pulled back at the sides.

“Alright. Our—our kitchen is white and yellow.”

Ryou nods. “And our bedroom is blue.”

His fiancé worries his bottom lip with his teeth, lost in thought.

“So...green, maybe?” He suggests, and Ryou tilts his head, considering it.

“Like...a light green?” He asks, and Fubuki nods, already flitting down the aisle, hair trailing along behind him with his sharp turn.

“Yeah, like—like this,” he clarifies, retrieving a packet of curtains to show him as an example. The shade is certainly pleasant, a comfortable...seafoam-sage sort of...color. Ryou isn’t. Good at this. But they look nice. “This and...something more daring, perhaps? Yellow? A soft pink?”

Ryou isn’t so sure about daring, although soft pink doesn’t actually sound so bad. Another color would certainly be nice, especially since it’ll make Fubuki happy.

“Maybe...stripes? Some sort of pattern?” Ryou suggests, and his fiancé lights up.

“That sounds nice! We’ll have to look at pillows,” he starts, then stops. “Ah. But curtains—”

“—these,” Ryou cuts in, handing him a packet of flowing white curtains with a matching green trim. Fubuki glances them over, then smiles.

“Sure. You’re getting rather good at this, you know?”

Ryou sighs. “Don’t celebrate just yet. We still have to pick a new set for the bathroom.”

To his surprise, Fubuki brightens further at this objectively bad news.

“Oh, that’s easy! We’ll just do gray and purple!”

Ryou thinks about it for a moment, frowning in concentration at his cheat-sheet. That’s...that’s not a bad idea, actually.

“Gray for me, purple for you?” He clarifies, and Fubuki nods enthusiastically.

“Yeah!”

“Hm. Sounds good.”

“Yay! Now, for pillows! Ah, and rugs! And—”

When Ryou gets home, he finds Fubuki sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, surrounded by boxes and a whole collection of items. Some of them are still wrapped in tissue paper, but plenty of others—a pretty jewelry box, a few jars of shells, a photo album, an older-looking camera—have been opened already. For a moment, Ryou thinks he’s still unpacking, but he could’ve sworn they already (finally) finished that last night. So what is he...?

His fiancé glances back over his shoulder when he hears him shut the door, hair shimmering as it cascades over his back with the motion.

“Welcome home, love!” He practically sings, beaming at him. He is especially radiant this afternoon, eyes shining with a particularly poignant joy, and Ryou finds himself stopped short in the foyer, awestruck by his beauty. “Look at what my parents sent us!”

At his prompting, Ryou sets down his keys and approaches, watching with interest as Fubuki carefully unfolds the nearest clump of tissue paper to reveal a small, glass-blown figurine of a Red-Eyes Black Dragon. It is with utmost delicacy that he lifts it in his hands, cooing softly in delight, even as Ryou’s eyes widen at the elegant, precise craftsmanship.

“It’s beautiful,” he breathes, and Fubuki hums in agreement.

“My parents had it commissioned for my tenth birthday,” he informs him, affectionately trailing a finger over the little dragon’s beak. “It was Asuka’s idea, but she was eight, so she couldn’t call in the order and such on her own. I’m almost certain she tried, though.”

Ryou chuckles, moving to sit in the relatively-cleared space beside him. He could easily picture that...Asuka was always very determined to do things on her own, and Fubuki has told him many times that she was somewhat more...openly obstinate in her childhood, which is truly amusing to think about.

Curious now, he picks up another wrapped object. “What is all of this?”

Fubuki turns to him with a brilliant smile, holding the little dragon closer to his face, gently bumping his nose with its delicate glass beak. Ryou feels himself go cross-eyed to follow its proximity, and his fiancé giggles.

“It’s a housewarming gift,” he explains, placing the figurine carefully in Ryou’s hand. “I asked my parents to send me some stuff from home—you know, now that we have a bigger place—and they sent a few extra things, too! That’s just how my family does things.”

Ryou smiles softly as he gazes down at the little dragon, more than inclined to agree. Even Asuka, in all her infinite practicality, could be this way. Her gifts were often surprisingly numerous in quantity and expertly-chosen—just like her brother’s. And, it would appear, like her parents’ as well.

A good portion of the afternoon is spent right there on the floor, sorting through everything that Fubuki’s parents were kind enough to send their way. Ryou peruses the photo album as Fubuki fiddles with the camera, pausing every now and then to give context for some picture (“That was my fifth birthday! Am I not adorable?”) or another (“Aww, that’s just before our first recital! Look at how little Asuka is!”).

An unopened box reveals a whole set of expensive wall scrolls, each one displaying exquisitely detailed depictions of Red-Eyes Black Dragon and all the members of its archetype—evidently, Fubuki had been dead-set on gathering them all as a child, and had only managed to complete the collection just before he entered high school. Fubuki’s parents even sent a brand-new one for Ryou, too, featuring a magnificent painting of Cyber End Dragon.

Ryou is silent for a minute as he gazes at it, soaking in its detailed splendor. Fubuki allows him this time with his usual intuitive grace, quiet as he carefully rolls up and re-packages the scrolls, smiling softly to himself all the while. In this housewarming gift requested by Fubuki, they...they sent him something, too. Amidst these memories, so precious to their dear son...they thought of him.

“...your parents, they...” He swallows around the lump in his throat, trying to find the words. “...they have always been so kind to me, even before...”

Fubuki leans in, kissing his cheek. His scent is fresh and crisp, like the mint soap he steals from Ryou, and his warmth seeps in through his clothes.

“Of course.” He sounds so matter-of-fact, the words as second-nature as the way he cuddles up to him, wrapping his arms around his waist and leaning his head on his shoulder. “They love you. You’ve been a part of the family for years now, you know.”

He pauses, then laughs quietly, squeezing him a little.

“Now, more so than ever, though.”

More so than ever, indeed. Fubuki’s parents had been overjoyed to learn of their engagement—his father had even cried, and although she’d turned her face away, it was clear that his mother was teary-eyed as well. They were all so full of emotion, just bursting with love and kindness, and it’s true...the whole family always made Ryou feel as though he belonged. First it was Fubuki, with his enthusiasm and gentle affection...then it was Asuka, with her determination and patience. Fubuki’s parents were much the same, bright and earnest and accommodating, and now he will always look forward to visits to his fiancé’s childhood home.

Ryou tilts his head, nuzzling Fubuki’s hair, breathing him in slowly. Out of the corner of his eye, the great silver dragon glows softly in the light, a steadfast reminder that his monsters are no longer the only ones devoted to him. 

“...thank you.” He murmurs. “...to all of you.”

But especially to you. If generosity and loyalty are the makings of the Tenjouin spirit, then Ryou is certain that Fubuki embodies it best of all.

Ryou has misplaced his fiancé.

It all started with a disagreement. Not a serious one, not even a mildly tense one, just a “Fubuki, we are NOT buying that” one. They have a list. They must adhere to it. This is a non-negotiable matter, lest they end up trapped in department store purgatory for the rest of the day. Even Fubuki had seemed fairly committed to staying on-task, but alas, that was before he had seen it. Another flower-themed monstrosity that Ryou is almost certain now that someone is designing just to spite him.

A sunflower lamp.

As with the rose couch (loveseat!) and the orchid plates, it hadn’t just been a sunflower-colored lamp, or even a sunflower-patterned lamp. It was a six-foot tall floor lamp constructed to look like a sunflower. And, like its predecessors, it was hideous. Surely, this. This must have belonged in the children’s section.

And Ryou knows it’s bad this time because he is actually quite partial to sunflowers. They remind him most fondly of a certain someone that he’s currently engaged to, so normally, he doesn’t mind seeing them. But that damn thing was just absurd.

Which means that, of course, Fubuki was smitten with it instantly, and he had proceeded to wheedle him for the next ten minutes as Ryou desperately hunted down the aisle for a suitable replacement. Anything to make Fubuki forget about that lamp. Yes, they wanted a standing lamp in their living room. Did they need one badly enough to warrant purchasing that? No.

After a mild case of hysteria, Ryou had successfully managed to locate something more practical (and infinitely easier on the eyes), but shortly afterward, Fubuki just...disappeared. Ryou had turned around to simply find him gone, and now he hasn’t managed to track him down. He takes that time to grab a few more little things on their list, but eventually, he has no choice. He has to find his fiancé.

He sighs, pulling his phone out of his pocket to text him.

Me: Where are you?

He wanders around the store a bit while he waits for a reply, scanning the various aisles with vague disinterest and trying to quell his slowly-growing concern. Fubuki...does have a penchant for wandering off, especially when shopping is concerned, but this...this is a bit unlike him. Especially since he isn’t answering.

Ryou thinks about texting him again, but decides to call him, instead, hoping that Fubuki’s ringtone will catch his attention better than the little text vibration. He has them personalized for everyone he knows, after all...a very Fubuki thing to do, really, but Ryou has to admit that it has some organizational benefits.

To his relief, his fiancé picks up on the fourth ring, his voice bright even through the speaker.

“Hi, darling!

Ryou shakes his head, exasperated, albeit unable to fight the small smile already curling his lips. Fubuki just...has that effect on him. He always has, even before Ryou could understand it.

“Where are you?” He asks, glancing down the aisle. “You left me.”

Fubuki lets out a soft oh of realization, although he sounds...distracted? He must be looking at something. That should...that should not make him so anxious, but he can’t help it—it does.

“Oh, I’m in the children’s section!”

Ryou hangs up and starts running.

The children’s section. What a nightmare! As if that stupid sunflower lamp hadn’t already been enough of a disaster. In hindsight, it might’ve even been a sign of things to come—a bad omen he hadn’t been observant enough to heed. Conveniently, he’s close to that area of the store already, so in the amount of time he takes to find him, he hasn’t gotten to fully conjure up the catastrophic image of all the gimmicky furniture he will have to persuade Fubuki not to buy. He simply does not have an ounce of energy left for it after their mental duel in the lighting section.

Ominously enough, Fubuki is standing before a display of variously-themed lamps (why must it be lamps today?), his back to him, seemingly engrossed in something that Ryou can’t see. His shoulders are a little raised, his posture slightly curled inward, like he’s...crying? That. That can’t be right. He hastens to approach him, calling his name.

“Fubuki?”

He turns around at the sound of his voice and Ryou stops short, momentarily caught by his expression. He’s smiling, but...it’s so particularly emotive, almost fragile, the way one might smile when they’re on the verge of overjoyed tears. His eyes are shining, and they’re so full of love and fondness that Ryou cannot do anything but stare at him.

“Just look at it,” his fiancé whispers, his voice almost reverent. “Isn’t it precious?”

Cradled carefully in his hands is a bedside lamp. It is maybe only about a foot tall, unboxed, likely retrieved directly from one of the store displays, but despite its rather diminutive stature, it gleams, silver and proud, in the overhead lights.

Cyber End Dragon.

Ryou blinks, disarmed by the emotions welling up inside of him. It’s...a lamp. It’s just a lamp. But it’s a well-made one, not cheesy or plastic-looking like the sunflower lamp from before. The dragon looks proud, powerful, beautiful—he reaches out, tracing a finger lightly along one of the smooth, wide wings framing the lampshade.

He swallows, and feels that a lump has formed in his throat.

“Do you want it?” Fubuki asks, still in that hushed, sweet voice. Ryou can’t take his eyes off of it, the middle head gazing back at him with calm certainty.

“...yes.”

He holds that box in his arms the whole way home.

Their bedroom has come together the fastest, which is a good thing, because that’s where they sleep. It’s their space, safe and clean, and Ryou has always looked forward to crawling into bed with Fubuki, to settling down in his arms (or vice versa, he isn’t picky) after a long day. Or a short day. Any day, really. The fact that their new apartment has larger rooms only gave them more to work with, and Ryou is quite pleased with how it has turned out.

It feels...as it should. Quiet, but warm. Calming. The soft blues of their favorite blankets are comforting, and various aspects of their lives are well-documented on every available surface. The beribboned jars of shells on the windowsill. Fubuki’s many scrapbooks, sorted by date on the shelves. The various origami creations strung along the walls. The Cyber End Dragon lamp now standing proud on the bedside table. It is...their room, their space. Little by little, each area begins to feel that way...little by little, this apartment is becoming their home.

Fubuki seems to agree with him, because he has gotten very comfortable with him on the bed. He’s playing with his hair, a common practice around their household, although he’s oddly quiet, which means that he’s thinking about something. He is content, though—that much is evident in his soft demeanor, in the slow gentleness of his hands, in the intermittent kisses he presses lightly to Ryou’s forehead.

...how much of his life has he spent this way? His head in Fubuki’s lap, gazing at the ceiling, amazed by how easy it is to just...be with him. He was sixteen years old the first time he let Fubuki pull him close like this, sixteen and completely blindsided by how it felt to be touched so attentively, so kindly...he had come to look forward to Fubuki’s tactile nature, to his affection, to his seemingly endless need to play with his hair. The joy it brought him then has only grown over time, and now, as he lies here, he knows.

This is...this is where he was meant to be. He knew it even when he wasn’t sure if this would work, if he would even survive all the damage that had been done to him. To be given such love, even then...what more could he possibly ask for?

Fubuki carefully shifts out from under him, maneuvering himself so that he’s lying beside him on the mattress, instead. This, too, is familiar—how many hours did they while away in this manner, side-by-side on one of their beds back at Duel Academy, talking about everything and nothing?

“You ever think the ceiling is a little empty?” Fubuki wonders aloud, his soft voice pulling him out of his ruminations. “I mean, without Ryugo there.”

Ryou snorts, unable to help himself. At their old apartment, Fubuki had discovered a grain pattern in the ceiling that, according to him, resembled a five-headed dragon. After explaining this to Ryou, he’d spent a week trying to name the imaginary creature, eventually setting on the inspired moniker of “Ryugo”. Ryou had not been amused at first, but in fairness, he...hadn’t found most things very funny at that point in his life. Even on a better day, Fubuki’s more childlike antics had an unfortunate tendency to rub him the wrong way back then.

But even he had started to see the dragon, sort of. He never did manage to find all five heads, and he certainly never cooed to it the way Fubuki did while he put the laundry away, but he...may have spoken to it a few times. Being periodically bedridden will do that to a person. It was a little silly, but he’d...always felt better, in the end.

“...a little,” he admits, lifting his arm as Fubuki snuggles closer. He’s silent for a moment, then continues. “You could always draw one yourself.”

That makes his fiancé giggle into his chest, and Ryou smiles.

“I can only imagine the suffering you just endured to make that joke,” he teases. “You are aware that you just gave me an idea, correct?”

“I’ll take my chances.”

It’s all so...easy. To be with him like this, to tease, to banter...he never would’ve dreamed he could have this with anyone, let alone someone as perfect and wonderful as Fubuki. He always thought...he would be alone forever. Distanced by his own hand, destined to stand at the top with no one by his side. To share even a rivalry with Fubuki had been a blessing...to share love with him had been (and continues to be) a saving grace.

Fubuki hums, pleased by this lightweight mood, and settles more comfortably against his chest. His silky hair spills down onto the mattress, and Ryou returns the favor from earlier, playing delicately with the shining strands as his fiancé listens to his heartbeat.

Ryou is in their home office when Fubuki gets back, although he gets up as soon as he hears the front door open. He’s already out of the room by the time his fiancé belts out one of his usual greetings—today, it’s “Lucy, I’m home!”, the initial instance of which had left Ryou gravely protesting that his name was not, in fact, Lucy. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Fubuki laugh that hard, which is really saying something.

(Once he’d wiped away his tears and caught his breath, Fubuki had proceeded to inform him that it was a catchphrase of sorts on an American television show from the 1950s. Ryou had, of course, never seen said American television show from the 1950s, and that was how they’d ended up marathoning I Love Lucy for a solid month. Between his somewhat shaky grasp of English, the unfamiliar accents of the cast, and the general shenanigans that took place each exhausting episode, Ryou had only managed to absorb about a third of it, but he was quite alright with that.)

He gets a surprise when he enters the living room, though: a medium-sized box sitting on the coffee table. He can hear Fubuki rustling around in the kitchen, most likely brewing tea, so he approaches the package with curiosity.

“Another housewarming gift?” Ryou asks, raising his voice slightly to be heard. He doesn’t quite catch Fubuki’s answer, though, because the box—the box has his name on it.

Ryou frowns, scanning the label for the sender’s address, his heart jumping in his chest when he sees it. That’s...that’s his childhood address. Where he grew up. Which can only mean...

...his father sent this.

“I thought he might’ve told you, but I guess he didn’t?”

Fubuki’s voice startles him, much closer than he’d expected it to be, and he glances back to see that his ever-stealthy fiancé must’ve come up behind him while he was preoccupied with the package. He shakes his head.

“No, I...had no idea this was coming.”

Fubuki hums softly. “Do you want to open it?”

His tone is gentle, not wishing to impose the matter on him either way. Ryou is grateful for his careful approach, but he...yes, he does. He wants to. The words will not come, so he nods, and Fubuki lightly strokes his hair.

“Very well, then. Shall we?”

They sit on the couch with the box between them, Ryou unable to quell his nerves as Fubuki severs the tape. The contents are precisely-packed, not that he expected otherwise—he and his father have always been much the same with regards to their organization. But what those contents are does surprise him, because it isn’t the practical kitchen appliance or cookware set one might imagine from a man as responsible as Marufuji Syou.

Rather, it is very similar to the packages Fubuki received from his own parents: full of memories.

Ryou remains silent as he sifts carefully through what his father sent him, mentally filing it all away. His first Cyber Dragon wall scroll. A notebook full of prototype decks. His favorite Cyber End figurine. His old Cyber Art uniform. Standout moments of his childhood, all packed meticulously into one box. Ryou feels a lump forming in his throat at the sight of them—how much time must it have taken for his father to find all of these things...?

Set delicately atop his uniform is a rectangle wrapped in tissue paper—a framed photograph, likely of one his early tournament victories from when he was still in elementary school. Maybe a graduation picture, taken many years later. Ryou retrieves it with an odd sensation of anticipation, pulling back the painstakingly folded layers.

His eyes widen at what he sees.

The photograph is of four, two adults and two children, all dressed in traditional garb. Despite the staging of the shoot, they seem relaxed, pleased to be in each other’s company—the children look comfortable in their parents’ arms, and the husband and wife (for who else could they be?) have a serene glow about them that was somehow captured on film. All four of them are smiling (in varying degrees) at the camera, including the husband, whom Ryou has...not seen smile that way in a very long time.  

The lump in his throat is now impossible to ignore. This is...

“Oh,” Fubuki breathes, his voice softer than Ryou has ever heard it. “This is...?”

Shou is so young in this picture—he cannot possibly be older than three. His smile is one of laughter, open-mouthed and wide, and Ryou can...he can almost hear it. It’s such a particular sound, the laughter of small children...

His mother is beautiful, but then again, Ryou has never known her to be anything less. She looks so happy, surrounded by her family, and he blinks back tears. He has very few photos of her currently—to have another in his possession truly eases something inside his heart, even now.

As for his father...he remembers that smile. He hasn’t yet seen it again since he was a child, but...he has seen something. His father is in his life once more, and...

...he thought to send him all of this.

“We should hang it up,” Fubuki says softly, and Ryou nods, unable to look away from his family’s happy faces. “It’s beautiful.”

Their walls are laden with artfully arranged photographs at this point, and Ryou approaches one area in particular: a blank hook amidst Fubuki’s many family pictures, left unoccupied in preparation for future occasions. There is no need to ask about whether or not this belongs here—this is his fiancé. They know each other better than anyone ever could, after all, and Fubuki has promised him many times that they are family.

...welcome to my home, Mother, he thinks as he carefully hangs the frame, making sure it’s secure before stepping back to examine the wall. It...fits. At least, he thinks so.

Warmth suffuses his being as Fubuki comes up beside him, resting a hand against his back. The motion Ryou makes to wrap his arm around his waist is second-nature, and Fubuki willingly presses further into his embrace, leaning his head on his shoulder as he joins him in looking at the photograph.

“It’s perfect,” he murmurs. Ryou smiles softly, kissing his hair, careful to avoid the bright pins holding it in place. “...you look so happy.”

And he does. His smile reaches his eyes, and he clings adoringly to his father’s sleeve as he tries to be on his best behavior for the camera. He is loved, and he is well-aware of it.

...and he is loved, still.

“...I am,” Ryou says simply, holding Fubuki close. “I’m home.”

And he is.