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Fubuki has been brighter than usual this week, while Ryou could perhaps stand to be a little less...brooding. The fact that their wildly differing moods have been caused by the same source is a bit surprising, but it isn’t as though he’s miserable, he just...has a lot to think about. More than he usually does at this time of year, apparently.
To say that he and Fubuki had differing childhoods is...something of an understatement, although it might not be noticeable at first glance. They were both born into wealthy families, the precious first child of attentive, doting parents—they both had their hands held while crossing the street, their hair brushed every morning, their small bodies wrapped in soft blankets and cuddled reverently by mothers and fathers alike. Their homes were family-oriented sanctuaries constructed around love and shared joy, and it shaped their early years as sons, as older brothers, as children growing up in the world.
But while Fubuki’s life stretched on in endless sunlit days and starry nights, Ryou’s split down the middle when his mother died. All of the money and fancy schooling and expensive gifts in the world could never replace the warmth that had been lost, the stability, the sense of belonging. Already a devoted student of the Cyber Art, he sunk deep into his training and thought of little else. In some ways, he had nothing else.
Life, however, has a tendency to change, to reveal constellations where nothing but infinite darkness once hung, and so Tenjouin Fubuki came to light Ryou’s skies. And so his love led him to new places, to sealed-off corners of his heart, to shared beds and kisses and dreams. And so he is here, a married man like his father before him, twenty-five and with all the scars necessary to prove how hard he fought to make it this far.
Despite this, the knowledge of his in-laws’ impending marriage anniversary is...weighing on him a little.
Tenjouin Shigeo and Yasuko are, much like their son, generosity and sunlight incarnate. He can see their various traits in both Fubuki and Asuka, as the whole family’s noble spirit is radiant, while their discipline is tempered and balanced like a masterfully-forged blade. Quick-witted, affectionate, and full to bursting with love, they have treated Ryou as one of their own since the first time they met him.
They’ve also been married, as Fubuki keeps reminding him lately, for twenty-seven years.
It makes sense for him to be so happy. He has wonderful parents who openly adore each other, and Ryou is perfectly willing to celebrate their union alongside him. But even as his family has grown, the one he started with—the one he was born into—remains more of a mystery than he would like it to be.
It was only recently that Ryou learned more, that his parents married in late summer, that the wedding was a small affair, that it was one of the happiest days of their lives. That he was born a little over a year later, a bright, shining light in the home they’d built to welcome him. That yes, they did celebrate their anniversaries while he was growing up, they were just significantly more private about it than Fubuki’s parents had been.
This upcoming August, they would’ve been married for twenty-six years. And, with Ryou’s own marriage drawing ever-closer at the time that he was told all of this, his father had made certain there was no room for doubt: yes, they would still be together.
(On that same day, his father had shown him photographs of his own wedding, had told him to select a few pictures to keep for himself. Now, several months after marrying Fubuki and beginning his own story, the precious envelope containing them remains sealed, tucked safely away in his bedside drawer. If there was ever a time to open it...surely, it would be now...?)
“...love?”
Ryou blinks, reality returning to him in glassy, sunlit fragments. The city stretches out around them, beneath them, a bright galaxy of life—their balcony is its own Solar System, quietly observing the various star clusters, the infinite stretch of space. Across from him, Fubuki tilts his head, his half-tied hair spilling over his shoulder in sun-warmed waves of chocolate and auburn. He looks...worried, his brows slightly furrowed, his favorite cup set aside, and Ryou quickly realizes why: he has been completely lost in thought for heaven knows how long.
He clears his throat. “...yes?”
Fubuki, absurdly, adorably, tilts his head the other way.
“It would seem,” he starts, his voice a soft declaration, “That you have quite a bit on your mind, darling.”
Ryou averts his eyes, unable to take his husband’s concerned gaze. He knows his tendency to lose focus when something bothers him is both obvious and understood, but he can’t help feeling a sense of shame when he does it in the middle of a conversation. Especially when that conversation is with Fubuki, who has always paid attention to every word and silence in-between.
“...it’s fine.”
It is not fine. Fubuki knows that, and reaches across the table to take his hand—without question, Ryou lets him, his guilt easing somewhat at the comforting gesture. Like this, he feels a bit more grounded.
“Love, please talk to me,” Fubuki entreats him. “You’ve been thinking rather determinedly about something for the past week or so, and it seems to be dampening your mood a bit. Is there...anything I can do to help?”
Ryou sighs. What can he even say...? It isn’t that Fubuki wouldn’t understand, because of course he would. He always does. He knows how delicate of a subject Ryou’s family remains to this day, his mother especially, and if Ryou told him it was about that...he wouldn’t push. But...
“...it’s...it’s your parents’ anniversary.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Ryou sees Fubuki straighten up a bit in surprise. He says nothing, however, silently encouraging him to continue, clarity likely dawning on him already.
“...you know so much about your parents, and I...I know more about yours than I do about my own. How happy they were, how much...how much they loved each other...”
His husband makes a soft sound, and Ryou knows the exact expression he would see if he looked up right now—the sympathy in his eyes, the slight downward tilt to his mouth, the warm solemnity on his face. As it is, he doesn’t think he can stand the sight, fearing that the profound understanding there would be too much.
“I suppose...it must be strange, having heard so many...extravagant wedding tales from my parents, and yet...”
Fubuki trails off, not needing to complete the thought. The sentiment is obvious enough. Surely, he recalls just as well his father’s general reticence about such details, Ryou’s own hesitance to seek answers, even when he wants them. He knows of the photographs, still hidden away...he knows how tightly locked up the whole family keeps their grief, how much they still fear those restraints breaking. Most importantly, he knows how Ryou views the past distance between them as a reflection on himself, and that even though matters have gotten better, his concerns about personally falling short sometimes remain.
“And I...treasure those stories,” Ryou says softly, honestly, and Fubuki squeezes his hand. “I do. I am grateful to your family for letting me in, for showing me such love...for sharing their most precious memories with me.”
His husband’s answering smile is audible, and Ryou finally lifts his head, if not just to feel the warmth of that expression on his face. He cannot help but seek him as a seedling does the sun, and when Fubuki rises to his feet, Ryou follows, drawn by the tug in his heart and the gentle grip on his hand.
Fubuki leads him back into their living room, and before Ryou can even think to mention that they’ve left their cups outside, his head is pillowed on Fubuki’s chest and silly things like tea stains and sun-bleaching don’t matter. For a moment, nothing matters but the steady beat of his husband’s strong heart, the gentle security his embrace brings. When Fubuki takes a deep, slow breath, he feels himself do the same.
Ryou does...not usually interpret life events the way Fubuki does, as grand twists of fate or signs from the heavens, but...he can still remember the first time he held him like this. How warm he had felt, his body anchored comfortingly in place. He had not known such quiet sweetness since he was a child...he had not known that something so simple could make his heart whole again. In that moment, such a thing had almost seemed like a divine gift.
If Fubuki’s love is a gift, then it is an unconditional one, an eternal one, something wrapped in perfectly-tied bows and smelling delicately of flowers, of citrus. It is given every time they are together like this, Fubuki’s calming touch smoothing over his back, his demeanor thoughtful as he considers how to approach the subject at hand. Ryou’s feelings are precious to him, and his desire to soothe these strange, lingering fears of family inadequacy is obvious.
“You remember...those wedding photos your father gave you...?” Fubuki’s voice is soft, but not hesitant, fearlessly pushing back the blanket of silence that has settled around them. “The ones you picked out together?”
How is it that he always knows these things...? Ryou nods, the motion a bit...unintuitive while he’s cuddling on Fubuki’s chest like this. It makes his husband giggle a bit, the sound vibrating in his ribcage and causing Ryou’s stomach to flutter with pleased butterflies.
“We should look over those, and our own, as well. I have something to show you.”
His tone of voice makes it clear that he has A Plan, likely devised with supernatural swiftness in order to dispel Ryou’s melancholy. Truly, how he comes up with these with such reliability is a complete mystery to Ryou—the only strategy of this sort that he can develop at comparable speeds is for dueling, and while Fubuki compares everything to dueling, Ryou can’t always follow his logic. Duels are...much simpler than most of the concepts Fubuki equates them to, metaphorically or otherwise.
“Something to...show me...?” He repeats slowly. Fubuki hums in affirmation, elegant fingers running contemplatively through Ryou’s hair, gently combing the thick strands into place.
“Indeed. I think it will put your mind at ease.”
His husband is right, of course, and so the velvet dusk finds them in their bed, accompanied by the aforementioned items of interest: two albums (one of photos from their own wedding, the other with pictures of Fubuki’s parents), and the packet from Ryou’s father. Fubuki has laid them delicately on top of their soft, blue sheets, and is currently pressed against his side, a strong defensive line if there ever was one.
As far as Ryou is concerned, there could not be a bigger disparity between what their parents have given them. The album from Fubuki’s parents is quite large, for starters, extravagantly decorated in a manner that accurately reflects the scope of the memories kept safe within. Every page is covered in glossy photos, pressed flowers, and even the handwritten original copy of Tenjouin Shigeo’s marriage vows. The only reason they’re in Fubuki’s possession is because his father has them memorized—memorized—and to this day is capable of reciting them on-command if his wife so requests it. Which she does. Hilariously often. Occasionally while he’s having another conversation. Needless to say, Ryou had been baffled the first time he’d witnessed Shigeo cut himself off mid-sentence to launch himself into a full rendition of his wedding vows. In Italian, no less.
During that visit, Ryou had experienced this performance four more times: once in German, once in English, and twice in their native Japanese. Every time, Fubuki’s father had committed to the act as if it were his first delivery, and every time, Yasuko had watched him with utmost fondness in her (familiar) brown eyes. Ryou...could really only stare. Fubuki had always told him stories about his parents, and Ryou had even met them briefly prior to that point, but...seeing them in action truly made the resemblance between the whole family clear.
By stark contrast, the pictures from Ryou’s father are literally still in the same mailing envelope he’d brought them home in. Its plainness belies the great significance of what lies within, and while size isn’t necessarily an indicator of value, the sheer disparity in the number of photographs between them is...well, it’s something. He is well-aware that the Tenjouins had an extreme excess of wedding pictures, as opposed to his own parents’ more practical approach, but even that says something, surely.
The commemoration of their own wedding is the biggest one of the lineup, of course, the pages packed full to bursting with as many photographs, receipts, notes, and other relatively-flat items as Fubuki could artfully cram into it. The project to fit it all into one album had truly been a test of his scrapbooking skills, finely honed as they are, and Ryou remembers rubbing his new husband’s back on the couch as he cheerfully agonized over what memorabilia would go where.
Now, Ryou can’t help but wonder what Fubuki has planned. Surely, he doesn’t mean for them to...compare weddings, does he...?
“Do not fear, love,” Fubuki murmurs warmly, as if reading his mind, adjusting the blanket around their shoulders. He has bundled them up for comfort, and Ryou can’t complain about the general silliness of it when the burgeoning need to be close to him makes his chest ache. “I’ll be right here the whole time.”
“I hope so.”
Ryou’s voice comes out a bit more strained than usual, but Fubuki tactfully doesn’t comment on it—instead, he simply gets comfortable against Ryou’s side, his gentle touch smoothing between his shoulder blades, stroking his back beneath the blanket. The warm lamplight threads his long hair with gold, and Ryou breathes slowly, counting the glimmering strands. Fubuki is right. He should not be...afraid of this. Surely, there is nothing to be afraid of.
“Go on.” Fubuki urges him softly, and Ryou retrieves the envelope with no small amount of trepidation. With excessive care, he opens it, gingerly extracting the first photo and laying it on the bed before them.
Even with the protective sleeve, its contents are clear. His mother sits with pristine grace, her new husband standing formally behind her—it is a fairly basic composition, the standard sort you would probably find in any wedding photographer’s repertoire. Ryou remembers getting pictures of this nature taken at his own wedding, as well, although he and Fubuki had both been standing for theirs.
Fubuki seems perfectly calm as he flips open the other two albums in turn, his intentions now obvious as he searches for pictures that match the one Ryou has revealed. Once he finds them, he sits back again, allowing Ryou to study them side-by-side.
The differences are quite...evident, at least in presentation. The picture of his parents could easily be found in a history textbook. Their traditional garb and solemn expressions serve to emphasize the formality of their posing, the austerity of his mother’s folded hands, his father’s stiff posture...his mother appears far more reserved than Ryou can ever remember her being in life. It is all a bit stifled, although he knows that is not necessarily by their choice. These sorts of pictures often vary in their severity as per the photographer’s whims, and besides, he doesn’t find the contrived neutrality of the picture upsetting. He chose to keep it, after all, favoring its clarity, its simplicity, the way that it showcased his parents with no other distractions.
Still. By contrast, Fubuki’s parents seem far more...comfortable. They both look relaxed, just like their son does in his own picture—all three of them have mastered the art of perfect poise without appearing rigid, a skill that Ryou and his father continue to lack in certain degrees. Ryou doesn’t look quite as severe as he does, but he isn’t exactly smiling, either.
(He doesn’t...remember not-smiling for this picture. Really, he could’ve sworn he’d smiled for all of them, overjoyed as he was to be marrying the love of his life, the man who had given him the world again and again.)
Ryou glances at Fubuki. His husband is watching him with a fond lightness in his eyes, and when their gazes meet, his lips quirk up at the corners.
“Look again at your father,” he suggests, and his voice is so soft. “He touches her the way you touch me, with such tenderness and security...do you see...?”
To Ryou, distinguishing the nuances in someone’s touch is a bit tricky with only photographic evidence, but...his father’s loose grip on his mother’s shoulder does seem protective and kind. He can still remember how strong, yet gentle his father’s hands were, how safe he’d always felt when he held him...even now, as an adult, that hasn’t changed, he just hadn’t experienced it for several years.
With that sort of perspective in mind, the photographs become...remarkably similar. He is standing quite close to Fubuki in their own picture, not wishing to be any farther away, seeking his stability as much as he wishes to offer his own. Likewise, Fubuki’s parents are subtly affectionate, their feelings made real through small, well-placed gestures. His own mother’s soft radiance is suddenly far more visible, and her eyes (the color so much like Shou’s that he has never forgotten them) shine with temporarily-restrained delight.
Ryou blinks slowly. This whole exercise is...starting to make more sense now. Fubuki wishes to help him see the common threads between all of their relationships, and is using the wedding photos as a vehicle for that purpose.
So Ryou takes out another picture, this one a significantly more candid shot of his mother, her lovely features half-hidden by her bouquet as she joyfully, adorably, buries her face in the delicate petals. Fubuki makes a soft sound when he sees it, his fingers lacing firmly through Ryou’s and squeezing.
“She looks so beautiful,” he whispers, a reverent hush to his words. “So happy...!”
She was. He knows she was. It is impossible to interpret otherwise, even with his seeming insistence on comparing his family’s closeness to that of Fubuki’s. His mother’s presence was like morning sunlight, her smiles freely given, her feelings openly displayed, and his father always responded to that, drawn closer and made brighter by the warmth she exuded. In fact, Ryou remembers his father saying that he’d taken this photo personally.
The pictures Fubuki chooses to accompany it—one of his own mother determinedly shoving a giant forkful of cake into her mouth, and the other of them both clumsily dancing with Asuka at once at their reception—showcase that same level of unrestrained bliss, albeit each in their own fashions. As Fubuki would surely say, there are so many ways to be in love, to be happy, to live one’s life to the fullest...there are so many ways to express those feelings, to share them with the world.
And yet, if the next photograph he pulls is any indication, some things are clearly universal. Aglow in the setting sun of late summer, his parents stand with their foreheads touching, so completely wrapped up in each other that Ryou doubts they even remembered the photographer was present. He doubts this because he’d done the same thing, because he and Fubuki have a picture of themselves in startlingly similar positions, because the moment his new husband had leaned into him like that, the world beyond them had utterly vanished. His father’s face, so much like what he sees in the mirror each day, is awash with quiet emotions—side-by-side, his own expression is almost identical, right down to the faint smile of rapturous disbelief, the slightly furrowed brow that speaks of barely holding back tears. The memories of his own feelings are mirrored perfectly here, in the all-consuming peace that the moment exudes.
Fubuki’s parents have a similar picture, as well, and like Fubuki, they are laughing as they touch foreheads with the love of their life, overcome with giddiness as reality hits them. Ryou remembers Fubuki’s soft, sweet laugh very well, remembers how the sound had made him respond in kind. They are all affected so easily by the ones they have chosen to spend their lives with...they are all bound, in love and in spirit, to the ones who know them better than anyone else.
Their childhoods may have ended up differently, but at the start, at their core, they were the same. They were brought into this world by people who loved them dearly, by people who loved each other with all the strength and tenderness that the human heart has to offer. Truly, there is no mystery to the life his parents built—there are only the eternal echoes of commitment, the steady beating of two hearts that loved each other and their children more than anything else.
Ryou enfolds Fubuki in his arms, and only holds him tighter when his husband make a sweet, surprised little sound against his chest. His gratitude does not need to be verbalized. Fubuki senses it immediately, and he recovers with his usual grace, embracing him whole-heartedly in turn. To love, and to be loved in return...to love, and be loved with such profound intensity...! Like his father’s before him, Ryou’s devotion to his heart’s chosen companion will never cease.
“Twenty-six years is a long time,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “And yet...”
“...there are still so many years to come.” Fubuki finishes for him, in-tune with his thoughts as ever, and Ryou squeezes him a bit tighter.
“I...I want that.”
Fubuki lifts his head, looking so delighted that Ryou feels his own expression changing, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“Many years?” He asks, his tone slightly teasing. Ryou, however, shakes his head, completely serious.
“A million years. I want forever with you, Marufuji-Tenjouin Fubuki. Nothing less...nothing less will do.”
Fubuki’s eyes glimmer with emotion, and his lips meet Ryou’s with a sweetness only he could’ve perfected. To kiss him back with anything short of absolute reverence would be disingenuous, and Ryou holds him close, savoring the warmth that fills him from within, the shining, incandescent joy that flickers in their very souls. He never could’ve imagined he would share this with someone, and yet...
Being here like this, with him...here, in this monument of love begun by those who loved before them, by those who still love even when the one they built their world with has gone...he knows that the days of wondering are over. Now, there is only this bright, brilliant future that will never, ever end.