Archive of Our Own

Failure felt like frostbite. 

It was the all-encompassing, bitter cold that gutted him, hollowed him out. Every nerve in his body succumbed to the shocking chill, sinking deeper and deeper until he was numb and senseless. Not even an eyelid so much as twitched as his body went stiff, frozen in that damning position with his arm outstretched and his lips pulled in a tight smile. Between his ears, a voice echoed, so distant yet so loud that he feared it may cause an avalanche.

I’m sorry.

The words fell from her lips so effortlessly. She hadn’t needed any time to consider them at all; her answer had been set in stone before the question had even been asked. Nothing about Kisaki, standing before her as the epitome of her desires and holding a ring whose value amounted to well over her yearly salary, seemed to prompt her to reconsider even for a moment. She wasn’t cruel-- didn’t curse or spit or laugh-- but her kindness made it infinitely worse. 

No winter storm could compare to the harshness of a gentle rejection. 

She walked away, leaving him in the same sorry state she’d put him in, her footprints the only disturbance in the freshly fallen snow that surrounded them. Once she was out of sight, the world turned white, nothing of any color or significance around to shake the illusion. There was nothing he could do but stare solitude in the face as snowflakes landed on his cheeks like tears that refused to fall. 

What… Had it all…. Been for..?

Everything he had done, all of the ways in which he had corrupted and molded himself, all of the blood on his hands that could never be washed off… Had it all been in vain?  Had he twisted his life and those of everyone around him just to set up his own downfall? 

No . He was much more than his obsession love for Hinata Tachibana. He’d become so much more than that, all for her sake… 

He just… wasn’t quite sure what that meant anymore. 

Emotions warped and whirled under the surface, creating a cocktail of misery he wished that he could chug down and be rid of. Anger. Confusion. Despair. Loss . It was all so raw and overwhelming, making him feel so wounded so… so young. 

Fuck , he felt young and helpless as the ache of the cold began to settle into his bones. He craved warmth; he wanted to return home, wanted to return to Hanma…

Except Hanma wouldn’t be at home; not Kisaki’s home, at least. In a fit of ego that morning, he had warned his subordinate not to linger; he had plans to bring Hinata Tachibana back with him, after all, and wasn’t keen on interruptions. If only he’d known how his flawless checkmate would leave him a frozen fool, abandoned in the snow. 

Numb feet carried him away from the scene, his footprints trailing in the opposite direction of hers telling a tragic tale that would soon be covered and melt away. The box which held the priceless ring had been snapped shut and stuffed into his pocket, but he kept his hand wrapped tightly around it. In the back of his mind, he noted that his hands were trembling-- that his body was trembling, even as he mindlessly walked away. 

It’s cold. So cold. Can’t even feel it…

The thoughts in his head were so garbled and distant that he didn’t realize that he hadn’t been heading in the direction of his own home until he stood at a very foreign, yet very familiar doorstep. It wasn’t a place he’d gone often-- he much preferred to be the host over the visitor-- but, in his current state, it felt more like home than the empty residence he’d created. His mind didn’t want to consider why that might be, but his body had listened to his heart over his rationality. 

Consciously or not, he knew that there was only one person allowed to see him drenched in this much shame.

Kisaki pulled his free hand out of his pocket and knocked thrice on the door before tucking it back away. There was a chance, however slim, that the man he was looking for might not even be present. Go away didn’t necessarily translate to go home , after all…

Those doubts were cut off as quickly as they had surfaced when the door began to open. Hanma stood in the entryway, donned in clothing much more suited for having a cozy night in than facing his boss. An oversized purple sweatshirt hung loosely off his frame, giving way to stained sweatpants and- were those fuzzy socks ? Kisaki didn’t know whether to find that obnoxious or endearing. 

“Kisaki?” 

There was a slight pout to his lips, a small furrow in his brow, and Kisaki knew that he had questions that he’d rather not answer. Instead, he stepped forward, forcing himself into his subordinate’s home.

“Move. Let me in. It’s cold as shit out here,” he snapped. If, for whatever reason, Hanma had decided to be obstinate and refuse him entry, it would have been easy. Even after twelve years, Kisaki’s physical strength paled in comparison to Hanma’s own. At the slightest whim, the older man could snap him like a twig and there wouldn’t be much he could do to stop him. Fortunately, for all of his bloodlust, Hanma had never once turned it towards him. 

As if Kisaki would allow himself to be murdered by a grown man in fuzzy socks. 

The door clicked shut behind him and the warmth that came exclusively from being indoors began to sink in, slowly thawing him out. His glasses began to fog up, so he plucked them off and cleaned them with a scowl. Now that he’d been removed from the cold, numbness was giving way to that brewing storm inside of him, and the first clap of thunder to manifest was fury . 

How dare she? After everything he had done, after everything he had become, she had the audacity to reject him? Was she dense ? Did she know what it meant to cross a man like him..? Even Hanma never dared ! He’d been prepared for it, as well as anyone could be prepared for the worst case scenario,  but he certainly hadn’t anticipated it! 

As his thoughts raced, he rubbed progressively harder at the now excessively cleaned lenses as if to take his frustration out on them. He could break them; he wanted to break them. He wanted to push so hard that the lenses snapped, cracked, shattered . He wanted the pieces to dig into his flesh, cut him open, make him bleed, make him feel something …

A hand on his shoulder made him freeze in place.

“I think they’re clean,” Hanma commented. There should have been a sardonic tone to his voice, but there wasn’t , and that almost made Kisaki angrier. 

Gritting his teeth, he replaced his glasses back on his face. “Get your hand off of me,” he hissed, shooting Hanma an icy glare. 

Ever-obedient, Hanma removed his hand, but his frown only deepened. While hardly at Kisaki’s level of intellect, he was still a decently intelligent man and it didn’t take a genius to figure out why his boss had shown up at his door, frigid and alone, on that day. Kisaki felt like he had a large, flashing sign above him that read REJECTED! and, even if Hanma’s eyes were the only ones to read it, it still made him want to lash out or shrivel up in shame. He braced himself for the comments, the ridicule, the teasing he was sure would come ( the kind only Hanma could get away with ) … 

…only for it to never arrive. 

A soft sigh passed Hanma’s lips before he spoke. “I was about to make some hot chocolate. Want some?”

Kisaki hesitated, keeping his defenses up for a moment before his expression slowly softened and he answered with a resigned sigh of his own. “Might as well.” 

He followed Hanma further into his home, breaking away to sit at the table while his piece went to prepare them drinks. As he waited, he looked around, taking in all of the miscellaneous decor. While each room in Kisaki’s house had a strict theme that contributed to a desired aesthetic, Hanma seemed much more concerned about surrounding himself with things he liked , regardless of how well they fit together. In the back of his mind, he noted how it was an amusing reflection of themselves; Kisaki always followed a plan, after all, while Hanma was more the type to follow his whims. 

For as long as they had known each other, Kisaki had never spent much time in Hanma’s residence. Both their teen years and adulthood had consisted mostly of Hanma inserting himself into Kisaki’s space rather than inviting him into his own. He hadn’t minded, of course; being in his own territory gave him greater control. Hanma had quickly integrated himself into that territory, becoming part of what Kisaki owned, and that was all they had needed.

As he looked around at the seemingly random and-- dare he call them childish ? -- things he’d decided to decorate his home with, he had to wonder if there were pieces of Hanma that he was missing yet. 

He didn't have long to ponder it. In a few minutes' time, Hanma emerged from the kitchen with two mugs of hot chocolate in his hands. They were random, not part of any expensive matching set, but the shark painted on the side of one felt like it fit better with the madness than something Kisaki himself would own. Hanma handed him the one that boasted Number One Grandma and sat down across from him. 

Kisaki arched his brow. “How come you get the shark?”

“It’s my house,” Hanma replied easily, taking a sip from his novelty mug. Despite his efforts to remain serious, the smallest of smirks threatened to tug on his lips. “So drink up, grandma.”

Had he possessed the emotional energy to do so, Kisaki may have found the comment amusing; as it was, however, he could only experience varying levels of frustration. The raw fury which had claimed him previously had flickered down into something more manageable, but ready to flare up and consume him at the slightest provocation. He took a sip of the hot drink to soothe himself, coaxing the flame into something that would simmer; something he could use to cook up new plans rather than burn himself out.

“Do you want me to kill her?” 

Kisaki looked across the table at Hanma, taken aback by the offer. Of course, Tachibana would need to die-- this was an all or nothing kind of game, after all, and victory was still mandatory-- but at Hanma’s hand…? 

There was something perversely tempting about it. To use his loyal piece to knock her down-- to take down his enemy’s queen with a stronger, bloodier one-- would be satisfying in the short term, but ultimately an impulsive move. Tachibana had hurt him, her rejection cutting deeper than any blade, and he needed to return the favor tenfold. 

This was no longer a checkmate, but a massacre. 

“You? No,” he replied, taking another sip. The hot sweetness on his tongue grounded him, giving him something to center his thoughts on. “She is going to die in a way that’s meaningful. This insult warrants more than a random hit.” 

He had dedicated his life to this, after all. If he was to destroy the object of his ambition, then he needed to ensure that it was through a full display of the power he had cultivated.

And he already had an idea of which strings to pull to achieve the most vindictively satisfying result. 

Hanma hummed, seemingly displeased with the answer. It was unlike him, Kisaki noted, to be anything but enthralled by his devious plans. For him to express any kind of distaste, even through something as simple as humming in the wrong tone, was not only rare, but reason for interrogation.

Kisaki’s lips pursed slightly in his own display of discontent. “Is there something wrong with that?” he questioned, half daring Hanma to defy him and half curious about what the issue may be. “Do you disagree with my methods?”

“No.” Hanma took another long sip of his drink before shaking his head. “She scorned you. You have every right to kill her however you see fit.”

“But you don’t like that I’m not using you to do it,” Kisaki pointed out. 

Hanma’s lips quirked downward. “What I like isn’t important, as long as she’s dead.”

That was true; what Hanma liked didn’t matter. Kisaki would do as he pleased, regardless of what his subordinates had to say. If he wanted Hanagaki himself to put a gun to her head and pull the trigger, then that is exactly what he would receive. As long as Tachibana died in a way that satisfied him, the world would right itself and he could continue on with the life he had built. 

At that moment, however, Kisaki wasn’t interested in his own satisfaction. Hanma’s disapproval was so rare that he struggled to recall the last time it had happened. He was much more interested in understanding why . 

“I’m asking you why you don’t like it,” he pressed. “This isn’t something you have a personal investment in, so why do you care how Tachibana is disposed of?”

At that statement, Hanma’s expression became guarded-- hell, Kisaki would go as far as to call it wounded -- and he set the shark mug down on the table. The eyes that looked across the table at him held an emotion that Kisaki had never seen in them before; something he couldn’t quite read.

“You think I don’t have a personal investment in this?” His voice held something unidentifiable, as well. Kisaki didn’t like that one bit. 

That hadn’t been the answer that he was expecting and, had he not braced himself for Hanma to say something unusual, he might have let his surprise show. Instead, he bit his cheek and contemplated that for a moment. 

This problem didn’t involve Hanma. He was a useful piece at Kisaki’s disposal, but this game was ultimately between Hanagaki, Tachibana, and himself. What investment could he possibly have?

Had he fallen for Tachibana over time as well? Had Kisaki’s own obsession rubbed off on him? As if he would have any more luck with someone who was still so damn obsessed with her middle school ex…

“What exactly are you invested in ?” Kisaki asked, brow furrowing slightly. “You’ve never seemed interested in Tachibana before.” 

Hanma’s expression darkened further. “What makes you think I’m invested in that bitch?”

“Then what ?” Kisaki’s expression soured. This beating around the bush was getting on his last nerve, and it had already been frayed by the insult of rejection earlier. “What has you so upset? Tell me .”

For a moment, Kisaki’s order was met with silence. Hanma didn’t avert his gaze, didn’t say a word, and barely even moved enough to breathe. Kisaki was nothing if not patient, however, and eventually, Hanma broke the tension with a sigh. He picked his cup back up, drowning a few seconds with a long sip of his drink, before putting it back down.

“Years ago, you asked me why I keep following you. Remember that?” he asked, looking at Kisaki with an intent that he couldn’t decipher.

Kisaki snorted. “Yeah, I remember that,” he confirmed. “And you gave me some dumbass answer about telling me on my deathbed.”

He remembered that day with the utmost clarity. At the time, it had been one of the most frustrating things that Hanma had ever said to him, but easily the most laughable, as well. Kisaki had chuckled, questioned his motives, but ultimately decided not to press the matter any further. When they were younger, his piece had the tendency to always say the most outlandish things. He didn’t expect that pursuing the meaning behind such a ridiculous statement would yield any more sensible results. 

Perhaps he had been wrong to dismiss it so quickly. 

The beginnings of a smile tugged on Hanma’s lips as he reminisced about that moment.“Yeah. I was a little shit,” he admitted, and Kisaki made no move to correct him. Hanma tipped his head as he continued. “But you must know the answer by now, don’t you?” 

“Do I?” Kisaki replied. Did he? Truth be told, it had been years since he had given that conversation even a passing thought. People followed him no matter what now, and the reason why was usually fear . 

But Hanma had never feared him, had he? Not when he was young and reckless; not as he grew older and bloodier; not as he burst through his door seething with anger; not when he could end his life with a single well-spoken word. Not once had he ever seen something resembling fear in Hanma’s eyes while they were locked on him. 

Then what was it? What could have made him so unswervingly loyal that he was still by his side so many years later, even without the weight of a threat on his life holding him down? What possessed him to allow Kisaki to use him, in every sense of the word? What made him so eager to fight for him? Fuck him? Give him everything he wanted without hesitation? 

Kisaki looked him in the eye, and they were the same eyes that he had seen that morning when he had sent Hanma on his way. There was a plea in them that would never be given a voice; a cry for understanding and forgiveness that would never be received. There was something Hanma so desperately wanted Kisaki to know, but his lips could never form the words. 

A personal investment…

Oh.

Suddenly, Kisaki felt stricken, the answer threatening to knock him right off of his feet. It was so obvious , yet he had been so blind to it that it was almost embarrassing. All of those years with Hanma by his side and all of those nights with Hanma in his bed, yet he was only now noticing how different he was with him? How strictly he had been restraining himself? How much he had allowed himself to feel while pretending it meant nothing at all?

Kisaki swallowed thickly. “...I do.” 

There was no point in denying it; not when the answer was right in front of him, as clear as day. Hanma didn’t need to say those three little words for Kisaki to understand; in fact, it was better that he didn’t. Kisaki didn’t know if he had the capacity remaining to undergo such an emotional whiplash. To go from drowning in the bitter cold of rejection to hearing the word love …

No. It was better that it remained unsaid; an unspoken understanding between them. 

For a moment, he studied Hanma, his own guard building up. This was certainly an… unexpected development , and one that had been lying dormant for a lifetime at that. Had it been like this for the entire time they had known each other? Just how long had Hanma been harboring such intense feelings? Most importantly, why had he found it more appropriate to keep mum about it for all of these years? What did he think that Kisaki would do?

What was Kisaki going to do?

It was everything he had wanted. This unwavering loyalty; this dedication; this willingness to do anything in the name of pleasing him. When he thought of someone who he might love- of someone whose affections he may someday earn-- Hinata tachibana had always been the one in his mind’s eye. 

Except she hadn’t been. How could he say that now when, not long ago, he had taken note of how difficult it was to picture her in his bed? To replace Hanma’s warm, strong body with her soft one? 

Who was he really kidding? Himself? 

How long had he vainly chased something that had been right in front of him the entire time?

Kisaki sighed softly, breaking the suffocating tension. As if on autopilot, his hand slipped into his pocket and his fingers wrapped around that velvety box. The feeling of the soft exterior on his skin sent a jolt straight to his heart that he had to swallow down. The fact that this was still in his possession at all was enough to rub salt into those far too fresh wounds…

Pulling it out, he dropped it on the table and pushed it towards Hanma. It slid across the table, only to be stopped by his hand. 

Hanma arched a brow, tentatively picking up the box. “What’s this…?”

“The ring.” Kisaki hated to admit that his most anticipated move had been a failure, and to confess that he still held on to the ring did just that. He had verbalized it and there was no taking it back. 

The way that Hanma’s eyes widened as he looked between the box in his hand and the man who had given it to him made the brief display of vulnerability worth it. 

A small smirk tugged on Kisaki’s lips as he continued. “Hold on to this for me. Until I’m ready to use it,” he added. “It’s not going to fit on your finger, so find a chain to hang it on. I want it on you at all times.” 

It was symbolic. Not as symbolic as a ring that was designed especially for him, but a possessive symbol all the same. With that ring hanging around his neck, Hanma would belong to him, even more than he already did. 

This was far from a flawless victory, but he had managed to scrape something even better out of defeat. 

Hanma blinked. “You want me to…?”

“I think I was very clear,” Kisaki confirmed. 

Slowly, a wide smile split across Hanma’s face and-- oh, he didn’t think he’d ever seen that much color in his cheeks outside of the bedroom. He closed his hand around the box and pulled it close, accepting the offer without hesitation. 

“Of course. I will protect it with my life.”

Something warm bloomed in Kisaki’s gut; something nervous and giddy that it took far too much effort to subdue. He knew that Hanma would accept-- he never denied him anything-- but to actually see it happen after the day’s earlier devastation did things to him that he couldn’t describe. 

“Hanma,” he stated, making a come hither gesture with his finger. One more long sip of his drink and he placed the Number One Grandma cup down, empty. It tasted much sweeter than it had before, and he knew what to blame. He needed to satisfy this growing feeling before it overwhelmed him, made him act a fool. “Come over here and kiss me.”

And Hanma, ever obedient, didn’t hesitate to rise from his seat and cross the short distance between them. The distraction did nothing to make that bubbly feeling inside of him fade, but it gave him an outlet where he could be as demanding as he desired. He could bite and claim and melt to his heart’s content and his piece-- his Hanma-- wouldn't so much as bat an eye at the sentimentality. 

Failure felt like frostbite, the bitter sting of rejection an unbearable chill, but he was rapidly starting to warm up to the idea of what came next.