Archive of Our Own ^beta

Issei stares, a bit hollow-eyed, just shellshocked, at the concrete as they walk to the train.

Takahiro is just as quiet, except after knowing him for two, almost three years, Issei can tell he’s internally going nuts. The kind of quiet where he’s skipped past shocked, hopped over bewildered, and somehow landed at completely, fully outraged.

Issei keeps glancing over and catching him opening his mouth angrily only to close it, defeated. Every so often he hears him mouth what the fuck. He feels rather the same.

Overly aware of the buzzing crickets, their sneakers shuffling against the sidewalk, street lamps flickering on with faint clicks, and it continues on to the rattling train ride itself during which Issei clings to the handrail while valiantly holding up a seething Takahiro.

Absolutely incredulous silence.

Hanamaki Takahiro is magic.

This is not in the sense that he is bewitchingly pretty—which he is—or in the sense that his smile is enchanting—which it is—or even in the sense that he is absurdly, ridiculously great at charming his way into things and out of situations. Which, absolutely, he is. For a guy with no patience and feathery-thin lashes, the amount of eyebatting he does with those short little fuckers in a day is bad for Issei’s health.

He’s magic. Hanamaki Takahiro is magic. Issei’s known this since the first day of first year when he saw him for the very first time, and he’d felt a weird, full-body shiver at the electricity that had seemed to fizzle in the air.

‘That was just your boner,’ Takahiro says blandly. ‘That’s not proof of what you’re pretending it’s proof of.’

‘There was also the black cat at your heels that disappeared into thin air when it turned and saw me,’ Issei says, without acknowledging the jab at his obvious feelings.

‘Mm,’ Takahiro says, after a beat. ‘Yeah, no, that would’ve clued you in.’

He’s magic. He refuses to accept the terms wizard, warlock, sorcerer, or even enchanter, which toes the line between magic-user and sexy person. Because Hanamaki Takahiro doesn’t feel like he’s using or even controlling magic, rather that he exists with it, or maybe he overlaps with it, and that’s… hard to put to words. As if he simply is magic. Lives, breathes, exudes it.

Takahiro prefers witch, not that he would ever admit it. Because admitting it would mean admitting he’s magic at all.

Which, in the past two and a half years that Issei has known him, he has not done so much as once.

The cat’s name is Chobi.

‘She was so small when we got her, Issei,’ Takahiro mourns as he kicks his way inside, toeing his school shoes easily off in the genkan while Issei struggles with his laces.

‘Mm,’ he says agreeably, thinking about very small Takahiro next to a very small cat. Hanapippi and Nekopippi. ‘I bet she was.’

Takahiro tosses the door keys up in the air. ‘She was like fucking mini-sized. Tiny. She was like a packet of chips.’

The keys make their own way towards the wooden wall hook, next to the others, for his mother’s car and his little sister’s toy-box—she insists it be up there, then makes a fuss about how she can’t reach. Takahiro complains about it all the time.

‘A packet of chips,’ Issei wonders. ‘You’re so creative. What brand, though.’

Takahiro scoffs. ‘Like any old small packet of chips, like two hundred yen Calbee. Like cheap.’

The keys are a bit crooked, flailing and rattling for help, so he adjusts them on the hook, smiling faintly when they jangle in thanks before putting on his slippers and trailing after Takahiro.

‘Aww, Chobi-chan isn’t cheap,’ Issei croons, as the cat darts off the couch, immediately curling towards his legs. He crouches down and pets her soft, black fur, humming at her. ‘She’s the most expensive girl in the whole world. Nevermind. That sounds bad, I’m sorry Chobi-chan. You’re sooo cute, I’m sorry. Little baby girl.’

The cat purrs.

‘Your baby voice is sickening, it makes me want to hurl,’ he says, already at the top of the stairs. ‘Hurry up! You need to set up for the movie while I shower.’

‘You already showered in the locker room,’ Issei reminds him long-sufferingly, picking up Chobi, a fond hand still running through her black coat. ‘You do know no one besides you showers twice, right. Not even Yuda.’

‘Yes, because you’re all nasty little freaks!’ The bathroom door slams shut.

Issei pauses to duck into the kitchen before going on up. Takahiro’s older sister Sakura is sitting cross legged on the counter, phone pressed to her ear while charmed appliances and ingredients zip around in the air, the meal making itself. There’s the faint smell of chicken and noodles and garlic, something sizzling on the pan.

‘Evening, nee-san,’ Issei greets.

‘—you don’t really need my help, Aiko, honestly, you’ve got the interns for—hey, Issei, cupcakes in the fridge. Don’t let Hiro take more than three,’ she instructs, shoulder tipping upwards to keep the phone held up as her hand shifts to make a sharp gesture, fingers beckoning. The fridge opens and a small Tupperware hurtles towards Issei’s chest.

Issei catches it before it can thud into his belly because he’s learnt that lesson, and says, ‘No problem,’ like they both don’t know he’s going to give Takahiro his cupcakes, too. Sakura blinks at him, unimpressed, the spitting image of Takahiro-in-a-blonde-wig.

‘Yes, Aiko,’ she says impatiently, and Issei ducks under a flying bowl to peer at the stove with interest. ‘I understand, incompetence runs in that particular group but—it’s just one evening, Jesus Christ. Handle it, I have a date—’

He jerks his head up, already grinning. ‘Don’t even start,’ she snaps, hand covering the speaker as she gives him the stink eye. ‘Or okaa-san finds out you helped Takahiro with Kubo-san’s car last winter and you’ll be banned from the house for months.’

Issei winces, but says solemnly, ‘You have my silence.’

Sakura eyerolls. ‘Don’t hurt yourself. Hiro knows.’

‘You have my actual silence then,’ he promises, dipping his head. ‘Is that chow mein cooking, by the way? Nee-san?’

‘Fine, Aiko, fine, tomorrow, then.’ Sakura mouths not for you guys, defrost pizza, and he frowns at her as she says, ‘Yes. Of course. Nine A.M sharp, obviously. Good bye, Aiko,’ then gives him a cool look. ‘This is for my date.’

His eyebrows fly up. ‘Nice night in, huh?’

‘You’re doing the exact same,’ she says, slipping her phone in her pocket and hopping off the counter. She holds up a hand and all the kitchen items previously zipping around come to a halt.

A metal fork bounces hard on the top of his head, and he winces.

Sakura smiles at him. ‘Except you can’t call it a date because my little brother is waiting for marriage. Enjoy your horror films and stress, I’m going to my boyfriend’s place and he’s going to show me a very nice time. Okaa-san and Umi are at our grandmother's till Monday, though you probably can’t do anything with that information, hm? Tell Takahiro bed by eleven!’

The kitchen packs itself up, a stray wooden spoon smacking his upper back to shove him out. Issei scowls his way upstairs.

‘Do we need to have that janky old thing on every night,’ Takahiro asks wearily. ‘It’s getting on my fuckin’ nerves, and that station only plays the girliest music ever.’

‘It’s also the only one I know that plays electropop,’ Issei shoots back, eyes narrowed slant as he twists the station dial into optimal clarity, beats shedding from fuzzy static. His other hand is braced on the side of the boombox, so it doesn’t fall off the pile of CDs it’s precariously balanced on while he attempts to glare it into submission. ‘You like electropop. You get cranky when we don’t listen to electropop.’

‘Issei you illiterate fuck,’ Takahiro says lazily, stretching out one of his socked toes from where his legs are dangling off the side of his bed, poking it against his shoulder blade. ‘Cobra Starship is not electropop.’

‘Electro-emo,’ he suggests, ignoring the wiggly lines Takahiro is scratching down his back with his toenail. It tickles but the station is almost perfect, he’s nearly got it. The trick of it is to keep the needle balanced right on the edge of the station digits. Takahiro could do it with a flick of the wrist but he’s strongly against doing work. ‘Or electro-punk, or something.’

‘Explain to me. What’s punk about white dudes singing in nightclubs,’ Takahiro inquires. The heel of his foot thumps rhythmically against the side of Issei’s head. ‘And the night club thing is a very obvious hint.’

Issei grasps his ankle and holds it against his shoulder and the needle finally stays in place. He tips over in triumph, letting his back fall against the floor so he can gaze up at the underside of Takahiro’s shorts-encased thighs as his feet drag against Issei’s chest through his thin vest.

He ignores the second part of his sentence because he refuses to call dance-pop what it is, it’s a terrible name, and answers, ‘You like them, and everything you do is hardcore?’

‘Good answer,’ Takahiro says, impressed. His calves drop down and he leans forward, bed creaking as he rests his elbows on his knees and grins down at Issei. Something not electropop is playing, now, low bass thumping and a foreign singer trilling words that Issei firmly believes would be nonsensical even if he knew the language. Takahiro’s face is so pretty, even upside down. ‘What if I push the radio off the CD tower and it breaks.’

‘Your mom would thank you. I’d probably cry,’ Issei admits.

‘You’re an ugly crier. I’ll let it sit, then,’ he decides. He ruffles Issei’s hair and Issei’s fingers find his wrist, not stilling him, but keeping him there, curved over Issei, bangs flopping over his head.

‘Hiro,’ Issei murmurs.

Takahiro reaches his other hand to the side and brings it back with a cupcake, and when he takes a bite, from the top and straight into the cream like always, blue frosting crumbles down and lands on Issei’s cheek.

His eyes are bright silver coins.

‘Are you gonna defrost the pizzas or am I gonna watch Paranormal Activity 2 on my own?’

Takahiro’s room is dense with the earthy aroma of incense sticks and heavy, perfumed air overtakes him whenever he inhales through his nose.

One bleached, poster-covered wall has shelves stacked with CDs and books, obscure looking hardbacks he’s only ever seen the type of in movies standing upright next to textbooks and comics, half of which are Issei’s. A jar full of some sort of orange powder, a few odd, small pots from his mother’s ceramics class, two mugs full of pens and pencils and chalks. There’s a single money plant in a tall, thin, repurposed glass olive oil bottle, the leafy vines hanging down to the ground, drawing his gaze to the wooden tiled floor—plain but for what’s definitely a slightly smudged red chalk pentagram of some kind, half hidden under a soft, fuzzy pink rug.

‘Please tell me you’ve never tried summoning a demon.’ (Issei, age fifteen, mildly worried.)

‘Only once but bro, it was just a minor djinn.’ (Takahiro, also age fifteen, in his bro phase.)

The rug used to be in Umi-chan’s room, but Takahiro had spilt three cups of ‘tea’ while playing with Umi and her seventeen stuffed animals and there had been a horrible tantrum that Issei had cut short by hauling her over his shoulder and carrying her into the garden. It’s a move that always works with his cousins, and Umi had been so absolutely mystified that her tears had vanished in seconds.

The rug was moved to Takahiro’s room and replaced by another, even fuzzier orange one. The new mat was heart shaped and Takahiro had looked at it rather consideringly.

Issei had asked him if he wanted Issei to cut the other one till it was similar in shape and Takahiro had gone as pink as his new rug and called him a douchebag.

There’s his bed, always unmade but always looking so soft with rumpled cotton sheets, nearly as irresistible as him, small nightstand next to it holding nothing but a single clunky, cartoonish crystal ball, last year’s gag gift from Hajime. The desk, right under the window, is cluttered with notes and notebooks, sheets of homework paper and graphite pencils in a box, a few candles and a small circular mirror, one drawer ajar and a spinny chair piled with clean laundry, yet to be put away. His window is covered in weird symbols and runes, scratched and Sharpie markered onto the glass, and there’s a full length mirror just there, just propped up against the wall beside his window with sticky notes tacked all over.

Issei sets two large plates of pizza down on Takahiro’s bed and crosses to open the window, sighing as he inhales fresh, cool air, light from streetlamps outside flooding the dim room.

‘The incense is a biiiiig point against you,’ he says, turning back.

‘Yeah, but I can’t get rid of it, it smells so good it cancels out,’ Takahiro says distractedly. He’s already picking off onions, sprawled on the floor with his back to his bed, setting up another horror movie. Issei takes two slices and stacks them on top of each other as he drops down next to him.

‘Cancels out what, the witchiness?’

‘So, the weird ghost one, then we rewatch Horror of the Wolf,’ Takahiro proposes smoothly, knocking his shoulder against Issei’s.

‘Absolutely not, hell no,’ Issei responds, pressing back. ‘We have watched that dumbass werewolf movie like three times in the past month and I’m completely sick of Taro Shigaki’s eyebrows.’

‘Says you,’ Takahiro tells him, eyes flickering upwards pointedly. ‘We’ve only seen it twice before and I happen to be fond of Taro Shigaki’s eyebrows. They’re way better than yours.’

‘You’re lying, as always,’ he says, elbow hooking around Takahiro’s neck to yank him to his chest, scruffing at his hair as he makes irritated, whiny noises. ‘Why can’t we just watch a nice, cute action film. Let’s watch Ironman again. We both love Ironman.’

‘If you make me sit through that goatee shortstack asshole for one more fucking Friday night Issei I swear to god,’ Takahiro says threateningly, muffled into the fabric of his shirt. The heel of his palm beats against Issei’s shoulder. ‘Like, I would rather fucking die.’

Issei ruffles his hair harder. ‘He’s the perfect Tony and you know it.’

‘He’s five foot six!’ Takahiro shoves him off, red cheeked, unbearably good looking.

Issei bites down on his double stacked pizza so he doesn’t see him scowling because now they’re not tangled together, and also it's true. After swallowing, he grumbles, ‘Whatever. Let’s just watch.’

‘I don’t even know why you try anymore. I always win,’ Takahiro says, his beam wide, and then turns on the film.

An hour and a half later, Takahiro is buried in Issei’s side as they press back into the bed and Issei thinks that’s just plain untrue, because he feels like he’s floating.

They watch a few espisodes of a reality trash show and make relentless fun of it, and they don’t watch the 70s Taro Shigaki wolf movie, but they argue it over, and Takahiro agrees when Issei says it’s fucking sick but he laughs like a hyena when Issei says it’s unrealistic.

‘How would you know,’ he says, sprawled on his bed and still laughing. The laptop is shut by his knee, a can of Calpis—untouched and definitely gone flat—on the closed lid.

Issei sucks his teeth, folds his knees up and regards him. ‘Well.’

‘Ooh, you’re giving me the look. The funny one, what is it?’ Takahiro presses. ‘You’ve been thinking about something specific for like hours now, it’s so obvious, spit it out.’

Issei tries to straighten his face, and pushes down the delight that comes when Takahiro knows. ‘There’s a forest near here, right. The one by the castle, and they made that garden near it. With the university.’

‘Yes, geography sensei.’

‘Okay. Did you ever start watching the news?’

Takahiro stops laughing briefly to give him an amused look. His cheeks are flushed. ‘No, because I have you to do that, but I feel like you’re about to tell me something super absurd.’

He crosses his arms. ‘There’s. Well, last month there were like ten different reports of weird noises.’

Takahiro props himself up on his elbows, shirt tangled high above his pale, taut stomach and he says mockingly, ‘So someone was having loud, passionate sex in the forest?’

‘Nobody was having any kind of sex in the forest,’ Issei says, trying not to look at the long line of his throat. ‘The noises were reported to be howls.’

He starts laughing again, and doesn’t stop even when Issei kicks him. ‘You’re s-so fucking funny—’

‘I’m not even joking, I’m dead serious. Wolf howls,’ he tells him. ‘In the forest. Dead of night.’

‘Kay,’ Takahiro wheezes, eyes watering. ‘And. And lemme guess. It was the—the full moon.’

‘It was,’ Issei agrees, and watches him as he buries his giggles in a pillow. ‘My proof, then, that the dumbass movie sucked for reasons besides the rape scenes and the fuckin’, teacher falls in love with a student plotline. He was just turning into a wolf whenever. In real life, werewolves only shift on the full moon.’

He hiccups, saying, ‘Oh, because you know so much about real life werewolves—’

‘I know that I’ve read the entries in your mom’s little book of magic creatures,’ Issei says mildly, which is arguably a far more absurd statement than the news story he’s just told. ‘They seemed pretty real on page twelve hundred sixty two when your great uncle tricked a group of them into buying a cheap potion for hair growth and they came back bald and fanged to beat the shit out of him.’

‘Ughhh. Bald and fanged, you in ten years. Fake teeth, obviously, because yours will fall out.’

‘Funny. Werewolves, Takahiro. Literally like a twenty minutes drive from here. Isn’t that crazy?’

His whole face is pink and his hair is mussed, and he sits up, eyes bright. ‘Fine. Fine, let's go find your wolf then. It’s the full moon tomorrow, he’s gonna be shifting. Let’s fucking go, it’ll be fun.’

Issei tilts his head. ‘Only if you wear your magic witchy protection necklace.’

‘I’m not a witch,’ Takahiro says, lying through his teeth, ‘and it’s called a warding pendant. Now go put the pizza plates away. You fucking werewolf believer.’

Issei’s just always been susceptible to the supernatural. The otherworldly. He’s always been attracted to stories of strange happenings and creepy crime documentaries and he’s been listening to Welcome To Nightvale since before his English got to private school standards.

His father says it’s all about balance. A man who is steady and pillar-like and reliable will always be drawn to things that aren’t. Issei’s gaze had turned to Takahiro, in the kitchen arguing with eleven year old Kenta. Issei’s father had followed his gaze and laughed quietly.

And Issei believes that. It truly is all about balance. Every action has its equal, opposite reaction. The world will always lead you to things that even you out.

Which is why the next night sees them holed up in a tent in one of the virgin forests near Aoba Castle, and Takahiro is wearing his cool-chained witch protection necklace, and Issei is holding a washi-taped flashlight under his jaw and leering at Takahiro as he flips through the photo gallery on Issei’s iPhone 4, cross legged on a faded green sleeping bag.

‘Some of these are blurry,’ he complains, referring to the pictures Issei’d taken of the werewolf entries in his family’s grimoire.

‘My bad. I was excited,’ Issei shrugs, and flashes the light up his nose when Takahiro scowls at him. ‘You could’ve done it.’

He snorts, because he thinks it’s funny when Issei suggests he do work, and keeps tapping at the screen. ‘Whatever, we won’t even see anything tonight. It was probably a bear, Issei.’

‘Bears don’t howl like how the reports described,’ he says, flashing the light idly at Takahiro’s hand, making the shadow under his palm dance. He’s wearing a strip of black cloth, knotted tight against his wrist bone, along with three of these flimsy bracelets, two of which bear the logos of weird instrumental bands and one of which says TOKYO CODING CLUB ‘08 in bold, block letters. It looks unbelievably cool.

Issei drags his gaze upwards. ‘Are you still reading those entries?’

‘No, I’m looking at all your candids of me and feeling fucking violated,’ Takahiro replies, shaking his head in fake disgust, badly hidden delight. ‘This is a picture of the back of my neck. Why do you have this.’

‘Simple. Because I like the back of your neck,’ Issei explains, and they both freeze at an eerie, crunching noise outside.

For a moment there’s just silence.

‘What the fuck,’ Takahiro mouths, wide eyed.

Issei stares at him, then stands up. ‘Stay here.’

Takahiro stares back, and says, ‘Are you fucking insane?’

There’s another sharp snap outside.

They stare at each other, and Takahiro turns off the phone. Issei doesn’t turn the flashlight off, and Takahiro’s eyes go from moons to snake-slit narrow.

‘Issei,’ he whispers.

Issei had been taking this whole trip as a joke. Looking at Takahiro’s pale face now, lit only by his flashlight, his whole body feels too cold and he swallows thickly.

‘Hiro,’ Issei says, low. ‘Please stay in the tent.’

He steps outside, and grits his teeth as he flashes the light out.

Trees, tall and looming. To the east is no change, the direction from where they’d come, where branches shifted and grass had crunched underfoot, and there’s nothing there, no sound, no movement.

He feels Takahiro come up behind him and he stretches his arm out to hold him back.

‘Stay in the fuckin’ tent, my ass, that’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said to me,’ he whispers furiously, breath uneven against Issei’s shoulder. ‘Matsukawa Issei, do you have a warding pendant?’

‘No, but I thought you weren’t a witch?’ he fires back, before glaring him down and turning back, flashing the light at the left side, towards a thick cluster of trees and branches.

Takahiro is still staring at him and Issei would rather kill himself than put him in danger, so he aims the torchlight down at the pathway towards it with bated breath, leaning forward.

He stares at it unmoving for a few minutes, then straightens up, eyebrows furrowed.

‘There’s nothing there,’ he says, bewildered, turning around—but even as Issei moves he feels odd, like everything is slow and dragged out and unreal, like when you’re ten years old and you have a fever. At the slightest, barest rustle he glances automatically over his shoulder, and sees bright yellow canine eyes, aglow in the foliage.

Then he hears the snarl and jerks back, eyes wide and Takahiro shouts a curse as a massive brown blur leaps forward at an impossible speed—

—he scrambles backward, saying hoarsely, gaining volume with each word, ‘Holy motherfucking, oh, fuck, Hiro, fuckin’ RUN!’ tripping over tree roots and all Issei can think is that this was such a colossally terrible idea and that Takahiro’s mother is going to kill him—

—then the savage, cruel yellow eyes and curved claws are far too close and there is the cloying, heavy smell of matted fur and a giant, sharp set of teeth clamps down on his side—

And then it’s agony, and everything is sort of dim after that, but what Issei registers next is almost easy.

Because Takahiro’s magic has a certain feel and thrum and scent to it, something he could never properly describe because it is like it’s very own sense, thick and electric and curling into his bones, and then Takahiro says a word that is sharp and hard and there’s a howl.

It—the creature, it just howls, long and loud and canine, resonant and furious and unmistakable, then the snarling, snapping maw is gone, gone along with that smell, the matted fur and a flash of saliva leaking down white fangs, all thumping away beat by beat and then Issei is being propped up against a tree.

Takahiro’s face is white as a sheet.

Sweat pouring down his temples, tilting his head back against the trunk, even in an ache like burning Issei can’t look away from him as he rasps, ‘Jesus Christ, this was such a stupid idea.’

‘Yeah, you can say that again,’ Takahiro bites out, and then there’s iron in Issei’s gasping mouth because Takahiro is shakily lifting up his shirt.

Issei glances down, chin to his collarbones and it’s blood, obviously, endless blood, and Takahiro looks so completely ashen, his throat bobbing. His pale fingers reach down to it, trembling.

‘Noooo,’ he moans, shifting back and a shudder wracks his frame because it’s excruciating. ‘D-don’t touch it.’

‘Does it—Issei, fuck, is the pain—’

‘Your hands will get—get bloody,’ he manages, and Takahiro says a thin, disbelieving, ‘Oh my fucking, god, shut the fuck up, you moron.’

He rips at Issei’s shirt, and he winces when Takahiro’s fingers come back to clean at the gash in his side with the fabric, and the pain is bad, shit. But now there’s blood on Takahiro’s fingers.

‘How’re you goin’t. Get that out of your nails,’ he slurs, and Takahiro inhales, trembling, then lifts his pendant off his throat to tug it over Issei’s head.

The pain in his head doesn’t ease up, but Issei looks down again and the wound isn’t aching as bad.

‘Hiro,’ he says, blinking the sweat out of his eyes. ‘I was dying.’

‘No you weren’t,’ and his voice is clipped, and he wraps his arm around Issei’s shoulder and lifts.

Issei’s scream gets tangled in his throat. ‘Yep, n’vermind.’ His legs are all pins and needles. ‘Still dying. Shit.’

‘No,’ Takahiro says sharply, ‘no you’re not.’

Issei leans into his side and tries to stand on his own but just crumples against him, shaking mouth pressed to Takahiro’s ear as he clings, breathing harsh and fingers trembling.

‘’m sorry,’ he says, wrecked, right into his ear, ‘sorry, sorry we came out here, my fault, sorry—’

‘Mine too, ‘s okay, whatever, I said—I suggested it,’ Takahiro eases him up, and his fingers rub soothing, perfect circles into Issei’s back.

He feels so faint, and lolls forward, flush against him. ‘God,’ he croaks. ‘Fuck.’

They stay like that for a minute, and Issei tries to catch his breath. He can feel Takahiro’s short, hitched breaths against his shoulder, and he sweeps his palm down his spine, because it soothes him, too.

‘Issei,’ Takahiro says, and his cool, cool fingers cup at Issei’s jaw, nails tight and digging into his shaved sideburns, and his short, dyed hair looks as mussed as the grass trampled underfoot when Issei manages to pull back and stare at him, his eyes, like the moon, his tear stained cheeks.

‘Remember, um, that joke you have, about me, being a fucking. God, about me being a witch.’

‘Joke,’ he says faintly. ‘You are so annoying.’

‘It’s real,’ Takahiro says softly, in the quiet of the forest. ‘I’m a witch.’

Issei has been waiting for those words for two years and all their friends have bets on them. His mom has a bet on them. His fucking cousin Yamato probably has a bet on them and the pool probably goes into Takahiro’s pocket now, because it just figures he’d confess while Issei is dying.

‘You are not dying,’ Takahiro assures him. ‘And we practically share a bank account. Now let’s get you out of here.’

‘Hn. Okay. Okay, baby. What about the, uh, the tent.’

‘Dude, who gives a fuck about the tent.’

'Right. Sorry.'

'Next time,' he says tightly. 'We're just gonna watch The Road To El Dorado.'

They go home.

They both sleep nearly the full day, and Issei wakes up in agony and soaked in sweat no less than five times but by the time they wake up properly Sakura isn’t even home yet. The house really had been theirs all weekend, though now the only lucky thing about it is that they can toss out and replace the make-shift bandages and Issei doesn’t have to hide his wincing.

Takahiro had cleaned up the wound in the bathroom best he could when they came back last night, and it had been a tense ordeal and there was an unspoken agreement that nobody could know they’d gone out last night, or what had happened.

That’s all okay, because he still isn’t quite sure what happened himself.

Issei calls his mom and lets her know he’s still at Takahiro’s house.

‘Yeah, I’m good,’ he assures her. Takahiro is eating cereal, and he leans against the counter and watches the spoon disappear into his red mouth, lit by late afternoon sunlight. ‘He’s good. No, okaa-san, not Ironman again—slept for so long. Ramzan Mubarak. No, I’m kidding, we woke up early. Pinkie swear.’

Liiiiiarrrr, Takahiro mouths.

Eat your cereal, Issei mouths back. ‘He’s eating breakfast—I mean. Dinner.’ He curses as Takahiro laughs into his bowl, almost dipping his chin in milk, shoulders shaking.

‘See you tomorrow. Love you too,’ he finishes, and goes to put his phone in his pocket but his thumb catches on a crack. He studies the screen, his own hollow-eyed gaze peering back at him. He looks like shit. ‘Aw, fuck, you dropped it, yesterday, didn’t you.’

‘My bad, Issei,’ Takahiro replies politely. ‘I should’ve been sitting outside in the trees, waiting with that creature that attacked you. I actually should’ve taken a selfie with it. I’ll remember next time.’

‘It’s an iPhone 4,’ Issei says reproachfully, coming forward to wind his hand into Takahiro’s hair, stroking down to squeeze lightly at his nape. ‘My dad is gonna be so mad.’

He shrugs, uncaring, leaning back so his weight shifts and Issei is forced to hold him up. ‘Don’t tell him you cracked the screen, then.’

Issei huffs out a laugh, and then squints at his bowl. ‘Did you put cupcake frosting in your cereal?’

Takahiro is silent.

He makes a face. ‘Oh, Hiro.’

On Monday, they go to school.

‘I cannot believe you’re making me do this,’ Issei says. ‘There is a gaping hole in my side, and my head feels like Iwaizumi slammed me into a truck.’

‘Well suck it up, buster, because we need to seem normal,’ Takahiro says. ‘Plus, if we skip one more Monday your biology teacher will tell on you to coach and Oikawa will have to cancel breaks, and you don’t want to do that to me.’

‘No I do not,’ he agrees. ‘You’d be insufferable.’

Issei has had a near constant headache since Saturday night, and he wants to say it’s because of the wound but Takahiro gets so stressed whenever he looks at Issei’s loping limp and the wince when he sits so he’s not talking about it. Everyone on the train is unbearably loud but Takahiro’s voice is low and easy as always, and it’s insanely soothing.

Usually, Issei holds onto the hand railing or one of the poles while Takahiro leans his full body weight against his side. Today, Takahiro glares his way into finding them seats and he slumps down gratefully, nose buried in his soft pink hair.

The smell of his shampoo is thick, comforting, intoxicating. Issei tries not to nuzzle into it. The train ride is over too soon and they walk very slowly.

His first period is English, a vocabulary session and he drops Takahiro off at his classroom as always because it’s what he does and one shitty little wild animal bite isn’t going to stop him from getting Takahiro’s classmates to loudly (very loudly, too loudly) tease him about his boyfriend. Which he’s not, but the goal is achieved, and he manages a lazy smirk as Takahiro tells him to fuck off.

He sleeps through Japanese lit, jerking painfully awake at the bell which is insanely, ear splittingly high pitched. It’s never been that bad before.

Issei is barely even alive through Biology class, and the wound isn’t acting up but he wonders absently when the bandages will need to be changed.

‘Is Matsukawa okay?’

‘He looks kinda dizzy..’

‘I’ll ask Hana-kun I guess?’

‘Maybe we should keep it down..’

‘What’s the next period?’

He gets permission for the bathroom halfway through the period when sensei halves the class into a debate and the noise level is ridiculous, his head pounding.

Issei locks the door before loosening his tie, unbuttons his uniform shirt warily, because he figures he might as well check on it.

He unwinds the bandage tape, and.

And then he stares.

Takahiro replies to his seven all caps texts by knocking on the bathroom door, three hard raps that are like a gunshot each. Issei unlocks it and Takahiro, ducking in, squints at him as he shuts it, locks it again, then leans his back against it for good measure.

‘You haven’t ever said the word mayday before, I didn't even know you knew it, so what the fuck is goin’,’ he starts, then trails off. His slim eyebrows furrow when he meets Issei’s gaze, and he steps forward till they’re toe-to-toe.

Issei exhales, because now that he’s here and this close the thumping in his chest is finally slowing down.

‘Hiro,’ he manages.

His voice is soft. ‘Issei? What’s wrong?’

Issei lifts up his shirt, wordless, and Takahiro looks at his side.

His side, which at last check was oozing blood, covered in ragged bandages and had a ridged red bite cut deep into his flesh.

His side, which is now clear and dark brown, with a single pink, serrated, wickedly curved scar.

‘No fucking way, shit,’ Takahiro swears immediately, hand coming up to clasp his forehead. His eyes are wide. ‘No fucking. Way. No way. No.’

‘Yeah,’ Issei responds.

‘No FUCKING way!’

‘Takahiro,’ Issei says, jaw tight. He wets his lips. ‘You’re a witch. Could. You just, ah. Please explain. What you did.’

‘I,’ and he looks genuinely speechless. ‘I didn’t do anything! And I’m shit at healing magic, I couldn’t have even done anything close to, nothing like, like that, my magic is like, telekinetic when it’s involuntary—no fucking way. It’s.’

‘It’s gone,’ Issei says, at a loss. ‘It’s gone.’

Takahiro’s eyes flit up from the healed, healed, scarred over gash and they stare at each other.

After the silent walk home and the arguably worse train ride, they go to Issei’s place and dinner is a bit weird. Issei’s little brother Kenta carries much of the conversation.

‘—the whoooole room was staring, and I didn’t know what to do, and sensei asked me if I wanted any juice but all I wanted was to go!’ Kenta eyerolls, ‘So I just stood up and said, Bro, sensei, thanks, but no thanks, because none of the stuff you’ve got will be nearly hard enough for a day like this. And she gave me detention! I didn’t even do anything, like it was that weird half white transfer student, all she does is make fun of my glasses and my hair. She got detention too, though, so it’s okay.’

‘Don’t be rude,’ his mother reprimands, and Kenta eyerolls again.

‘Your hair does kind of suck,’ Issei remarks, and Takahiro elbows his side but he barely feels it.

‘It’s the same as yours, nii-san,’ Kenta says, chin high. ‘We have okaa-san’s genetics. I learnt about genetics in science class today. What’d you do in your science class?’

Had a panic attack in the bathroom, Issei thinks moodily.

‘You get your hair from your otou-san, actually,’ Takahiro tells Kenta. ‘And it’s really nice, don’t listen to this guy. Issei spent his science class texting me.’

‘Haw. Phone in school? Grounded,’ his mother says. ‘For two years.’

Issei lifts his head from his plate piled high with yakitori and stares at her miserably.

‘Oh my god, I’m joking, Issei.’ Her eyebrows are raised high, and she looks at Takahiro, then at him. ‘Long day?’

‘Oh, Matsukawa-san,’ Takahiro says tightly, chopsticks lifting a piece of chicken towards Issei’s mouth. ‘Just the longest.’

‘So,’ he says, pacing. ‘So.’

Issei holds an icepack to his throbbing temple, slouched over on the edge of his bed, elbows to his knees. ‘Mm.’

‘You,’ Takahiro begins, coming to a stop, thin eyebrows furrowed. ‘Wait—’ Then he shakes his head, bangs flopping with the movement and continues to pace. ‘Yeah, no, I don’t have any. Anything to say.’

‘Mn,’ Issei agrees.

‘I’m fucking, going nuts, Issei, holy shit, why is my life an episode of Teen Wolf right now?’ he demands. ‘Why is it literally Teen Wolf, why am I Stiles Stilinski, why is this fucking happening to me? Holy fucking shit, Issei, why!?’

Issei lifts his head up a bit. ‘Oh, that’s, uh, Dylan o’Brien’s character, right? Does that make me Derek?’

Takahiro whirls around from where he’d been pacing a hole right through Issei’s flooring to say, incredulous, ‘Why the f—dude? You? Are Scott, obviously? The main character, the Teen Wolf, the, my, Stiles’s best friend, the guy who turns into a fucking werewolf? Because you—turned into a fucking werewolf? Why would you be Derek! I don’t even know who Derek is! Who is Derek, Issei!’

His voice is cracking, his entire visage that of desperation and Issei says, ‘Jesus, fine, yes, relax, Hiro,’ in the most soothing tone he can muster at this time.

Then he slumps. ‘Ugh, Scott. I don’t want to be Scott. He’s stupid, and he’s so straight.’

Takahiro throws his hands in the air and hollers, ‘So why would you want to be Derek!’

Issei furrows his brows, hesitant. ‘I think I. Don’t know the plot of Teen Wolf.’

Takahiro buries his face in his hands and moans, ‘Oh my fucking god, kill me.’

They watch three werewolf movies, and they read the grimoire entries from the creatures chapter again, they seriously consider tackling Teen Wolf, next, and then Takahiro says, hopeful, ‘Maybe you’re not a werewolf. Maybe it was the pendant, and you just got healed.’

‘Oh, I’m definitely a werewolf,’ Issei responds.

‘But how do you know for sure?’

Issei flattens his mouth in a grimace. ‘Because I’ve had a headache all morning, and I can hear water dripping from the kitchen tap, and also Kenta arguing with his Roblox gang, and I can smell him, too, and also I can hear your heartbeat, plus, um, you used my soap.’

Appalled silence.

Issei lifts his hands defensively. ‘Hey, you have my permission. I love when you use my soap, I don’t care.’

Takahiro regards him, still appalled, and then concludes very sadly, ‘Your werewolf powers will be wasted on you. I can already tell.’

‘Oh, because you use your telekinewhatsit magic witch hooha in such meaningful ways,’ Issei bitches. ‘You think you’re fucking Loki up in this shit.’

‘I am way fucking sexier than Loki,’ he responds. ‘Stop belittling me and figure out what we’re gonna do to hide your brand new werewolf powers.’

Issei shrugs. ‘I never arm wrestle Hajime. I think it’s cool. Also, Scott was stupid and I personally won’t be ripping out any doors.’ He pauses, then tilts his head. ‘Did he rip out doors?’

Takahiro’s face, however, is still pinched. ‘You know, Issei. There’s just a slight problem with operating on Teen Wolf based assumptions.’

‘What,’ Issei says.

‘Neither of us,’ Takahiro says testily, ‘have actually seen the show.’

Issei’s seen a lot of GIF-sets of it on Tumblr, which is basically the same thing as watching it, but he decides not to say this. For his own continued health.

Takahiro is officially calm at one fifteen A.M.

Which is to say, he tires himself out.

‘I hate thinking,’ he remarks, clicking the lamp off. ‘This is why I make you do my math assignments.’

‘Have you seen that post,’ Issei replies. ‘Where the guy is a teacher and he assigns his students to write an essay on what they’d do if they were a billionaire, and one kid sits there, and he’s like uh why are you just sitting there, and she says she’s waiting for her personal assistant?’

‘That’s so me,’ Takahiro says wistfully.

‘That’s so you,’ Issei agrees. Then he tilts his head. ‘Except you’d be the personal assistant, and you’d just make the other junior secretaries do your job.’

‘And why wouldn’t I be the rich CEO,’ Takahiro inquires.

‘Because the PA is the sexiest person at the workplace,’ Issei responds, and they low-five.

They fall asleep with two stacks of notepads and movie C.Ds at their side, his face in pink hair and his knees fitted into the back of Takahiro’s on Issei’s futon.

While he loves Takahiro’s room ardently, Issei has a special adoration for when they sleep over at his house because Takahiro always throws himself down in his bed, his legs tangling into his sheets and his arms wrapping around a pillow, the image of comfort and ease and Issei always follows. Unspoken, undisputed.

Tooru steeples his fingers, chin resting atop. ‘I’m not mad.’

Issei waits.

Tooru continues, predictably— ‘Just disappointed.’

‘Oh, fucking uber facts. Real. Same,’ Takahiro tells him happily. ‘I have a list of disappointments. Do you want to hear them chronologically or in alphabetical order?’

Hajime is staring bewilderedly, uncomprehendingly at the side of Issei’s head. ‘Why the fuck did you go to the forest.’

Issei’s been wondering that himself, actually, and will probably get back to everybody else when he himself discovers why. In a few business days. When the smell of Tooru’s supposedly scentless hair gel and Hajime’s very much scented cologne stop being so vomit-inducing.

‘Forget the forest,’ Tooru says solemnly. ‘Just forget about it, Iwa-chan. My question is, um, hello, why was it a werewolf, when vampires are so much cooler!?’

Takahiro graces him with a fist bump and an admiring look. ‘Again. Facts. Grand Hanger King on a roll today.’

‘It’s too early for this shit,’ Hajime mumbles, drawing his hand up over his face.

‘Vampires just suit Mattsun better, they suit his vibe, like his aura, you know!’ Tooru grieves. ‘We could’ve had it all!’

‘Nah, actually. He’s such a dog person, the wolf thing checks out,’ Hajime disagrees.

Takahiro makes a face. ‘He’s obsessed with my cat, though?’

‘Are you guys forreal,’ Issei asks, staring at them all, one by one. ‘You believe us? Like, actually?’

‘Mattsun, Takahiro is a real life fucking witch,’ Tooru says reasonably. ‘I have a picture of the pentagram in his room that you sent me on Snapchat with question marks in the caption. Why in the fresh hell would we not believe you?’

‘That makes sense,’ he decides, and nudges Takahiro’s arm with his knuckles to remind him to drone, ‘For the gazillionth time, I’m not a fucking witch!’

They’re at AER because all important discussions must take place along with food or drink. Issei inquires as to why the food or drink needs to be at a mall and not at home, where there is food and drink. Takahiro gives him an exasperated look and says, ‘Now you’re paying.’

To which he says, ‘When do I not?’ and gets shoved in the back.

AER is probably Issei’s second home, at this point. Which would mean the Uniqlo at AER is probably Issei’s bedroom, and the cashier with the silver hair who is somehow always working and present to give Issei an amused look is his babysitter, or something.

He tells all of this to Takahiro through the changing room door, very miserably.

Takahiro opens the door wearing a Dragon Ball t-shirt and a flat expression. ‘You love Uniqlo. You get to see me playing dress up.’

This is true. Issei usually does love Uniqlo, or going shopping with Takahiro in general. There’s something domestic about it.

But today…

‘I feel like I’m in hell,’ he says, earnest.

Takahiro breaks into a wide, fond smile. ‘Poor baby. I’m done, anyways. Just gimme a mo.’

Issei trudges his way to the counter, where it’s somehow even brighter, even noisier, a middle aged woman and five teenage girls lined up and all chattering to somebody or other.

Suga the cashier looks up when it’s his turn and beams. ‘Oh, no piles today?’

‘Can it, Koushi,’ Takahiro interrupts, a cool hand dropping to Issei’s overwarm nape and squeezing comfortingly. ‘I just needed the new insane shirt you sent me a picture of. We’re actually here on business. Issei is sick and we came to meet his dealer.’

‘And his dealer’s name is Oikawa Tooru and Oikawa Tooru would love it if you tell me all his volleyball secrets?’ Suga the cashier presses, eyes wide, glinting and hopeful.

‘No,’ Takahiro says. Then pauses, and adds, ‘Regrettably. I’d really, truly love to tell you all his volleyball secrets.’

There’s a beep, then a few more, several seconds in between each notification. Issei waits for them to be done checking the shirt out, then leans over the counter to mumble, ‘You got a few texts just now.’

‘Ooh, was it a special girl?’ Takahiro teases.

Suga’s eyebrows raise, easy smile dropping in confusion, ‘What?’

Issei jerks his chin toward his pocket. ‘I heard the beep, I don’t think you noticed it. Just letting you know.’

Suga’s eyebrows raise higher. ‘My phone is.. in the back room, though?’

Issei’s eyes widen, and he says, very stupidly, ‘Oh.’

Takahiro says, into the stunned silence, ‘Well,’ and then smiles blindingly at Suga the cashier, saying, ‘We’ve got to go! Remember, no fooling around during work, okay Koushi, bye-bye!’ before he practically drags Issei out the store by his ear.

‘Great job, dumbass, now he’s going to think you’re fucking Superman!’ he hisses.

‘Well, that’s probably better than the actual thing,’ Issei says bracingly.

Behind them, he heards Suga the cashier checking his phone, and letting out a quiet exclamation of shock.

Issei winces, eyes sliding shut in regret. Takahiro catches it and sighs. ‘This is going to be more difficult than I thought.’

Tooru’s first question when he figured out Takahiro was actually a witch and it wasn’t some convoluted inside joke was a brisk oh, excellent news, Makki. This is fabulous. You can do a ritual for success at volleyball for me, also, what color is my aura?

Takahiro had said, very sincerely, the ugliest most obnoxious shade of blue imaginable. Then he’d directed at Hajime, you’re like, an orangey red.

Tooru had apparently called it some ten years ago, and had said triumphantly, My sixteen yen, if you please, Iwa-chan! Which, weirdly specific. Issei hadn’t liked that.

‘I didn’t please,’ Hajime had confided in Takahiro later, because they’d been making fun of the if you please for three minutes straight. ‘I didn’t.’

‘Sure you didn’t, buddy,’ Takahiro had said, clapping his shoulder.

Their only options are anyone that knows about magic.

Tooru and Hajime, however, are sort of the extent of people who are in the know, and while they’re certainly the least helpful, they’re the only people Takahiro thinks they should tell.

From his family, his mother and elder sister don’t know, and his father probably never will; though if Yasu got her head out of her boyfriend’s face for a single day she would definitely have her suspicions. His baby brother Kenta, for some reason, was even more firm of a believer than Issei from the very start—he’d had one furtive conversation with Takahiro in the first month of their friendship and since then he’s been pigheaded about it.

Issei wasn’t present for the conversation and only heard whispers of the tail end, catching two words, ‘coven’ and ‘forum.’ Which is probably the least promising combination, ever.

But he’s eleven, and though it’s debatable whether his knowledge or Tooru’s knowledge on magic is higher, he’s definitely going to be of no help.

And besides him and their two friends, that’s everyone that knows about magic besides Takahiro’s family. According to Takahiro, though—

‘We absolutely cannot tell my mother,’ Takahiro says seriously.

‘Give me my boba back?’ Tooru says, confused. ‘What the hell, Makki.’

‘Like, if we tell her?’ he continues, sipping from Tooru’s boba because it’s ‘pinker than his own’ and ignoring his protests. ‘It’s over. She’s banning me from practicing. She’s gonna go nuts with rage. She already doesn’t like you, she’ll ban magic and you from coming over. What the hell would I do then?’

‘I can’t believe Hanamaki admitted he’s a witch,’ Hajime remarks, stirring his green tea.

‘I can’t believe Hanamaki-san still blames Mattsun for his shirt being untidy that day,’ Tooru comments.

‘Neither can I,’ Issei admits, to both of them. And then, teasing, ‘What, would you miss me?’

Takahiro gives him an unimpressed look but Issei catches this uptick in his heartbeat, and his own pulse stutters in response.

‘Absolutely not,’ and somehow, Issei knows it’s a lie.

There’s a moment, then, where Takahiro turns his head to the side coolly, elbow braced on the table ahead of him and fingers curled around the pink cup—his eyes flit back so quickly to Issei that it’s as if he didn’t really mean to look. And Issei knows, in theory and in headaches, that his senses have taken a curve upward. But he realizes how sharp these senses are now, in this brief glance, silver peeking under Takahiro’s thin eyelashes like precious metals. The overhead orange lights light up his cheeks and hair.

Then his eyes dart away and Takahiro sucks obnoxiously around his straw.

‘Sure,’ Issei tells him.

Takahiro kicks him under the table and passes Tooru his boba back.

‘But you could tell your sister, though, yeah?’ Hajime offers. ‘She’s older, she has a good job.’

‘Born five years before me and a shitty job as a fashion designer, which means she’s the most reliable person alive, apparently,’ Takahiro eyerolls. ‘Iwa, you insufferable only child. She would snitch in minutes. She’d probably call okaasan before I even started talking.’

‘What, is she a mind reader?’ Tooru’s eyes are wide and he’s leant in over the table, boba tea abandoned. Takahiro is probably going to steal it again. ‘Is mind reading a thing? Can you tell what I’m thinking right now?’

‘You’re thinking gee, I hope Makki isn’t reading my mind, or he’d know all my biggest secrets,’ Hajime says dryly.

Tooru lets out a yelp and shoves Hajime in the arm. ‘What the fuck, Hajime, how did you know!’

‘Yeah, so we just have no options,’ Takahiro says miserably. ‘What the hell are we gonna do?’

‘Don’t you have another sister?’ Hajime says, while most of his attention is on pushing Tooru off.

‘Umi is five, Iwa-chan, at least try to use your little pea-brain,’ Tooru jeers, and they’re at it again.

‘We’re going to get kicked out of AER and then I’ll never see Suga again,’ Takahiro laments.

Issei says, ‘What about your grandmother?’

Takahiro’s mother’s mother is the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter and that means something, apparently.

She lives in a little house alone by a river and a shrine, and she has the same grey eyes that her daughter and her three children have. She has a porch with a rocking chair and a bonsai tree set in front of her on a small wooden, carved table. Issei has never met her before today but when she smiles a crinkled, wide smile and says, ‘Takahiro, my useless boy,’ he instantly thinks she’s way better than his own, far more uptight grandparents.

‘Evening, useless obaachan,’ Takahiro grumbles, his lip tugging upward as he ducks to greet her. ‘Your tree looks weirdly skinny today.’

‘It’s fall, idiot,’ she berates, still smiling. ‘All trees get skinnier in fall. It’s healthier than you, at least.’

‘I’m the picture of health,’ Takahiro lies.

‘He coughed thirteen times on the way here,’ Issei feels the need to announce.

The grandmother turns her head ever so slightly and smiles a bit wider. ‘Issei-kun. I was wondering when this idiot would properly introduce you to me.’

‘It’s good to meet you, obaachan,’ Issei says politely, to stamp down on the delight that always rushes up like an ocean whenever he’s included in Takahiro’s family, or vice versa. ‘We’re sorry for intruding.’

‘Takahiro isn’t sorry for anything,’ she says in the same solemn voice Takahiro uses to complain about things.

‘You’re my grandmother, this house is like a quarter mine, hello?’ Takahiro says incredulously. ‘You love when I come over. Why do you remember Issei’s name?’

‘Takachan,’ she says, sitting back in her chair and regarding him with cool, silvery eyes. ‘I knew his name before you were even born.’

The wind rushes through the trees, and the river rushes as if to meet it. Issei doesn’t think the breeze actually quickens with the statement but his back straightens, and goosebumps shiver up his spine.

‘You’re just saying thaaaat,’ Takahiro says awkwardly.

She blinks. ‘No, I did.’

‘Well.’ He purses his lips. ‘How many months before I was born. Or days, or years, whatever.’

‘A few minutes, actually,’ she admits, and Takahiro snorts. ‘It came to me and I thought initially, it must be a premonition for what to name you. Or just an idea? But then the nurse called us inside and your mother had already named you Takahiro and I wasn’t sure how quiet one was relevant.’

She pauses, and then gives Issei a significant look. ‘He was very loud.’

‘All babies are loud,’ Takahiro says sullenly.

‘Sure,’ obaachan agrees serenely. ‘Issei-kun, would you like to look at my tree?’

Issei has always been fond of bonsai, the whole culture of it. He’s never been good with plants himself but he helps out in the Hanamaki garden sometimes. He’s been observing her tree, large for a bonsai, branches spreading wide and lush, since they arrived, and says as much.

‘It’s very beautiful,’ he tells her. ‘Hiro was lying, it doesn’t look thin at all. It’s very healthy.’

‘My husband grew it for me,’ she says. Here, her whole face loosens, wrinkles unfolding and pale skin relaxed, her eyebrows lifted up and her smile fond. ‘He always had a hand for these things. Takachan is a lot like him. Won’t you two sit?’

There are small, old fashioned wooden folding chairs by the front door, and Issei fetches them.

When they’re seated, the old woman sits back in her rocking chair and fixes them with a look. ‘Now. You came to ask me about werewolves.’

‘You should’ve told me years ago,’ Takahiro says. His voice is thin and sharp, and Issei folds his fingers around his wrist, thumb brushing against the dip of his palm. ‘We would have never gone in that forest.’

‘Yes,’ she says, thoughtful. ‘I suppose I could have. But that wouldn’t have been right. You know how it is with these things. And though I have no hand in why, I’m still sorry.’

Very slowly, everything suddenly slips into place. Issei says, ‘You’re a seer.’

‘Yes,’ she repeats, gentle. ‘I am.’

‘I fucking hate seers,’ Takahiro says.

‘Yes,’ she says, a third, final time. ‘I know you do.’

Issei squeezes Takahiro’s wrist, and Takahiro says, ‘What can you tell us?’

Takahiro hadn’t said anything about her on the way there, or in the coffee shop at AER, or ever, in the near-three years Issei’s known him. He’d only known she existed in a vague sort of way, in pictures on the mantelpiece, in anecdotes and childhood stories.

‘She threatened to throw me in her stupid river once.’

‘She invented that recipe for the caramel dessert and okaasan refuses to tell it to me!’

‘She’s the weirdest person I’ve ever met and I’ve met Oikawa’s dad.’

The sun is still high and her white hair looks the same, cool color as her eyes.

‘How does it happen?’ Issei asks. ‘Why does it happen?’

‘I suppose you could say magic,’ she says, then— ‘Though of course, Takahiro will have told you nothing about that.’

‘I can’t believe you’re officially in the know,’ Takahiro says badtemperedly.

‘I’ve picked up enough to get by,’ Issei begins, but she interrupts, ‘Don’t defend him! He’s a useless boy who thinks he’s hilarious and you have your whole lives ahead of you to hide him behind you when he’s being unfunny.’

‘He is funny,’ Issei almost says, unable to grasp the your whole lives ahead of you until Takahiro slips his fingers up to entwine with Issei’s.

He squeezes, and Issei looks up to meet his eyes.

Maybe the universe is a straight line, maybe it’s a bonsai tree, roots and branches and leaves separating off and being sheared carefully by some wizened old man in a yukata. Maybe it’s a web, events overlapping over time, across time.

But some things, some moments and some people are just so right that they feel fated.

'The thing about magic,' he says, 'is that it all comes down to electricity.'

He’s sitting on the carved folding chair, his elbows resting on his knees. His back is a crescent line. The tips of his clipped bangs are growing longer, just enough to fall into his eyes.

His gaze is set firmly on his fingers, hands spread in front of him.

Issei watches the side of his face, and says, 'Go on.'

'Electricity.' His long fingers flex. 'Animates us, there’s been so many scientific experiments done on it, you've probably seen a shitton of YouTube essays. It animates us, it's what keeps us alive and moving. Or, no, maybe electricity is too specific.'

He turns his head to meet Issei's gaze, his eyes molten metal, like an unmade sword.

'Energy,' Takahiro says simply. 'Heat. Whatever word you want to use, the vibrations, the waves, the aura. Chi. It's in everyone, and some people are just born better connected, more aware, able to use it. To redirect the lightning, I guess.'

'To make the keys hang themselves?' Issei offers.

'A little bit of my energy,' Takahiro agrees, 'sent into the atoms, whatever the fuck makes up the keys. The electricity guides them to their hook.'

'It's incredible,' Issei tells him.

‘Well.' He eyerolls, expels a breath. 'It's just keys.’

‘What about spells?’

‘Those are complicated. Spells and wands and staffs and all of that shit, potions, charms, amulets, any object, religious, blessed by holy words, or by spells, it all comes down to the same thing. It’s just intent. Words of power, or objects, they just help you direct your energy.’ Takahiro elaborates, ‘It’s not as complicated as it might sound, really. You could call it the placebo effect. Spells work though, it’s just about believing they’ll work. That’s why family grimoires are so important. If generations before you used it enough to write it down, why wouldn’t it work for you?’

Issei digests this. He nods. ‘Right. Then, magic, what does it have to do with the werewolf thing?’

'You, you're not connected to yours, obviously. My theory so far, for what the bite does,' he says, turning away again to study his hands, 'is that it’s sort of like a virus. Your energy twists, it’s used to force your bones and body to shift, along the changes of the moon for some reason. Lycanthropy was originally described as a disease. All of that makes me think… it’s some kind of curse.’

‘The curse of the werewolf,’ obaachan agrees, standing in the doorway with a tray, tea kettle and little balanced cups. ‘Very good, Takahiro.’

Takahiro lifts his head and now, looking at him from the side as he gazes up at his grandmother, his face looks pale and almost desperate. ‘So what do we do about it?’

This is what Issei is afraid of—

He is going to turn into a werewolf on the next full moon, and he is going to lose control of himself.

He is going to turn into a werewolf on the next full moon, and he is going to lose control of himself, and he is going to hurt someone.

He is going to turn into a werewolf on the next full moon, and he is going to lose control of himself, and he is going to hurt someone, and he is out of his mind with terror that somehow, the person he hurts is going to end up being Takahiro.

She sits back down, and her fingers fold together. Her gaze is very steady. ‘The first thing I can tell you is that I promise, Issei, there is nothing you need. There are no skills, no secret passed down knowledge. You are no less aware of yourself than you were before, or than any other werewolf is. Werewolves live off the land. You don’t need anything but what you already have.

‘The second thing,’ she continues, ‘is that you are going to adapt, Issei.’

‘That doesn’t feel likely,’ he admits.

‘Don’t worry,’ she assures. ‘I know it doesn’t. But I promise. You’ll get used to this, the noise and the scents, the lights, all of your heightened senses. You will notice more of an instinct sometimes. About danger, or for rain. This you will also get used to. You’ll adjust to a need for tactility, for the way you’ll view your loved ones as one large community. You don’t have to worry about any of that.

‘What you need to worry about,’ she says, quiet. ‘Is your first shift. That is all you need to get through.’

‘I feel like it’s going to be impossible,’ Issei confesses, voice gone raw. His cup of tea has gone cold. ‘How will my body make that change? What will happen to me while I’m—a, a wolf. What would happen to my mind?’

Takahiro has been almost silent next to him, but now Issei hears him swallow and shift closer.

‘Yes. The mind. That is the only thing that ever goes wrong with being a werewolf,’ she says quietly. Her own cup of tea warms her hands. ‘Some people go mad. They lose themselves every full moon. They wake up alone and afraid and not knowing what they did. But that won’t happen to you.’

His throat closes up, and he asks, helpless, ‘But how do you know that?’

‘Because I know these things,’ she says sincerely, ‘and because all you need is a reminder. A hold onto the world and your humanity. The hand that pulls you out of the currents. It could be a feeling, or a person, or an object.

‘Tell me, Issei, do you know what it is that makes you feel real?’

Issei thinks it could allude to just being fifteen and hormonal. That’s the logical explanation. That’s what makes sense. He’d been adrift, and distant, and had always considered himself a bit of a loner. The teachers said he would stop staring out the windows eventually.

But no matter how many jokes they make about it he really, truly, and honestly believes that the very moment he’d grasped Takahiro’s hand the world had shaken down to it’s core.

And since that moment, he’s been moving around him like the tide.

The rest of the month passes by so quickly it’s a blur.

On that visit to Takahiro’s grandmother, Issei had ended up finishing his tea, and Takahiro’s, too, as Takahiro bantered with the old woman in intervals of trying to weedle out of Issei what, exactly, he was thinking about. What would keep him in check when the time came.

Issei is so secure in it that he hadn’t asked a single question about werewolves or magic in the next hour they’d been at the cottage, or since.

Takahiro, in contrast, can’t seem to shut up.

‘Just an idea, or a hint,’ he beseeches, when they’re on the train. He’s tucked into Issei’s favorite bomber jacket, it’s getting colder these days, the end of summer. Rain beats against the window. ‘For my peace of mind. I trust you, obviously, you’ve got this covered, obaachan didn’t seem to give a fuck so it’s cool, but—Issei I’m going out of my fucking mind, here!’

‘It’s really simple,’ Issei tells him, like he’d said at the cottage and like he’d said in the locker room and like he’s said the many, many times Takahiro has asked. ‘It’s just logic.’

‘Is it a thing?’ Takahiro says, at the gym, insistent. ‘Or a feeling, or what?’

‘Is it a place?’ Hajime says, mockingly. Issei gives him a flat look.

‘Is it the moment you got hooked on volleyball?’ Tooru says, his face shining.

Issei gives him a look that’s even flatter.

‘No, Oikawa,’ he says, patient. ‘It’s not the moment I got hooked on volleyball.’

‘Oh, then it’s just. Oh,’ Tooru says, dismissive. He’s figured it out. ‘Lame.’

‘Obvious,’ Hajime adds, gleeful.

‘Someone fucking explain?!’ Takahiro shouts, distraught.

‘It’s really, really easy,’ Issei tells him.

And then it’s the evening before, a cool Sunday evening at the end of September.

They plan it out. Issei’s mother is told they’re sleeping over at Takahiro’s. Takahiro’s mother is told they’re sleeping over at Issei’s. He wears old clothes and eats a late dinner. Takahiro says, ‘The forest is probably your best bet.’

‘If I bump into that other guy I’ll probably get really irritated,’ Issei warns.

‘Too bad. There is literally nowhere else to go,’ Takahiro responds.

His grandmother had said, ‘I don’t know, why would I know. Who cares. I just know he’s going to be fine,’ and Takahiro had said, near tears, ‘You are so goddamn useless, obaachan.’

When they go back into the forest, it’s seven P.M and getting dark, and Issei says, ‘You should probably head back.’

The leaves crunch underfoot. An owl is hooting overhead. Issei feels Takahiro’s heat and hears his steadily beating heart beside him, and then lets out a quiet laugh when, predictably, Takahiro punches him in the shoulder.

‘You’re fucking nuts if you think I’m leaving you here,’ he snaps. ‘If you’re anything like that other wolf, we both know I can handle it. But according to both you and obaachan, you’ll be in control. So, what the fuck ever. I’m staying.’

He’s stopped asking, but Issei knows he’s still angry about not knowing what his hold is, and he doesn’t want to go and leave him all sharp-edged alone in the forest like that. So he stops and cups the side of Takahiro’s head.

Takahiro looks at him, chin tipped up. His eyes are flinty, mouth twisted, but he blinks, very slow, just once.

Issei can’t help but smile. ‘You really think I’m gonna tell you?’

‘You’re about to turn into a werewolf and your hand is in my hair, Matsukawa, it would be so fucked up if you didn’t,’ Takahiro says sincerely.

‘Last name zoned,’ Issei notes with chagrin, then kisses his forehead. His skin is cool, soft. Issei can’t help but linger, then pulls back and promises, ‘It’ll be okay. Don’t film if I do anything embarrassing.’

‘I’m not promising anything!’ Takahiro shouts after him as he walks into the trees.

Issei shoves his hands in his pockets and smiles.

The shifting is as painful as he would have expected.

He’s been feeling oddly pent up the last three days, sleeping fitfully at night and finding himself zoned out and realizing only when Takahiro snaps his fingers in front of his face. It’s nothing like how you would imagine from movies and fantasy novels—what it is, is Issei in the first clearing he can find and his legs trembling.

He tries to stand up straight for as long as possible, but then his knees buckle and the moon comes out behind the clouds and he’s crumpled to the ground, deliriously thinking about the color of Takahiro’s eyes.

When he lifts his head, the world is shades of black and grey, blue and yellow.

He’s on all fours, and when he inhales, everything is incredibly different but feels completely normal. He turns his head and catches Takahiro’s scent.

Issei wonders if he should howl at the moon or really stick it to the cliche, and then realizes abruptly that his mind is completely in control.

He practically trips over his own tail running to Takahiro in his excitement.

Takahiro is sat crosslegged and scrolling through Issei’s phone at the door of the tent, and he looks up as Issei runs and leaps straight at him.

‘What the fucking hell, Issei, if you eat me I’ll be so mad at obaachan—did you just lick me?’

Issei sits back and holds up a paw, waits patiently for him to recognize the symbol they’d decided for if he was in control.

Takahiro wipes saliva off his cheek, glaring at him as he sits back up and then blinks at the paw. ‘Holy shit, your claws are massive. High fucking five,’ and slaps his hand against Issei’s.

Issei feels like cheering.

‘Wrong hand, paw, by the way. We said left,’ Takahiro informs him.

Issei pauses in his tail thumping and stares at him. It is his left.

‘Oh, don’t start that my left-your left bullshit. Did you howl at the moon yet?’

When the sun comes up, Issei shifts back. It’s inconvenient, because he’s got his entire giant wolf body thrown over Takahiro’s waist, holding him down because he’d been mistranslating every woof Issei let out, like a terrible person.

‘Holy fucking shit—’ he’s saying, and then Takahiro lets out a triumphant yell and flips them over.

‘Aw, shit,’ Issei complains.

‘That’s what you fucking get,’ Takahiro crows, elbows digging into Issei’s chest and shoulders and his smile is absolutely brilliant.

Issei tips his head back against the damp forest grass and laughs, breathless and sated, somehow, loose from tension and at peace, and he doesn’t even know why they call it a curse because that was the best night of his life.

Issei’s pants are ripped at the seams and barely holding onto his hips and he is absolutely beautiful beneath him.

He’s laughing, his dark skin flushed and his hair is a tousled mess. His shirt didn’t survive. His hands come up to fist in the fabric of Takahiro’s singlet, his pinky slipping up the back, skin on skin and Takahiro can’t tear his gaze away.

His eyes are crinkled, and he says, ‘Hey.’

Takahiro swallows, and echoes, ‘Hey.’

And then he asks, again, because he can’t help it, he needs to know. His entire being is burning with it. His fingers shake with it, and he wants to hear the answer more than anything in the world.

‘Takahiro,’ Issei says, face lit by the moon. His smile curves indulgent, holding himself up on his elbows. ‘What do you think I was thinking about?’

Takahiro wants to believe it was him so badly his brain is going to explode. He swallows, and leans in. His face feels on fire.

Issei sways forward, and his eyes are dark. He’s still smiling. ‘Remember when I said, the night the bite healed, that I could hear your heartbeat?’

Takahiro’s breath hitches. ‘Don’t tease me.’

‘I can hear it now, too,’ Issei says. He wets his lips, and Takahiro can hear it as well, pounding in his ears, he feels dizzy with it. ‘It’s going so, so fast… What do you think I was thinking about?’

‘Cars,’ Takahiro suggests, voice cracking, forehead bumping against Issei’s. ‘Really cool cars. The very human scent of gasoline, maybe. Weed? Stop—stop, you’re too close—’

His laughing breath comes down upon Takahiro’s mouth, and it’s warm. ‘I could be closer.’

‘You could,’ he agrees, voice coming out uneven despite his valiant efforts to keep it steady. ‘That’s true, actually. But do you really—shit, Issei—’

He’s sat up. They’re flush together, now. Takahiro’s knees are buried in the dirt on either side of Issei’s legs, and Issei’s head is tipped back to gaze at Takahiro, their noses brushing. His arms fit firmly along Takahiro’s back and waist, one hand cupping his nape to tilt his head down.

Takahiro's whole body is alight.

‘Takahiro,’ Issei murmurs. ‘Your future-seeing grandmother said she knew my name before you were born. Don’t you think that means something?’

‘It was—it was only a minute before,’ Takahiro says weakly.

‘I hadn’t been born yet,’ he says, voice still very low but so very warm. ‘And my dad decided on my name a day after I was born.’

‘Maybe she knew you would annoy me one day,’ Takahiro tries.

‘Maybe she knew you would annoy me every day,’ Issei counters.

‘I’ve never even once—’

‘We are meant to be, written in the stars,’ Issei interrupts, unyielding. ‘Now are you going to let me kiss you, or—’

Takahiro kisses him.

They spilt apart.

Issei’s lips stay parted, and he lilts forward till his nose is pressed into Takahiro’s hot, pink cheek. He inhales, sweat and heat and salt.

‘How long ‘til you let me do that again?’

Takahiro fists a hand in his hair and says, pink faced and irritable, ‘You don’t have to act like I’m such a bastard and you have to wait around all the time,’ and then kisses him again.

When they pause for air, Issei says, ‘I just, only because I kind of feel the need to beg, seriously—’

He cuts his fumbled explanation in half with, ‘You don’t need to beg when I’m yours,’ and then Issei is clutching at his jaw, cradling him close and his heart feels immeasurably, impossibly swollen, like a wound, or eyes when you’ve just been crying and rubbing at them in your hurt.

Takahiro clings right back.

He feels like he is never going to be hurt again and he wants to drown in this feeling.

They sleep in the tent and wake up to sunlight, birds chirping, and Takahiro’s unimpressed mother.

‘So you’re a werewolf now,’ she says. ‘And you’re sleeping in the same bed as my son… And you’ve been vanished all day, and you’re also shirtless. Not making a very good case, here, Matsukawa-kun.’

‘Hanamaki-san,’ Issei begins, cheeks hot, mortified and rumpled—

‘Issei,’ she says, blinking. ‘I’m going to clean up this terrible camp. When I come back, you better be out of Takahiro’s sleeping bag, and you better be wearing clothes. Or you can forget about my blessing.’

She leaves.

Issei cards a hand through pink hair and says, ‘You can stop pretending to snore, now.’

Takahiro’s chin lifts and digs into Issei’s bare chest. His eyes are glinting, guileless and green-grey. His cheeks are sleep-pink, hair sticking up at the crown. ‘Good morning, you absolute dog.’

‘Good morning, you asshole,’ he replies, and kisses his pretty head, absolutely adoring. Everything in the world is going to be okay.