Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s raining, and Sasara forgot his umbrella.

He forgot a lot of things, actually. He forgot his keys—a particularly large raindrop hits his eye and interrupts his thoughts. Sasara brushes it away. Right, his keys: the one that has his lucky keychain, and that’s a little on the nose when it’s just a basic maneki neko keychain that anyone can find anywhere, but—Sasara’s sandals skid as he turns a corner—but, hey, he can’t help the fact his speakers take the form of one. Those keys are probably still tossed carelessly onto his coffee table, next to his wallet, which he also forgot.

He glances at a street sign he passes. Fourteen blocks away.

And, sure, maybe he did jump over the ticket reader at the train station, and maybe he barely made it onto the train while being chased because of it. A stray cat’s glowing eyes peer up at him from a box in an alley. Illegally getting on a train won’t look good for his comedy career if it’s on the news tomorrow. What a horrible night. Damn, maybe that keychain really is lucky?

Another glance at a street sign. Twelve blocks away.

Well, the lack of his lucky keychain would explain why he’s careless enough to forget to change to his sneakers and run out of his apartment wearing a pair of sandals and his pajamas instead. Into the freezing rain. Still without an umbrella. He sneezes. Why didn’t he turn around and grab one while the chance was there? He regrets his choice as he runs through the rain with his star patterned pajama pants and a loose shirt with Peko-chan’s face plastered on it. Both stick to his numb skin uncomfortably.

All this cold and running in circles (both mentally and physically: he’s not familiar with the streets of Yokohama, after all) drains Sasara of any energy. The apology he carefully constructed in his mind on the train ride here, mumbling it under his breath while city melts into green and then back into city, completely vanishes. He doesn’t remember a single word. A car honks at Sasara as he runs across a street. Was it even a good apology? 

But none of what he forgot matters. It’s what he remembers that’s far more important.

He remembers why he bothers with fighting through the raindrops splattering against his face, the cold that freezes his hands until he can’t feel them, and the strain of running for so long. He remembers what startled him out of bed tonight in a cold sweat, something that he tries to escape with every hurried step forward. A street lamp flickers above him. He remembers the address. The one thing the harsh rain can’t wipe from his mind. The address that Ichiro somehow luckily knows and was able to tell Sasara because he was still awake for a job, luckily enough.

He sputters into a coughing fit when he tries to take in a deep breath. His lungs feel as flimsy as wet paper in his chest. Hands on his knees, he hunches over to catch his breath in the middle of the sidewalk. Raindrops patter onto his shoulders. Water drips off his hair. Sasara stands, wipes his face, squints at the street sign at the end of the block. Seven blocks away.

Sasara takes a deep breath, lets it out, another one, and— “Fuck!”

The surging rain drowns out his frustration.

Lucky. What the hell about any of this is lucky? Where was luck when Sasara needed it? With enough luck, he could’ve avoided this situation entirely! He stares down at his feet.

With enough strength, he could’ve avoided this situation entirely.

Why wasn’t he strong enough?

For a moment, he doesn’t want to move. He wants to stay here, in the rain, cold and tired. What’s he even going to say when he gets there? But he remembers that dream (nightmare; it was a nightmare) that pushed him out of bed. So he starts running again. He’s somehow both numb and sore, tired and jittery, burning cold and hot.

Five blocks away.

He stumbles, the front of one of his sandals catching on something. A frustrated noise bubbles in the back of his throat.

Four blocks away.

A voice curses at Sasara when he bumps shoulders roughly with them after a sharp turn at the corner of the sidewalk. He doesn’t have the breath or the time or the thought to apologize.

Three blocks away.

The silence of the streets washed into gray by storm clouds turns into an explosion of thunder above his head, a low and weighted rumble from the dark clouds above. Sasara lifts his face to the sky just in time to miss a huge puddle on the ground and step into it. Under the light of the next streetlamp he passes, a newly formed suspicious brown stain reveals itself on the hem of his pants.

Two blocks away.

Another booming sound of thunder, louder and closer. The rain falls harder. The storm’s only getting worse. Sasara’s definitely catching a cold.

One block away.

A woman fumbles with her keys while she holds her umbrella in front of an apartment building ahead of Sasara. She opens one of the front doors, and Sasara grabs the door as she goes inside.

The woman glances up at him. She seems older than him, perhaps mid-thirties, and clearly coming back from a late night at a bar with friends, based on her flushed cheeks and lack of a suspicious expression. Sasara pauses and leans against the door. His chest heaves up and down as he tries to catch his breath. He gives what he hopes is an apologetic smile as she walks past him without a word.

The door clicks shut behind him when he steps inside, quieting the rain and silencing his rushing thoughts with it. The abrupt quiet flickers into a faint, static buzz in his ears. Sasara surveys his surroundings.

Harsh lights, tinted with the barest amount of yellow, glow overhead. Perhaps the lightbulbs had been switched out recently. The tiles on the floor are glossy and spotless, reflecting a blurred silhouette of Sasara’s shadow back at him. As he walks down the hallway with squelching footsteps, he passes by a mirror. He takes one glance at his paler than usual complexion and soaked appearance before stumbling his way to an elevator.

He jabs the button and peeks up at the numbers carved into metal above the elevator door. Seven lights up. Sasara sighs and pushes the button again as if that’d make the elevator come down faster. The numbers tick lower and lower until there’s a soft ding.

The doors glide open to an elevator equally as pristine as the hallway. Sasara shuffles in. He drags his finger down the elevator buttons, presses the right number, and leans against the wall opposite of the doors.

Despite how nice the place looks, there’s no elevator music. Bummer. Sasara huffs out a breath and tilts his head down. Water is dripping from the hems of his pants, forming small puddles at his feet.

It drips.

And drips.

And drips.

Ding.

Sasara pushes off the wall and heads into the hallway. His gaze skips along the numbered apartments before he picks a direction.

The buzz in his ears. The otherwise deafening silence. The warmer air against his colder skin. Sasara’s skin itches. Is it just him, or does the hallway seem longer than it did five seconds ago? He’s hesitant. But he needs to see him.

Eventually, the apartment number matches the one Sasara memorized. He’s here.

Or maybe not? Double checking the apartment number couldn’t hurt. Sasara fumbles his phone out of his pocket and turns it on. The screen glitches before it blinks back into normalcy. The clock still seems accurate and functional; he catches it changing from 4:02 to 4:03. He swipes at the phone screen. It doesn’t react.

“Damn it,” Sasara grumbles.

So much for double checking the address. And he might need a new phone. He shoves his phone back in his pocket and rings the doorbell before he can hesitate.

He presses his ear to the door. Even after a few seconds, there’s no sound. But it’s four in the morning. Who’d be up at this time?

He rings the doorbell a second time and still only hears silence. He knocks on the door. There’s no response. Sasara groans, resting his forehead on the door. He knocks louder and clicks the doorbell repeatedly. Harsh weather and mental fatigue wear his patience thin.

“C’mon, wake up,” he mutters.

He pounds on the door as hard as he can. It’s okay: his hands are numb anyway. And the neighbors can wake up for all he cares. It wouldn’t be the first time he pisses someone off tonight. He bangs on the door a few more times for emphasis, then drops his hand. A few seconds pass as Sasara stands still.

The door swings open, and there’s a gun pointed at Sasara’s chest.

Samatoki leans one shoulder against the doorframe, thumb pressed against the safety of the gun. He must’ve not checked the peephole before he opened the door. Or, maybe, it won’t make a difference if he did or didn’t. Maybe he’s pointing a gun at Sasara’s chest because he did check. Maybe he’s about to shoot Sasara right then and there. Sasara can’t find the energy to even be wary of it.

He doesn’t dare to move an inch, monitoring Samatoki’s expression carefully. Samatoki lowers the gun, a look of recognition crossing his face.

Sasara considers what Samatoki is seeing at the moment. Surely, he looks pathetic. Oversized clothes sticking to his skin, paler than usual, drenched from head to toe, frazzled. He may not look like the human version of a room hit by a tornado, but he definitely looks like someone who ran along many blocks in the pouring rain without any protection.

Samatoki must be confused from just waking up, Sasara reasons. It’s the same reason Sasara nearly took a train to Ikebukuro instead of Yokohama. Sleepiness. It has to be. Samatoki has to be tired and confused. Because Samatoki fumbles to shove his gun—one Sasara has half the mind to remember is illegal—into the back of his jeans and stumbles forward to pull Sasara close.

He still smells the same. The thing Sasara always recognizes first is the cigarette smoke clinging to Samatoki’s shirt like a haunting shadow. It’s the most powerful smell, and the most nostalgic. It’s the smell that would curl up in the corners of Sasara’s lungs and burn every time Samatoki would lean in to light Sasara’s cigarette with his own. 

The searing ache of love (and probably also his life span being chopped shorter by smoking) feels like it should’ve left a mark. And it did, because Sasara can feel it again, fizzling back to life in his chest.

Coffee is the other easily identifiable scent that wafts off Samatoki. He must still love it as much as he used to. That bitter, freshly ground coffee he prides himself on so much. The one Sasara used to steal a sip of when Samatoki so much as glances away from his cup for more than a second., even though it tastes terrible to him every time. It was still Samatoki’s coffee, and that was more than enough.

Sasara considers pulling away. He considers hugging Samatoki back. He considers tucking his face in Samatoki’s shoulder the way he used to when he was buzzing with alcohol and daring enough to cuddle closer than he usually did. He decides instead to search for another smell and another memory.

Iron. Or… blood? Sasara had never been able to figure it out years ago, and he’s unsure even today. It’s faint, but it’s surely there. There’s a brief thought on if Samatoki’s bleeding somewhere. Maybe blood loss could explain why Samatoki is embracing him.

No matter how many times Sasara had patched Samatoki up in the past, checked time and time again to make sure he took care of everything, carefully wiping any dirt and blood from Samatoki’s skin, the scent of iron always stuck. As if there’s a wound somewhere Samatoki never let him reach, oozing blood and refusing to heal. But perhaps it’s better if he had things that he didn’t tell even Sasara. After all, Sasara eventually became one of the many people that had hurt Samatoki, and he did far worse damage than any stranger ever could.

Before he can spiral into that thinking, he’s brought back to reality by a gentle squeeze around the waist.

“Sasara,” Samatoki exhales, breath ruffling Sasara’s hair and tickling Sasara’s ear.

He really must be confused from just waking up, Sasara reasons again. Because there’s no other reason why he would say Sasara’s name like that. Like it’s the two of them again. Like before The Dirty Dawg. Like before Mad Comic Dialogue meant four people instead of two. Like there’s nothing wrong, when everything is wrong. But how can he resist it, when it’s everything he wants to hear?

“I’m drenched, y’know,” Sasara mumbles, “Samatoki.”

“No shit, dumbass,” Samatoki says quietly.

Sasara finally lifts his heavy arms and tentatively returns the hug. His hands tremble faintly against Samatoki’s shirt. He blames it on the tingly numbness of his skin. (But it isn’t that. He knows it isn’t that.) He doesn’t tighten his grip on Samatoki.

The warmth leaves too quickly as Samatoki pulls back. He grabs Sasara by the elbow and tugs him out of the hallway, closing the door. Sasara shifts closer to the wall as Samatoki locks the door. He doesn’t move until Samatoki shuffles past him, trailing after Samatoki into the living room.

Samatoki carelessly discards the gun on the coffee table with a clatter and falls back onto the couch with a soft grunt. The gun glints under the light. Sasara hasn’t seen a gun up close in a while. He shifts his gaze to Samatoki instead, who’d closed his eyes in the seconds Sasara stared at the gun.

“Aren’t guns… banned?” Sasara asks.

The only response is an incredulous side eye from Samatoki. Sasara mentally kicks himself for the ridiculous question.

“Right. Yakuza.” Sasara rubs his arm awkwardly.

Without gracing that with a response, Samatoki pats the couch cushion next to him. An invitation. Relief washes over Sasara at being given something to do. He hurries forward and sits down with a generous couple of feet of distance between him and Samatoki.

Neither of them says a word. Sasara’s leg starts to bounce. He rubs his hands together, but it generates no warmth. The clock counts off every passing second with a hushed tick. Sasara lifts his fingertips to his lips, breathing softly on them. He peeks at Samatoki. What are the words to the apology he wrote in his head on the train? Samatoki isn’t even looking at him, busy observing absolutely nothing on the wall.

“Sasara.”

“Yeah?”

Sasara drums his fingers on his thigh. Samatoki leans his head on the back of the couch and stares at the ceiling.

“Why the hell are you here?”

Sasara winces. “Sorry.”

“No, that’s not what I meant.” Samatoki blows out a breath of air through his mouth. “I mean–it’s past four in the fucking morning. It’s raining. You’re…”

He turns his head to Sasara and gestures at the entirety of Sasara’s outfit.

“Hey, these are my favorite pajamas you’re dissing.” Sasara tugs at the front of his shirt, and it sticks back to his skin the moment he lets go.

“How did you even get here? And then past the front door?” Samatoki asks.

“Who’s to say I didn’t break in?” Sasara shrugs.

“Sasara.”

Samatoki’s gaze weighs a thousand tons. Sasara swallows thickly and leans forward to prop his forearms on his thighs.

“I got home late. Talk show,” Sasara begins.

“The fuck’s that got to do with this?” Samatoki crosses his arms and returns to staring at the same spot on the wall he started with.

Sasara picks a piece of lint off his pants.

“Whatever.” Samatoki waves a hand dismissively. “Go on.”

“I passed out as soon as I got into bed. And, well, I had a bad dream.”

He falters here. When he turns his head to look at Samatoki, he finds Samatoki watching him. Samatoki doesn’t speak, even as the seconds drag by, indirectly forcing the words out of Sasara’s throat to fill the space.

“Uh,” Sasara restarts, “remember after the last D.R.B?”

“What about it?”

“How I found out… what really happened.”

Samatoki nods slowly. “Yeah.”

“Ramuda explained everything to me and Kuko… but I still hadn’t remembered anything. From that day, I mean.” Sasara’s eyes snag on the gun once more.

There’s nothing engaging to look at when he’s trying to avoid Samatoki’s gaze. Even though Samatoki hasn’t said a word, Sasara senses the wariness from him.

“And tonight,” Sasara clasps his hands together to stop them from shaking, but the tremors travel into his voice instead, “I had a bad dream, and I remembered everything.”

He searches for Samatoki’s gaze this time, but it’s not directed at him anymore. Samatoki’s lips press into a thin line, his eyebrows furrow, and his shoulders stiffen. He keeps his eyes on the floor.

“I–I remembered everything I said. To you.” Sasara struggles for breath, the newly resurfaced memories rushing back. “All those terrible things. How I just… I let myself hurt you—”

“Bullshit,” Samatoki’s gaze snaps back to Sasara in an instant. “You didn’t let anything happen.”

“But—”

“I nearly got fucked over by that true hypnosis mic shit too.” Samatoki uncrosses his arms and sits up. “Are you calling me weak?”

“What? No!” Sasara’s eyebrows pinch together. “But you didn’t actually get mindhacked like me.”

“And why was that?” Samatoki asks.

Because Sasara was there to snap him out of it in time. They both know that.

“Dumbass,” Samatoki scoffs.

Sasara frowns. “But—”

“Holy shit, shut up.” Samatoki surges forward and grabs Sasara’s face with his hand, forcing Sasara to look at him.

Sasara tries to squirm away, and, in retaliation, Samatoki drags his face closer. Nervousness balloons in Sasara’s chest and clogs his airway. He stills and waits, breathlessly. Samatoki’s blazing red eyes are heated but not angry. Listen, he says without using a single word. That unwavering intensity is what lets Samatoki command a room effortlessly. It’s what makes Sasara bend to Samatoki’s will, believe what Samatoki says, trust and follow Samatoki through every close call and risky move.

“You got brainwashed–mindhacked–whatever you want to call it–by Ramuda. That’s Ramuda’s fault. He’s shouldering the blame. And none of this would have happened if the Party of Words hadn’t decided to send him after you,” Samatoki says. “After us.”

The sincerity, the faith, the near desperation with which Samatoki says those words to convince Sasara that it isn’t his fault only makes Sasara feel worse. It’s true. Sasara knows it. Logically, no one can resist the true hypnosis mic. It’s Ramuda, ordered by the Party of Words, that made Sasara turn against Samatoki. But that doesn’t matter. All that sticks in Sasara’s mind is—

“I told you that I hate you.”

All at once, Samatoki’s warmth freezes over. He flinches away from those words, away from Sasara, as if the mere memory of what happened is a threat. He pulls his hand back, any passion on his face wiped away.

He stands with a small wince and steps away from the couch. “Don’t bring that shit up.”

Sasara nearly follows him for a moment, but decides against it. He studies Samatoki’s back. 'Why won’t you face me?’ Sasara wants to ask. ‘Look at me.’

“I said I hated everything about you—”

“It doesn’t matter. We’re even now.”

“How are we even?” Sasara pauses. “You can’t seriously mean when you punched me at the D.R.B.”

“Yeah, I mean the D.R.B,” Samatoki says.

Sasara fumbles over his words, completely bewildered. “One punch doesn’t make up for anything.”

“Why’s that for you to decide?” Samatoki crosses his arms. “I said we’re even, so we’re even.”

“No! No, we’re not!” Sasara stands. “You can’t brush everything under the rug like that, Samatoki! That just makes for a super clunky rug!”

‘Shit, not the time for jokes.’

“There’s no point in talking about it.” Samatoki sounds irritated now.

Sasara fights the urge to smack the back of Samatoki’s head or shake him by the shoulders. He drags his hands over his face.

“There are so many points we might as well graph it!” Sasara exclaims. “You can’t act like punching me fixed anything—”

Samatoki whirls around on his heel. “God, you’re still so fucking stubborn! Just drop it!”

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you,” Sasara scoffs.

“Want to say that again?” Samatoki steps forward.

“Yeah, actually, I would!” Sasara matches Samatoki with his own step forward. “You’re beyond stubborn! You’re like a bratty kid!”

“I did not hear that from you.” Samatoki’s eyes narrow. “At least I learned how to grow up.”

“Right, because being all rough and tough means you’ve grown up, huh, Mr. Hardcore.” Sasara can’t help the venomous sarcasm that drips into his voice.

“No, not throwing a hissy fit in my former partner-in-crime’s living room does!” Samatoki retorts.

“Hissy fit?” Sasara echoes. “You’re really calling this a hissy fit? Jeez, you’re hardcore dense!”

Samatoki laughs dryly. It’s a disorienting sound, empty and fake. Sasara deflates, confused.

“And there it is again!” Samatoki throws his hands up in the air in exasperation. “A pun? Really, Sasara? Who are you trying to entertain here? This is what I mean! You never grew up!”

The truth stings. Sasara still hasn’t been able to shake that bad habit. Blurting out puns even in the middle of fights. He takes a deep breath.

“Don’t act like you’re any better. Not being able to talk about your feelings isn’t very mature of you,” he deadpans.

Samatoki’s frustration halts completely. He tries to speak, but nothing leaves his mouth. He turns his head away.

“It’s not that I can’t talk about my feelings. I just don’t want to,” he mutters.

“You don’t want to because you can’t!” Sasara says. “You never could!”

“Don’t talk like you know me,” Samatoki grits out.

“I do know you! I was your partner for years. And I’m sorry to break it to you, but you haven’t changed much since then. You’re still the same old Samatoki—”

“You wouldn’t know shit about that! You've been out of my life for years—”

“Oh, really? So I’m not allowed to say that, but you’ve decided I haven’t changed because I still make puns when I’m upset? You’re saying I’m the same Sasara that—”

“You’re not!” Samatoki raises his voice.

“Not what?” Sasara asks snappily.

“You’re not the same! You never will be!” Samatoki spits out. “And I’m not either! That’s just how it is!”

Samatoki’s shoulders are squared, his voice harsh and rough, his hands in fists, but those eyes are unmistakable. Sasara knows those eyes. The same eyes that hold him locked in place since the moment he first saw him, the ones he fell in love with, the ones he learned to read as easy as he breathes—those eyes are far from angry.

‘Why won’t you just tell me how you feel, Samatoki?’ Sasara sighs and crosses his arms. He gathers spilling threads of thoughts in his mind, snagging them with his fingertips. He closes his eyes.

“So we’re not the same anymore,” he concedes. “But we’re not all that different either. I feel about the same.”

‘The only thing that’s different is that you’re gone.’

“Speak for yourself,” Samatoki says.

“Samatoki, what about yourself do you think even changed?” Sasara asks. “Even if you’re slightly different, I still know you."

“You don’t,” Samatoki says.

“I do!” Sasara’s annoyance erupts again.

Samatoki rolls his eyes. As if this is some little spat. As if Sasara is another bother in his daily life and not an old partner from years gone. As if it wouldn’t hurt Sasara to hear their years of friendship be dismissed so carelessly. Why wouldn’t he know Samatoki, after everything they went through together?

“It doesn’t matter how much you try to hide your feelings. I still know you,” Sasara insists. “And that might scare you but—”

“Scare me? You think I’d be scared?” Samatoki interrupts. “Obviously you don’t know me.”

“You are scared,” Sasara says. “You never let anyone in completely, not even me. Not even when we were closest.”

“I trusted you with my life, Sasara!”

“But not with your feelings!” Sasara retorts. “You never told me anything! Never!”

Samatoki’s eyes widen, and the tension in his body slackens completely. 

“You’re the same as you’ve always been.” Sasara jabs Samatoki’s chest with his finger. “Running from your feelings rather than facing them. It’s why you never told me anything back then, and it’s why you don’t want to talk to me about what happened. You don’t want closure, you want safety from opening up.”

“I have closure!” Samatoki swats Sasara’s hand away.

Samatoki keeps his hand raised, lax but defensive. His whole body is on the defensive. The accusation burns him.

“I forgave you already!” Samatoki wavers, his expression slipping to something more vulnerable before returning to cautious anger. “You’re the one who’s not satisfied with how things are!”

“You can’t seriously believe that. You’re telling me when you look at me you don’t feel hate?” Sasara leans forward. “Anger? Resentment? Nothing?”

Samatoki doesn’t meet his eyes, and his hand drops limply to his side. He looks almost ashamed by his inability to argue. The silence that follows is what Sasara expects. It’s the point he wants to prove, what his words were leading to. He wants to show Samatoki that there are things to be talked about and to be fixed. That Samatoki hasn’t moved on as much as he likes to claim.

But that doesn’t stop the sting of the truth, the harsh reality written in Samatoki’s grimace. It only makes sense that Sasara would wish that Samatoki could tell him it’s not true, with that unwavering conviction he never lost faith in. Samatoki’s expression is pained when he finally lifts his gaze to search Sasara’s face. Like he’s trying to match this reality they’re in with their past.

Sasara knows how that feels, especially now, when Samatoki can’t soothe his worries. He wants to go back to when Samatoki hugged him at the door, making it feel like nothing had changed. That nothing will change. But Samatoki’s right. They’re not the same anymore. They never will be.

Sasara slumps out of his wound-up posture, exhaustion catching up to him. “Yeah… that’s what I thought.”

“That’s not what this is, Sasara,” Samatoki interjects.

“What else could it be?” Sasara shakes his head. “You never forgave me, you just pretended to.”

“Don’t fuck with me!” Samatoki growls out. “You don’t get to decide how I feel!"

“Well, I wouldn’t be guessing if you would tell me!”

“There’s nothing to tell!”

“See? You’re still running away from this! You won’t give either of us closure because you’re scared!” Sasara’s voice breaks when he continues. “Do you know how selfish that is, Samatoki?!”

Tears push against Sasara’s eyes, and he blinks them away. His body feels like it’s weighed down by cement blocks. There’s another puddle forming at his feet. How much rain got soaked into his clothes? He’s cold. Because he ran countless blocks through the rain without an umbrella. He’s cold because he’s still in his soaked clothes that are now soaking up the warmth his body tries to create. He’s cold because Samatoki still prefers to keep his apartment on the chillier side, like he used to. He’s cold because he wants Samatoki closer, but all Samatoki wants is to pull away.

“You’re so selfish,” he whispers, more to himself than Samatoki.

A shiver shoots through his body. He wraps his arms around himself, though it’ll provide no warmth. He’s only getting colder. If he sniffles, it’s because of the cold and nothing else.

“Selfish?” Samatoki narrows his eyes. “Who’s being hypocritical now?”

“What?” Sasara jerks his head up to stare at Samatoki’s icy expression.

“You’re just as selfish as I am,” Samatoki says, blunt like a metal bat to the stomach.

“How the hell am I being selfish right now?” Sasara asks lowly.

“Do you need me to say it?”

“Say what?”

“If you know me, then I sure as hell know you. You’re pretending that the only reason you’re doing this is out of the goodness of your heart to give us both closure. But that’s not the truth, is it?”

“What other reason could I have?”

An unpleasant burn of anger, vicious and explosive, settles in Sasara’s gut and melts away some of the cold.

“You don’t want closure either, Sasara,” Samatoki says.

“Of course I want closure!” Sasara struggles to control the level of his voice. “I came here to get closure, to make things up to you, to fix this—”

“Yeah, sure.” Samatoki shrugs. “But what you really want is connection, isn’t it? That’s why you’re really here.”

Sasara blinks. “That’s not—”

“It is. I know it is, because I know you.” Samatoki’s voice is dull, but his words are sharp. “Closure can wait until the morning. You could ask to meet up, prepare what to say to me, reason things out with a clear mind.”

“It’s already been too long! It’s been years!” Sasara sputters. “I didn’t even know how much I needed to apologize for until tonight because you didn’t tell me anything! I needed to talk to you!”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you hate seeming desperate. To anyone. About anything. And, well,” Samatoki’s eyes gloss over Sasara’s disheveled appearance, “you wouldn’t come to me like this unless you’re really desperate.”

“You’re really going to call me desperate right now?” Sasara asks, disbelieving.

Samatoki tilts his head. “How else would you describe yourself?”

Water drips off Sasara’s hair and onto the floor when he looks down. The freezing cold of Samatoki’s empty gaze completely wipes out the burn of anger Sasara feels. Sasara grips his shirt in his hands.

“I’m not desperate,” he mumbles.

“You took an hours long train ride and ran through the rain to see me,” Samatoki points out. “Why?”

“To apologize! To talk! I’ve told you this already!” Sasara takes a slow step backwards, his gaze drifting to the side.

“You’re skipping over something.” Samatoki continues, mercilessly, to say, “You’re here because you miss me.”

Sasara’s grip on his shirt tightens minutely. It isn’t like he can say that isn’t true. There’s a space in his life painfully carved out by his own hand for Samatoki. That’s the price of following someone into a completely new life. Even when returning to parts of what he had before, he’ll carry the blatant gap that belongs to the version of him shaped by his time with Samatoki. And that gap constantly reminds him of what’s no longer there.

So he misses Samatoki, doesn’t he?

“You can’t move on. You’ve always been like that.” Samatoki’s gaze seems distant. “Too focused on the past.”

“I did move on!” Sasara grits his teeth. “I didn’t have much of a choice, Samatoki!”

“Just because you have a new life doesn’t mean you moved on from your old one,” Samatoki says. “You never really forgot about it.”

“Well, obviously I didn’t forget! I spent years with you, and even if some of the memories are blurry, that meant something to me!” Sasara lets go of his shirt and wipes his palms on his pants. “You’re… not the kind of person who’s easy to forget, you know.”

Those words completely shatter the blank facade Samatoki is putting on. His stoic face crumbles, broken down with a crash by a flood of emotion. Sasara doesn’t know what Samatoki’s expression is saying and hates the fact he doesn't know—but whatever it is, it causes Samatoki to look away.

He speaks after a few ticks of the clock hand. “No one’s easy to forget for you, Sasara. That’s the kind of person you are. That’s why you suck at moving forward.”

“But I did move forward.”

“No, you didn’t. You still want whatever we had. You miss those days, and you’re desperate to have them back in some way. That’s why you’re here right now, refusing to take no for an answer. And you know what that makes you? That makes you selfish.”

“Fine!” Sasara suddenly snaps. “You got me! I’m desperate, and I miss you, and I’m selfish! I want you in my life again! There, I said it! Happy?!”

Samatoki doesn’t answer, but he looks like that admission is that last thing he wants to hear.

Sasara takes a deep breath. “But can you blame me?”

“For what?” Samatoki asks warily.

“For being selfish. For wanting… something,” Sasara murmurs. “Anything, really.”

The silence becomes more unbearable every time they pause. The unfinished thoughts and unanswered questions lump together to dangle between them, unappetizing but impossible to ignore. Samatoki’s gaze flits away from Sasara’s face, then back, then away once more.

“It’s not fair. Everything we had taken from us. How could I ever move past that?” Sasara asks. The anger starts to build again, but this time it’s not because of Samatoki. It’s at the world, and everything that brought them to this situation. “Things could’ve been different! We could’ve been different!”

“It’d be short lived anyway,” Samatoki mutters. “Nothing like that ever lasts.”

“I don’t believe that! You and me,” Sasara makes sure Samatoki meets his gaze, “we made sense.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I felt that way back then with you. Isn’t that enough to know?”

Quiet fills the space. Samatoki sinks into himself, thoughts pulling his attention inward. Sasara draws Samatoki’s attention back out.

“Did you not feel the same? Samatoki?”

“Does that matter?”

“Of course it matters.”

‘I need to hear you say we meant something to you.’

“No matter how I felt, it’s a thing of the past,” Samatoki says belatedly. “We can’t fix whatever the hell this is anymore.”

“That’s not true!” Sasara nearly yells in his frustration.

“Yes, it is!” Samatoki insists. “You just can’t accept that because it’d mean you have to let go of it already! We’re a thing of the past!”

“I know that! But if we tried—”

“There’s nothing we can do!”

“God damn it, if you’d just talk to me—”

“You really think talking could fix this?” Samatoki gestures between himself and Sasara. “Nothing we say changes the fact it’s over. Mad Comic Dialogue is gone, Sasara!”

“I don’t care!” Sasara shouts.

He stomps his foot on the ground as loudly as he can. He wants to scream even louder than he has before, until he dislodges the strained burn in his chest so he can cry already.

“I don’t care, Samatoki! I don’t fucking care! I know Mad Comic Dialogue is a thing of the past! But we’re more than that,” Sasara smacks his hand to his chest, “and I’m right here, and you can’t be bothered to even try?!”

His quiet panting dots the silence as his chest heaves in an effort to catch his breath. If a tear manages to slip out, Samatoki doesn’t say anything about it. Samatoki crosses his arms and returns to staring fixedly at the ground.

“You’re right. I am desperate.” Sasara steps forward. “So, please, if you care even a little bit…”

Samatoki puts a hand up to stop Sasara from coming any closer. “Stop.”

Sasara steps forward until Samatoki’s hand presses against his chest. “You can’t really think this is for the better.”

“It is,” Samatoki says without conviction.

“Why are you trying so hard to push me away?” Sasara blurts out.

“Cut it out. I don’t want to talk about this,” Samatoki pushes Sasara back.

Sasara lets out an empty laugh. “Right back to square one."

“I never changed my mind. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You really don’t want to open up to anyone, huh? Is there anyone you’ve actually talked to?”

“That’s none of your business.”

‘So that’s a no.’ Sasara’s patience hangs on by a thread.

“Y’know,” he begins. He pauses, thinks over how much his words might hurt. He continues, “I think I was half hoping that maybe I meant enough to you that you’d be honest for once. But no one’s that important to you.”

“Don’t you fucking dare talk about my relationships like you know them.”

“You think I’m wrong? Because what? You trust them with your life? That doesn’t mean much when you can’t even let anyone get to know you fully.”

“We are not having this conversation again.” Samatoki pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Right. Because you’re still running from your emotions,” Sasara huffs.

Samatoki grabs Sasara’s shirt and reels him in, close enough that there’s barely any space between their faces. “You don’t have any right to talk to me about running away! You were in Ikebukuro because you ran from Osaka when your comedy partner left you! And as soon as things got too complicated here, you ran back to Osaka and never came back! You left, and you expect me to be fine with you waltzing back in and demanding to have things your way?! For me to just let you back in like you didn’t destroy everything by leaving?!”

Sasara’s breath clogs in his throat. Samatoki’s face is inches away, and Sasara can see the potent anger on his face. His voice doesn’t waver, full of the conviction Sasara believes. This is reality. Samatoki hates him.

“So you do blame me,” Sasara whispers.

Samatoki’s eyes widen, and he lets go of Sasara’s shirt. He steps back, looks down at his hand. His gaze snaps back to Sasara.

“Sasara, I—”

“Everything is my fault, and you hate me for it, don’t you?” Sasara can hear the emotion draining from his voice.

He hasn’t processed it yet, has he? His heart is lagging behind, yet to feel the full pain of the wound that is inflicted on it. Surprise works as a pretty good anesthetic.

“No, that’s not—”

“Like I didn’t destroy everything by leaving…” Sasara repeats the words. “What else is that supposed to mean?”

“I didn’t mean it,” Samatoki says.

“Yes, you did. You just wish you didn’t mean it.”

Samatoki groans. “Stop assuming how I feel!”

“You’re obvious, Samatoki. You blame me for everything. You want nothing to do with me. Which makes sense.”

Sasara’s eyes are stinging. He wipes at them before tears can form. Strange, He still feels a little numb. Is the surprise wearing off already? When he tries to talk again, it hurts.

“It’s all my fault,” Sasara rasps out, his voice cracking, “and I still want you back so selfishly… I don’t have the right to force you to talk.”

He blinks away more tears. He can’t cry. Not here. Not now. Not when he’s already caused so much trouble. The last thing he needs to do is cause Samatoki to feel guilty by crying in front of him. He needs to keep it together. He needs to get away.

… He needs to leave.

“It’s better if I go, isn’t it?” he asks.

“What?”

“You don’t want to talk, so I’ll go. It’s like you said. It’s better for you if I’m not in your life.”

There’s no protest. Sasara takes that as an agreement, yet he can’t move. He takes a deep breath, lets it stutter out of his lungs. He wipes his eyes again, and then forces himself to move. He brushes past Samatoki to head into the hallway.

“Damn it, Sasara, listen to me!” Samatoki grabs Sasara’s wrist. “That’s not what I’m trying to say!”

“Either way, don’t you want me to leave?” Sasara tries to gently tug his wrist out of Samatoki’s grip. “You said—”

“Sasara.”

He sounds like an echo of Sasara’s own feelings. Desperate. Sasara turns his head back, dares to meet Samatoki’s eyes again.

There’s a panicked look in them, uncharacteristically revealing. There’s a light, wet sheen overlaying his eyes. It refracts the light from the living room. Samatoki’s bottom lip trembles slightly, holding back tears or a sob. He looks like he’ll break if Sasara takes another step forward.

He doesn’t say another word, but his distraught state speaks for him: don’t go.

Sasara wants to run away. He wants to run back to his bed, spend the night dealing with nightmares and broken memories rather than the real thing. He needs to hide away. He’s always been a runner, when things get difficult. (It seems to be in both of their blood. How unfortunate.)

Samatoki confirmed every fear Sasara harbors in his mind in a single outburst. That it’s Sasara’s fault, and he won’t be forgiven because Samatoki hates him. He’s been rejected already. The worst outcome. But Samatoki was, is, and will always be his weakness.

Sasara turns to face Samatoki and moves closer, each step carefully placed as if the ground would cave under too much force.

“Okay,” Sasara says. Then he repeats, “Okay.”

Samatoki retreats back into himself, breathing out in a heavy gust and running his fingers through his hair to push his bangs back. They tumble back into place messily. Sasara kicks away the urge to reach out and fix it.

“I’m sorry,” Samatoki mutters, shoving his hands in his pockets (oh, he’s still wearing jeans, Sasara notices). “I didn’t mean it.”

Sasara wants to say it’s okay. But it isn’t. Not really.

“Shouldn’t I be apologizing?” he says instead. “It’s not like you—”

“No. It isn’t your fault, and I don’t hate you.”

“Then what are you trying to say? Can’t you talk about that much at least?”

Samatoki lingers in silence. “You…”

His nose scrunches up, then he sighs. He runs a hand over his face. Once all the expressions have come and gone, Samatoki nods.

“I have a new life now,” he says.

“Yeah,” Sasara says.

“Rio and Jyuto… they mean a lot to me.” Samatoki mulls over his words. “They’re like family to me. Mad Trigger Crew is my family now.”

“That’s… good.” Sasara stomps down any hurt he hears over that statement.

“And there’s you.”

“What about me?”

“You’re some big hit comedian now. You’re famous and popular—rich too, I’m assuming. You have your team. You clearly work well with them. They’re your family now, right?”

Sasara imagines Rosho and Rei. Rosho’s probably asleep right now. There are students to teach and tests to grade, after all. Rei, on the other hand, could be up to something shady, or spending a late night drinking at home. Or he could be snoring in his bed too. Anyway, they’d probably be worried if they woke up and found him missing.

“Of course,” Sasara answers, because that’s the only answer there is. “But what does all that have to do with us?”

“Isn’t it better this way?” Samatoki runs his gaze along the wall of the hallway. “We’ve both found a new direction in our lives. You don’t need me in yours.”

Is that what this is all about?

“That’s not for you to decide,” Sasara says.

“There’s nothing I could add to your life that you don’t already have,” Samatoki says.

Sasara nearly scoffs. “Again, that’s not for you to decide. I want to have you in my life. Why isn’t that enough?”

“If you let go of that, your life would be better.”

“My life would be better if you were in it! Why can’t we go with that instead?”

“Because things are good as they are! Dealing with all this past shit is just making things worse! I’ve moved past that!”

“Well, sorry I can’t move on as easily as you, Samatoki!”

“You think it was easy? You think I kept going like nothing happened?!”

“Honestly, it looks like you did! Didn’t you join The Dirty Dawg immediately after?”

“That doesn’t mean it was fucking easy! I don’t have the luxury to sit around and do nothing!”

“So you just did everything you could to forget about me,” Sasara says bitterly.

“Is it so bad I wanted to forget about you?!” Samatoki retaliates. “What did you want me to do? I knew you weren’t coming back! And you didn’t! So clearly I wasn’t wrong for not waiting for you!”

“So it’s too late for you, is what you’re saying.”

“That’s not the point! I’m trying to say it’s better for you to move on!”

“What’s the difference? Either way, you want me to go! Why are you getting angry about this?”

“Because you’re acting like you don’t want to go!”

“Are you kidding?” Sasara scoffs. “Have you listened to anything I said? I’m not acting like I don’t want to go! I don’t want to go! Do you think I’d be here right now if I didn’t want anything to do with you?”

“But why?! If you came here to apologize, that makes sense! But you want to talk, to fix things, to get close to me again! I don’t get it! I don’t get you!”

His words rush out almost too quickly for Sasara to keep up. Sasara shuts his mouth when Samatoki pins him with a glare.

“I just don’t know why you’d come back for me!” Samatoki blurts out. “I was never your first choice!”

As soon as the words slip out, Samatoki covers his mouth, but it’s too late to take any of it back. Sasara reaches out.

“Samatoki—”

“Don’t.” Samatoki steps back.

Sasara registers the look on Samatoki’s face. Fear. Samatoki is scared of him.

And with that, everything makes sense. The refusal to talk, the rejection of the possibility of them being friends again. Who would want to let someone they’re scared of be close to them? Even worse, maybe Samatoki doesn’t think Sasara needs him anymore, now that he has other people in his life.

But Samatoki’s irreplaceable. He always has been. Why can’t he understand that?

“Is that how you really feel?” Sasara asks gently. “Like you don’t mean enough to me? Like you’re not worth it?”

“Stop it.” Samatoki turns his back to Sasara.

“If you think I’m better off without you, you’re wrong,” Sasara says. “The reason I never came back is because I didn’t know what happened. If I’d known sooner…”

“It doesn’t matter,” Samatoki says.

“You said you know me, so you should know I would’ve ran back to you in a heartbeat.” Sasara takes a careful step forward.

He shrinks the gap between them bit by bit. Before he can speak again, Samatoki takes a ragged breath.

“You should leave, Sasara.”

Sasara freezes in place. “What?”

“Leave,” Samatoki says, more forcefully this time.

“No! I’m not leaving after you said that!” Sasara places his hand on Samatoki’s shoulder.

Samatoki smacks Sasara’s hand away roughly. He turns to face Sasara, but keeps his gaze fixed somewhere else.

“I’m telling you to go. So just go already.”

“I’m not going!”

“I’m not asking,” Samatoki states.

“Neither am I! You can’t get rid of me that easily,” Sasara says. “I don’t care if you push me away. I’ll come back. As many times as it takes for you to let me stay.”

“You’re not going to stay.”

How can Samatoki believe that? Sasara doesn’t think he can paint his devotion any more obviously. Why would he ever leave Samatoki’s side of his own will? There’s no place he would rather be.

“I will. You know I will,” Sasara insists. “Stubborn and terrible at letting go, remember?”

Samatoki shifts to meet Sasara’s gaze. “Just go.”

“No.” Sasara crosses his arms.

“I swear—” Samatoki takes a deep breath. “Why are you like this?! I’m telling you to go!”

“No!” Sasara repeats.

Samatoki scowls and grabs Sasara’s wrist. He yanks Sasara forward.

“What are you—” Sasara digs his feet into the ground when Samatoki pulls on his arm. “Let go!”

“You’re leaving. Go back to Osaka.” Samatoki tugs Sasara towards the door.

Sasara’s still wet sandals squeak sadly on the floorboards as Samatoki drags him forward. “No! Samatoki, stop it!”

Samatoki’s blunt nails dig into Sasara’s skin, small dots of pain on Sasara’s wrist in the sea of numbness of his cold body. Sasara tries to pull away from Samatoki’s grip, but Samatoki’s always been stronger. Always.

Before he gets dragged too far down the hall, Sasara grabs onto the entrance to the living room with one hand and clings to it. Samatoki turns to look when he can’t pull Sasara forward anymore.

“Fucking hell, do you know how to give up?” Samatoki yanks Sasara’s arm.

“Let go of me!” Sasara’s hand quivers as he desperately tries to keep his grip: his fingers are too numb.

“No, you’re going to leave!” Samatoki yanks again, harsher this time, and Sasara loses his grip.

Panic swells in Sasara’s chest as they get closer to the door, trying to ignite some sort of strength from his body. But even if he were at full strength, he probably can’t win this. Samatoki is hellbent on kicking him out. But Sasara has done nothing but feel desperate throughout the whole night. He can’t leave like this.

“Please, Samatoki! I don’t want to go!” Sasara begs.

“Well, I want you to go. So you’re leaving.”

“Don’t do this.”

“Shut up.”

It can’t end like this, can it? After everything, is Samatoki going to fade into a memory? Some distant stranger, once a friend, that Sasara won’t speak to again? Will all the memories that they share amount to nothing? He can’t let that happen. Samatoki’s right: he’s selfish. And he can’t let go this easily.

“Samatoki—”

“Just go back to whatever life you had before tonight,” Samatoki says dismissively.

“I can’t!” Sasara blinks back tears of frustration. “I can’t do that!”

Talking to Samatoki is like trying to break through a brick wall with your bare hands sometimes. Sasara insists that Samatoki’s worth more than he thinks, that Samatoki’s important to him, that he wants Samatoki around—and Samatoki acts as if he’s heard nothing. Sasara bangs on that brick wall until his palms are scraped and his knuckles are bloody, for none of it to go through. Every time he knocks a brick loose or makes a crack or finds a weak spot, Samatoki rebuilds that wall. Is it impossible to reach him?

Or is it an impossible task for Sasara, but possible for someone else?

Samatoki swings the apartment door open and lugs Sasara outside. Sasara switches tactics, latching onto Samatoki before he can slam the door shut. Samatoki grunts, squirms in Sasara’s hold, and grabs the back of Sasara’s shirt in an attempt to pull him off.

“Let go!” Samatoki hisses out.

“No!” Sasara shakes his head, wills his shaking hands to find the strength to hold on. “I can’t go back to how things were!”

One more time, Sasara wants to try to break through that wall. One more time, he readies his bloodied fists.

“Yes, you can! You did it before!” Samatoki argues. “Just forget about me!”

“I can’t forget about you again!” Sasara blurts out. “I already know what that’s like!”

Finally, Samatoki pauses. Sasara hears the wall crack. He takes the opportunity to wrap his arms around Samatoki’s torso and secure his grip into a hug.

“I’ve lost my memories before,” Sasara admits.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Samatoki searches Sasara’s gaze.

Sasara turns his face away from those prying eyes. He doesn’t want to talk about this. But if being honest will make Samatoki listen, then what he should do isn’t even a question.

“When I woke up back in Osaka, I didn’t even remember being in Ikebukuro. I learned about that when I reconnected with my manager who helped me start out in comedy.”

Samatoki’s hands are still on Sasara’s shoulders, but there are no attempts to pry Sasara off him. Sasara closes his eyes and memorizes the way Samatoki feels in his arms. He traces out a memory as Samatoki is now, in this present moment, for safekeeping.

“I couldn’t remember you, Toki. No matter how hard I tried,” Sasara whispers. “There were these terrible, terrible headaches… It took me months to even have any idea of what I was doing in the times I couldn’t remember. And not knowing you, it felt so wrong. Even when I couldn’t remember your name.”

Samatoki doesn’t respond, but the quiet that befalls them is soft in nature. Sasara dares to hide his face in Samatoki’s chest, breathes in the familiar smoky smell. He isn’t pushed away, but he isn’t held closer either. Samatoki takes a deep breath.

“I would’ve given a lot to forget you like that when you left,” Samatoki says.

“Would you really?” Sasara asks. “I felt empty for such a long time, until I managed to remember you enough. But I don’t have any way to know if I’m still forgetting something. Maybe I’ve forgotten half of the things we’ve done, the promises I’ve made. Not that those promises mean much anymore.”

“But you remember at least some of it, don’t you?”

“That’s not enough. I can’t stand it. To think parts of you are missing to me, parts that I used to know, when I don’t have anything else to cling onto.” Sasara pulls back enough to see Samatoki’s face.

It’s okay now. Maybe. He doesn’t have to rely on memories as proof of his time with Samatoki. The person he fought so hard to remember is in front of him. Living. Breathing. Real.

“You’re my favorite memory,” Sasara says softly. “I can’t just forget you again. Not after I tried so hard to put you back together in my head because I wasn’t by your side. I can’t go back and act like nothing changed. So, please. I know I’m being selfish, but let me stay. Even if it’s just for tonight. I need this.”

Samatoki’s expression is pained. This time, Sasara thinks he might’ve been heard. This time, he breaks through that wall Samatoki built up, and Samatoki lets it stay broken. After a moment, Samatoki pulls Sasara closer and finally returns the hug.

He squeezes tightly enough to hurt, but Sasara doesn’t complain. The gesture is reassuring in its intensity. He tries to memorize the feeling of how Samatoki shows longing, wordless and powerful.

“If you stay, I’ll start to miss you again,” Samatoki mutters, quiet, confessing, into Sasara’s ear. “I’ve tried so hard to bury you, stop giving a shit, but I can’t. When you’re here, it all comes rushing back.”

Sasara melts into Samatoki’s hold. That’s all he wanted to hear. Samatoki still cares about him. He still matters. They still matter.

“No offense,” Sasara smiles, “but I don’t think you ever stopped missing me.”

“Okay, don’t be an asshole,” Samatoki grumbles.

“Why? So you won’t be out of a job?” Sasara teases.

“I’m not an asshole.” Samatoki tears away from the hug.

“Hey, woah, I was just joking,” Sasara says. “Y’know I don’t mean anything bad I say about you.”

Samatoki grimaces. He yanks Sasara back into the apartment and closes and locks the door. Sasara leans his back against the wall, a moment of respite after the shouting and quieter moments of vulnerability. A soft thunk sounds when Samatoki rests his forehead on the door.

Thunder rumbles outside, the low sound settling into Sasara’s gut uncomfortably. He drums his fingers on the wall. Samatoki doesn’t react. Sasara bites the inside of his cheek.

“Samatoki?”

“What.”

“Sorry.” Sasara shrugs, the casual gesture stiff and unnatural as it rolls off his shoulders. “I guess I shouldn’t have joked like that.”

“No shit,” Samatoki says flatly.

He shuffles down the hallway in stormy silence. Sasara trails after him.

“But I want you to know if I say anything like that, it’s a joke.” Sasara speaks to Samatoki’s back. “I’d never mean it.”

Samatoki’s brooding quiet forms a backdrop to the sound of his defensive wall being put back together. Brick after brick in steady thuds. It feels heavier this time, like it’d take a flood to break through. The distance between them grows larger as Samatoki picks up the pace.

Sasara jogs forward and swerves in front of Samatoki right before he steps into the living room. Samatoki halts, steps back.

A suspicion rests on his tongue, stressing against the dam of his sealed lips like a flooding river. He doesn’t want to ask (he doesn’t want to know), but he reaches over the half rebuilt wall Samatoki is putting up.

The question spills out: “You know I didn’t mean anything I said that day, right?”

Samatoki shifts his weight to one foot and glances towards the couch. His voice is muted when he replies, as if all the energy has been washed out of it.

“I know you were brainwashed.”

It’s a factual statement clothed to look like a truthful one. Sasara pushes down the rising tides of dread and wills himself to speak again.

“But nothing I said was true. You know that, right?”

There’s no response. That’s answer enough.

Why is Sasara surprised? The last thing he did to Samatoki was take back everything they ever had. With no explanation for years, why wouldn’t Samatoki internalize everything he was told?

Of all the things said tonight, that reality burns like boiling water. This is all so wrong. How could Samatoki ever be all the horrible things he said? The person Sasara loved (still loves) is in front of him, scarred.

When he looks at the reason for those scars, he only finds himself in front of a mirror. Your fault, his guilt whispers as it circles his neck. Samatoki seems so small at the moment. It’s your fault. Sasara hates it, how Samatoki’s been shaken from his brighter and confident self. It’s all your fault. He just wants to see Samatoki at his happiest; why can’t that happen?

‘It’s all my fault.’

“I—” Sasara chokes up. “I’m sorry.”

Samatoki finally looks back at him, and his expression shifts into shock and confusion. It takes another few seconds before Sasara registers the condensed burn of tears sliding down his face.

“Fuck.” Sasara wipes at his tears. It doesn’t help. “I’m so sorry, Samatoki. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I—”

A sob bubbles out of him, and his breath staggers as he tries to catch it again. Staccato, punctuated by a gasp for air. He rubs his eyes, but the tears pool up again.

“Sasara, what’s wrong?” Samatoki asks.

A look of panicked confusion mars his face, his hand half bridging the space between them. Why is he confused? He acts as if there’s nothing to apologize for. Like his suffering isn’t something worth crying over.

Maybe Samatoki does truly forgive him. After all, he looks at Sasara with such worry and concern, as if he isn’t the same person who abandoned him. Does Sasara even deserve Samatoki looking at him that way?

“I’m sorry,” he sputters, because he can’t think of anything else to say. “I’m so, so sorry.”

It sounds pathetic, even to himself. Sorry? How could those words make up for anything he’s done and said? After all these years, what kind of lousy apology is that? Sorry doesn’t cut it. Sorry doesn’t even start to express the guilt and shame and pain that he feels when he remembers he’s done this. Sorry doesn’t wipe away the scars Samatoki carries from Sasara abandoning him.

“You don’t have to apologize.” Samatoki places his hand on Sasara’s shoulder.

Sasara shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I never meant–I could never—”

“I know.” Samatoki’s hand moves to cup Sasara's face, and he brushes away a tear with his thumb. He repeats quietly. “I know.”

Sasara sniffles. Has he ever cried in front of Samatoki? He can’t really recall, but that might be another memory pried out of his fingers against his will.

“Here.” Samatoki’s hand presses Sasara’s back, pushing him gently. “Come on.”

He guides them both to the couch. A soft grunt leaves his lips as he sits down. Sasara’s vision is blurry, but he feels a warm hand grasp his cold one. Samatoki pulls him down to sit on the couch and wraps an arm around his shoulders.

Warm. Sasara feels warm. Despite the remnants of the storm that snuggle deep under his skin, Samatoki’s warmth reaches him. Another sob shakes his shoulders as he blindly leans into that warmth and falls apart. Tears dribble down his face, falling onto his lap.

He’s never been a silent cryer. He gasps through his weeping and high pitched noises pour out of him with every jumping shake of his shoulders. His numbed skin tingles, faintly picking up on Samatoki’s hand rubbing circles into his back.

He’s forgotten how gentle Samatoki can be, if he wants to. He is an older brother, after all, and a great one at that. Of course he’d be good at comforting others. But even the ability to be an older brother to someone has been taken from Samatoki. Everything has. The thought makes Sasara cry harder.

“Hey,” Samatoki speaks softly.

His voice anchors Sasara back in the moment, though he can’t do anything except hiccup in response. Samatoki’s breath is warm against his ear—a rather uncomfortable sensation in the moment. Sasara did lean into the touch, but since when had Samatoki pulled him in this close?

“Sasara, come on.” Samatoki pats Sasara’s back. “It’s nothing to cry over. It’s okay.”

Those words are set before Sasara, just as warm and inviting as Samatoki’s comforting touch. He wants to latch onto it. Believe it. He refuses to accept it.

“No, it isn’t!” Sasara struggles to gather enough breath for his words. “I–You–How could I not cry? I said all those things and—”

“It’s not your fault, dumbass,” Samatoki interrupts. “I thought it was. For a long time. But I know now that it wasn’t you talking. I just… need some time to adjust to that.”

“That’s not the point!” Sasara feebly pushes Samatoki away. “It doesn’t matter if it was me or someone controlling me! You were hurt because those words came out of my mouth.”

‘It’s my fault.’ Sasara hugs himself, though it does nothing compared to when Samatoki’s arm was around him. The cold is nearly enough to make him shiver.

He jolts when the warmth returns, this time on his waist. Samatoki reels him back in. Sasara squirms, but stops when Samatoki’s face appears clearly in his vision for a brief moment as he blinks his tears away. Samatoki’s furrowed brows frame a molten red gaze and a deep frown completes the image. Don’t run from me, his expression says.

Sasara’s sight bleeds back into splashes of watercolor through his tears, and he grabs onto Samatoki’s shirt. Samatoki hoists Sasara onto his lap and moves Sasara to hide his face in his shoulder. He circles his arms around Sasara’s waist.

His warmth envelops Sasara this way, chasing away the cold and hollow feeling that settles into Sasara’s heart. Sasara shifts to rest his cheek against Samatoki’s shoulder to make sure Samatoki’s shirt won’t muddle his words more than his sobbing already does.

“You didn’t deserve that,” Sasara chokes out. “I didn’t mean it, I swear.”

“I know.”

“I could never mean something like that.”

“Shh, I know that,” Samatoki murmurs. “I don’t blame you. I don’t.”

‘You should.’ Sasara doesn’t voice that thought.

Samatoki holds him so tenderly. Sasara doesn’t deserve any of it, yet Samatoki continues to even as Sasara weeps and shakes in his arms. He holds Sasara the way he might’ve years ago, if Sasara were to cry like this. Like nothing’s changed. Because Samatoki is that kind of person: stubborn. Stubborn in fights, stubborn against life, stubborn in anger, stubborn in love. His love is unyielding, because he’d given it to Sasara years ago. Sasara can’t shake it off, even if he tried.

“How could I ever hate someone like you?” Sasara’s voice comes out hoarse and wet with tears.

He can feel a short chuckle roll through Samatoki’s chest. “I think there’s a lot to hate, for some people.”

“Not for me.” Sasara buries his face in Samatoki’s shoulder.

How could he ever hate someone like Samatoki? Someone so kind, so loyal, so passionate, so loving. Someone who hides a smile every time Sasara tells a particularly bad pun. Someone who starts to keep his phone off silent even through the night, in case Sasara calls. Someone who remembers what kind of alcohol Sasara likes the best and buys it for the next time they have something to celebrate. Someone who keeps a second pack of cigarettes in his pockets and labels it as Sasara’s pack, so they can both have one when Sasara constantly misplaces his. Someone who stops bothering to tell Sasara to quit forgetting his clothes when he leaves and instead starts washing them and hanging them up in what becomes Sasara’s half of the closet. Someone who doesn’t often say how much they care, but tells Sasara every day through lingering touches and warm gazes and poorly hidden laughs and unwavering dedication.

Someone who—when stripped of logic and self control on a stormy night—practically falls into Sasara’s arms to embrace him in a moment of vulnerable affection. Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it? Samatoki wasn’t confused from sleepiness. He wasn’t hugging Sasara out of muddled thinking. He hugged Sasara out of honesty. Because he still cares.

Sasara lifts his face, hoping to breathe better without his nose and mouth covered by fabric. His face is hot, radiating heat like he has a fever. There’s a sharp and painful sensation twisting in his chest. The lump in his throat only grows larger over time. Why does crying have to be so bothersome?

He can feel how damp Samatoki’s shirt is from his tears. Yet when he tries to calm down, he only sobs louder. How could he ever hate Samatoki? He can’t. He never has, and he never will. He could never learn to hate Samatoki when all he sees is a person to admire and trust and adore. When he sees Samatoki—no matter whatever else he also feels—he always feels love.

“I could never hate you. You meant so much to me. There wasn’t a single thing I hated about you. You were everything to me, and I don’t think I ever said that enough. I was so grateful just to be near you. You were so important to me. You don’t understand. I don’t care if you say you do, you don’t,” Sasara blubbers, almost mindlessly. The thoughts gush out of his mouth just as they run through his mind. He wonders if Samatoki can even make out whatever he’s blurting out. “I–fuck. I loved you.”

Samatoki goes rigid. It’s minute, but Sasara notices. His words catch up to him, and he freezes as well, his own crying abruptly halted.

‘Oh, shit.’

“I mean–you were my best friend,” Sasara backpedals harshly. “You were my partner. I did love you, but not like–I didn’t mean it like—”

Samatoki’s once comforting warmth is melting Sasara’s thoughts into a jumbled mess. What sort of excuse can he make? How could he just blurt it out like that, at a moment like this? What does he do? Is it too late to run all the way back to Osaka?

He needs to put distance between him and Samatoki. Now. His body won’t move. Why can’t he move? Wait, is he still rambling? What is he even saying? Oh, god, Samatoki can tell he’s lying, can’t he?

“Sasara—”

“I know it might’ve sounded a bit weird, and I don’t want to make this weird—”

“Sasara.”

Samatoki pushes Sasara to lean back, so they’re face to face. Sasara feels his face start to flush, but he wills himself not to look somewhere else. It’ll give him away, if Samatoki hasn’t already realized.

“I promise I didn’t mean anything weird,” Sasara tacks on.

Samatoki eyes him for a moment. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Sasara echoes. “Just okay?”

“What else do you want me to say?”

“Um, right. Never mind.”

“Have you calmed down now?”

Sasara wipes away the remaining tears, wincing at how sensitive his skin is from rubbing at his eyes too harshly. He takes a deep breath and forces his aching lungs to expand. It takes a few more breaths for the dull burn to start to fade. He nods belatedly to answer Samatoki’s question and slips off Samatoki’s lap.

“You had me worried for a second there,” Samatoki says. “I thought you’d keep crying forever.”

“Hey! I’m not—”

Samatoki pushes himself up, about to stand, but winces. He slumps into the couch and gingerly hovers his hand over his side. Concern washes away any complaint Sasara holds on his tongue, and he leans forward.

“Are you hurt? What happened?” Sasara asks. “Samatoki?”

“It’s nothing.” Samatoki scowls.

He attempts to stand again and nearly stumbles before he steadies himself on his feet. He shifts his weight to one side. Sasara tries to think back: has Samatoki been doing that the whole time? How didn’t he notice sooner?

“That’s clearly something!” Sasara grabs Samatoki’s wrist, careful not to yank Samatoki down and hurt him. “Sit down!”

“I’m fine—”

“I swear to god if you don’t sit down right now, I will—”

“Okay, okay!” Samatoki rolls his eyes.

He slowly lowers himself back onto the couch, body tense. He exhales in a hiss, his brows furrowing.

“Shit,” he mutters, closing his eyes and tipping his head back.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were injured?” Sasara stares at Samatoki’s side.

Samatoki is wearing only a black undershirt, and it’s impossible to tell if there’s a bloodstain. But it’s positioned too low to be a broken rib. And Samatoki wouldn’t hurt this much from some nasty bruise.

“It wasn’t that bad earlier, but it started to hurt after I dragged you outside.” Samatoki pinches the bridge of his nose, taking in a deep breath. “I moved around too much.”

‘And then I started crying, and that became your main concern,’ Sasara finishes in his mind. ‘Stupid. Don’t prioritize me like that.’

“Let me see.” Sasara places his hand on top of Samatoki’s hand that’s laid over his injury protectively.

“No.” Samatoki nudges Sasara’s hand away.

“Why not? I already know you’re hurt.”

‘Don’t you trust me?’

Samatoki glances away. “You’ll get mad.”

“Why?” Sasara asks.

“You will,” Samatoki says.

“But why?” Sasara presses.

Samatoki groans in frustration and defeat. “I got into a fight. Y’know. Yakuza stuff. You remember what that’s like. But a guy pulled a fucking knife on me in some last ditch effort.”

That doesn’t help the worries overflowing in Sasara’s mind. A knife wound isn’t enough to keep Samatoki down: his ability to drag Sasara outside with an injury is evidence for that. But simply because Samatoki can handle it doesn’t mean he should.

“So you got stabbed—”

“Slashed, more like.”

“So you got slashed with a knife. That’s bound to happen, even if people fight with hypnosis mics.” Sasara’s hands twitch at his sides; he wants to check the injury.

“I got myself home, and I passed out on the couch.” Samatoki lowers his head like a child waiting for a scolding.

“You…” Sasara frowns.

He doesn’t get anything in response. What had Samatoki done that would make him so mad? Sure, he’d prefer if Samatoki isn’t running around outside and getting hurt, but that’s an option that was never available. He signed up for this worry when he committed to caring about Samatoki. He loops the story in his mind until it clicks.

“You didn’t.” Sasara leans closer to Samatoki.

Samatoki leans away, a near pout on his lips, and plays with his bracelet.

“Aohitsugi Samatoki,” Sasara says firmly.

With a sigh, Samatoki awkwardly meets Sasara’s gaze. His eyes start to drift away after a few moments, and Sasara snaps his fingers in front of Samatoki’s face to make Samatoki look at him again. He crosses his arms and makes sure his expression is stern enough for Samatoki to feel guilty.

He would never think to act like this when he first knocked on Samatoki’s door tonight. But just like old skits and messy but vivid watercolor memories, slipping into this role isn’t something he’ll ever forget how to do. It’s routine. Sasara remembers his lines, this push and pull dance, the right ways to get Samatoki to set his pride down. He takes a deep breath and nods at Samatoki’s wound.

After a pause, Samatoki slowly peels his tank top up. There’s a long gash of striking red along Samatoki’s side. It pops to a near unnatural extent against the plain white of his skin, helped only by the usualness of the combination of white and red from when Sasara looks into Samatoki’s eyes. The wound isn’t bleeding, so that’s good. But it’s also untreated.

Sasara considers his plan of attack and starts simple.

“Are you stupid?!” He narrows his eyes, though Samatoki probably can’t tell that he is because his eyes are narrow enough as they are. “Why wouldn’t you treat your wound? It’ll get infected! This is a completely rookie move! Are you a rookie? Did the blood loss make you think going to sleep without treating this was a good idea?!”

Samatoki bristles. “I—”

“Where’s your first aid kit?!” Sasara stands, jittery with the desire to get the wound bandaged as quickly as he can.

“There’s a closet down the hall.” Samatoki nods in the general direction of the hallway.

“Stay right here.” Sasara turns to glare at Samatoki before he vanishes down the hall. “Don’t. Move.”

Samatoki puts his hands up in surrender. Good enough. Sasara strides to the closet and swings the door open. An unopened package, two boxes (one clearly heavier than the other), and a lint roller fall by his feet. Either he swung the door open with too much force, or Samatoki has an affinity for leaving his belongings precariously close to the edge of shelves. 

The closet is filled with random things that Sasara can’t truly make out in the dim lighting from the living room. He squats down and shoves the lint roller and package onto the lowest shelf without much thought, but hesitates when he picks up the heavier box.

He shakes it, and something rattles in answer. Bullets. ‘Well, that makes sense.’ Sasara turns the box in his hand and feels the weight of the bullets tumbling to follow gravity. ‘If there’s a gun, there’s bullets. But shouldn’t he put this somewhere less… obvious? These are illegal.’ He carefully places the box at the back of a shelf.

The second box is much lighter, and notably larger, with some sort of label scribbled on it that isn’t legible in the dark. Sasara squints, but it doesn’t help. Where’s the hallway light, anyway? Oh, wait. Sasara pulls his phone out of his pocket.

After a few attempts, the screen lights up when Sasara presses the power button, but there’s no reaction from his phone when he tries to tap the flashlight button. He clicks his tongue. Right. His phone is glitching from the rain, and he might need to buy a new one. He turns his phone screen towards the writing on the box.

It only reads: don’t open. As if that wouldn’t cause curiosity to well up inside Sasara. But he doesn’t have time to debate what could be inside the mystery box. Samatoki is very much wounded and very much waiting for treatment in the living room. Sasara delicately places the mystery box back before scouring the shelves for the first aid kit with the help of the light from his phone.

He nearly misses the dull shine of white plastic and the glimpse of a red plus sign behind a dirty rag and a stack of unopened mail. Sasara pushes everything aside and pulls the first aid kit out, sighing in relief. His elbow knocks the broom tucked to the side of the closet out of place when he steps back, and he scrambles to catch it.

What a messy closet. Sasara puts the broom back and closes the door. He hurries back to Samatoki, only to freeze as soon as he steps into the living room.

Samatoki glances up, shirtless with a lit cigarette between his lips. Sasara stares for a moment, any witty quip he was preparing gone from his mind. It’s not the first time Sasara has seen Samatoki shirtless, but it’s been two years. And Samatoki is attractive. And Sasara is most definitely attracted to him.

“Something the matter?” Samatoki tilts his head.

The bright line of orange creeps down Samatoki’s cigarette as he takes a drag. Sasara’s grip on the first aid kit tightens.

“No?” Sasara responds.

It’s incredibly unconvincing. Sasara scrambles for something to say.

“You didn’t have to take your shirt off.”

‘Wait, shit, Sasara, you dumbass–that’s the topic you’re trying to avoid!’

Samatoki shrugs. “The wound’s on my stomach. I thought taking my shirt off would give you more access.”

“But lifting your arms to take off your shirt probably hurts, right? Because of where it’s placed.” Sasara finally wills his legs to bring him to the couch.

“The shirt has blood on it. And it’s soaked in sweat.” Samatoki scrunches his nose. “I’d rather have it off.”

“I guess so.” Sasara places the first aid kit on the couch and leans down to take a better look at the slash.

After two years, the sight of blood and injury so up close makes Sasara marginally squeamish again. He takes a deep breath and steadies himself. Squeamishness and shirtless Samatoki be damned, he needs to get this patched up.

“I can’t believe you didn’t treat this when you got home,” he says, looking up.

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Samatoki says defensively. “It was late, and I was fucking tired. I only woke up because you kept knocking for so long.”

“That’s even worse!” Sasara grabs Samatoki’s shoulder when Samatoki starts to shift. “Stay still.”

He crouches and studies the wound.

“It doesn’t need stitches.” Samatoki crosses his arms with a huff.

“You underplay every injury you get,” Sasara counters. “I’m making sure.”

“I know how to treat my fucking wounds. I’ve been doing this for years.”

“Yeah, yeah. And you skipped this one. What if you bled out on the couch?”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Say that one more time, I’ll hit you right on that wound.”

Samatoki scoffs but doesn’t argue further. He’s right, though: the wound doesn’t look like it needs stitches, much to Sasara’s relief. He gets out a cloth, disinfectant, gauze, and some bandages.

“Don’t cry too much,” Sasara teases.

“Fuck you,” Samatoki spits back.

“Want to squeeze my hand while I disinfect it?” Sasara bites back a chuckle.

“Fuck. You.” Samatoki glares.

Laughter leaks out of Sasara’s lips, even as he tries to suppress it. Samatoki takes a drag of his cigarette and blows it into Sasara’s face. Sasara coughs and waves away the smoke.

“Hey! What was that for?” Sasara smacks Samatoki’s knee.

“For being annoying,” Samatoki deadpans.

“Well, cut it out.” Sasara reaches for the disinfectant. “I stopped smoking.”

“Why?” Samatoki asks.

Sasara pauses, the cap of the disinfectant half twisted off in his hand. The smell of smoke seeps in the air around Sasara from Samatoki’s cigarette. A reminder. Cigarettes reminded me too much of you.

That brings back memories Sasara forgot. From his early days of returning to Osaka. Whenever the smell of Samatoki’s brand of cigarettes wafted to his nose, he’d instantly look up, a name half formed on his lips. Incomplete. It was frustrating, even more so when he blurted out Toki while sitting alone in a cafe and caused heads to turn. Toki. He didn’t even know the weight of that nickname when it first returned to him.

He twists off the cap completely and smiles. “Smoking is bad for you. I thought it was about time to stop.”

Samatoki bathes in the silence for a moment. “Right.”

Sasara wets the rag with some disinfectant, but hesitates before he applies it.

“Don’t kick me or anything.” He hovers the rag an inch from the red on Samatoki’s skin.

“Just get on with it.” Samatoki rolls his eyes.

He watches as Sasara moves. Sasara wipes Samatoki’s wound as gently as he can, but Samatoki nonetheless tenses up without a noise. He wipes again just to make sure, and this time a hiss sizzles off of Samatoki’s tongue. Absentmindedly, he rubs Samatoki’s thigh consolingly as he finishes.

“Sorry.” He tosses the rag back into the first aid kit.

“I’m not a wuss.” Samatoki hands Sasara the bandages and gauze. “It’s not a big deal.”

“I know,” Sasara says.

“There’s no dirt or anything in there, right?” Samatoki asks.

Sasara spreads the wound open carefully. “Hm… nope. Looks good. You got past the hard part. Want a lollipop?”

That earns him a kick to the side. He probably deserved that one, and it doesn’t hurt too bad.

He presses some gauze over Samatoki’s wound. “Scoot forward a bit and hold that in place.”

Samatoki obliges silently as Sasara unrolls the bandage. Sasara leans forward and slides the end of the bandage under Samatoki’s fingers to hold.

“You really can’t just go to sleep without treating this, you know,” Sasara emphasizes again as he passes the roll from one hand to the other behind Samatoki’s back.

Samatoki lifts his free arm out of the way. “I already told you, I passed out as soon as I—”

“I know.” Sasara passes over the wound and tugs lightly to make sure it’s tightened before going around a second time. “But who was going to patch you up if I didn’t show up at your door tonight?”

“I don’t want anyone else doing it for me.” Samatoki moves his hand away after the third go around, the gauze now securely in place.

“I’m doing it for you right now,” Sasara points out.

Samatoki scoffs. Sasara pauses and looks up.

“I don’t want anyone else doing it for me,” Samatoki repeats, more firmly this time.

Anybody else besides you goes unspoken. Sasara drops his gaze to the bandage roll resting against his palm. He runs his thumb over it.

“Oh,” Sasara whispers, hushed and weak.

Samatoki doesn’t grace him with a response, smoking his cigarette in silence as Sasara continues. Sasara stares at his own hands, uncertain if Samatoki would be staring if he looked up. He doesn’t want to find out. He doesn’t know what to do if Samatoki is staring at him. He grabs a pin from the first aid kit and secures the bandage.

“Is it too tight? Too loose?” Sasara only dares to peek at Samatoki when he has reason to.

“It’s fine.” Samatoki scoots back and leans on the couch again.

“Okay. Good,” Sasara says.

Awkward quiet dribbles back into the room. This is the part when Sasara stands, changes the subject, does something else. Instead, he lingers. He breaks routine from their past. His eyes drift away from Samatoki’s face to the scars on Samatoki’s chest. The only intentional ones on Samatoki’s body.

Sasara’s seen them before, multiple times, in moments like these. Near symmetrical on each side of the chest, narrow but not thin. Samatoki didn’t bother with scar cream. What’s another scar or two in a sea of scars? Sasara used to envy those scars, before he got similar ones.

“Uh, anyway,” he abruptly stands when he snaps out of his trance, “I should probably put the first aid kit back—”

Sasara stumbles when he’s yanked forward, barely catching himself. Both hands on the back of the couch and one knee on the cushion, he searches for the source of his near downfall. Samatoki is under him, unintentionally caged in by Sasara’s arms, his hand still gripping Sasara’s shirt.

“Samatoki?” Sasara’s face feels warm.

The aforementioned cause of Sasara’s flustered reaction simply glances at his grip on Sasara’s shirt. He releases Sasara’s shirt only to ensnare him again with a soft brush of fingers along his cheek. Sasara stares at Samatoki’s arm, a dam in his throat clogging his breath as Samatoki cups his face. A thumb brushes over Sasara’s cheekbone. The breath he sucks in wavers and doesn’t feel like it reaches his lungs.

 “One cigarette won’t hurt,” Samatoki says.

Sasara blinks, decodes what Samatoki’s trying to say. He glances at the cigarette between Samatoki’s fingers. It’s barely been burned through. He takes a deep breath, the smoke distilled through the air settling into his lungs. He should say no. It’s not good for him to be this close to Samatoki. Old and new feelings—both one in the same—crash over his reasoning.

“I guess not,” he says.

Samatoki drops his hand, but Sasara has a feeling that Samatoki doesn’t want him to move away. Hesitantly, he slowly sits on Samatoki’s lap. They stare at each other for a moment. Samatoki looks at his cigarette.

He doesn’t reach to take out another cigarette, simply taking another drag. Before Sasara can ask, Samatoki leans in and tilts Sasara’s chin up. The words shrivel on Sasara’s tongue. His heart hammers in his chest as if it’s trying to break out of his ribcage.

Oh.

Samatoki exhales the smoke slowly into the mere inches between their mouths, and Sasara breathes it in. A faint itch ignites in his throat, but he holds down a cough. Even if his lungs don’t seem to appreciate the reintroduction to smoking, the rest of him melts into the familiarity of the sensation, the tangible taste of bygone times.

Sasara lets the smoke out, pushing the memories off to the side for the current moment. He peeks one eye open—enough to show a glimpse of gold, based on the way Samatoki stills and stares at him.

“I don’t think we’ve done this before,” Sasara says.

“Does it bother you?” Samatoki asks cautiously.

Sasara’s eyes follow the cigarette to Samatoki’s lips and Samatoki takes a drag. “No.”

“Good.” Samatoki blows another cloud of smoke at Sasara.

Sasara takes another drag through his memories, though he knows looking through smoke will ruin his lungs. Cigarettes are a good way to describe Samatoki when Sasara first met him. Never associated with anything good, a promise for damage in the long term, a brief rest for fun in Sasara’s life. Samatoki was burning, and burning out as anger consumed him whole.

He rests his hand on Samatoki’s chest. His fingertips are below a tiny, faint scar on Samatoki’s shoulder. It’s from childhood, and it’s dwarfed by the much larger body Samatoki grew into. A scar so small that Sasara could blanket it with a kiss, if he wants to.

He doesn’t.

(But he wants to.)

Instead, he feels Samatoki’s chest rise and fall under his palm with every slow breath. With no layers between his hand and Samatoki’s chest, this is the closest he can get to Samatoki’s heart.

The smoke continues to pass between them in silence. The still pouring rain drowns itself out in monotony, easily ignorable when Sasara can feel his own heartbeat thrumming all the way up to his fingers.

“Sasara,” Samatoki murmurs. “Can you grab the ashtray? It’s on the coffee table behind you.”

Sasara turns halfway and leans over to grab the ashtray. Annoyingly enough, it’s barely out of reach. He stretches to reach it, but he feels himself start to fall over just as he grabs it.

A hand grabs his waist and pulls him back up before he topples off the couch (or, well, off Samatoki’s lap). He instinctively scoots closer to Samatoki, one hand gripping Samatoki’s shoulder.

“Careful.” Samatoki’s hand slides to Sasara’s hip. “You okay?”

Sasara stops himself from glancing down at Samatoki’s hand, but forgets to say something to make it seem like he’s not getting flustered over another simple touch.

“Hey.” Samatoki waves his other hand in front of Sasara’s face. “Did you hit your head or something?”

“I got the ashtray.” Sasara smacks the ashtray down on the couch cushion next to them. “I’m fine.”

Samatoki doesn’t comment on his jittery and sharp movements and taps the ash off the cigarette. They return to wordlessly drinking in each other’s presence.

At some point, the cigarette starts to do its job and rinses out the tension from Sasara’s body. The smoke settles like a fog over his mind, until he finds himself mindlessly running his thumb over that small childhood scar on Samatoki’s shoulder. Samatoki’s hand twitches at his hip, but otherwise there’s no reaction.

His other hand starts lower, skimming over a larger scar on Samatoki’s abdomen. He hops from scar to scar and maps out Samatoki’s body with his hands. The nick on Samatoki’s collarbone is a far too close call that made Sasara refuse to let Samatoki do anything dangerous for a week. The jagged vertical scar over the bottom three of Samatoki’s ribs has no story that Sasara can recall. Newer, probably. Or forgotten. He’s not sure which option he prefers; either way, he’s missing something of Samatoki.

The smoke is a backdrop for his curious touches by the time his hands finally meet where he wants to touch most. Samatoki’s top surgery scars. Out of all the scars, these are the ones Sasara touches the most tenderly.

He traces from one end to another, back again, then back again once more. Samatoki observes the touches with a lazy glance. He lays still and relaxes into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed.

“Y’know, Sasara…” he murmurs then pauses, as if the thought left before he formed it.

“Hm?” Sasara drags his fingertip over Samatoki’s scars again.

“When it comes to your own feelings, you’re a really shitty liar.”

Sasara’s hands flinch back from Samatoki’s skin, freezing in the few inches between their bodies. He slowly lifts his gaze to Samatoki’s face. Samatoki opens his eyes and sits forward, but doesn’t speak.

“What do you mean?” Sasara asks.

“Like…” Samatoki shrugs, “I don’t know. You lie fine to get out of situations, but if you’re lying about how you feel, it’s really obvious. You have a sign for when you lie, y’know? And it hasn’t changed, even now.”

“And what sign is that?”

“You go completely still, and you start rambling way worse than usual.”

He lets the statement sit and tilts his head as if observing Sasara from a literal new angle will reveal something to him. There’s something he wants to say, something he wants to confirm, and it makes Sasara nervous.

“The point is you can’t bullshit me,” Samatoki pins Sasara with another intense look. “I know when you’re lying.”

That look means more than that. I know that you lied, it says. But what’s the point of bringing this up? Why now? Sasara scours his brain for a reason. The last thing he lied about? What is it? What was the last slip up—

‘I loved you.’

Oh. Oh shit.

His own words, his truth that he kept nestled close to his heart, the thing he let slip comes rushing back. Samatoki is still looking at him and watching his reaction, which gives it all away.

“Samatoki, I—” The words clog in Sasara’s throat.

“You?” Samatoki prompts.

The words itch to get out, but he can’t think when Samatoki’s looking at him like this. Samatoki knows. Maybe he doesn’t know for how long, or when it started, or how intensely, but he knows. Sasara can’t bring himself to look anywhere else besides those eyes. It’s instinct. When he doesn’t know what to do, he searches for Samatoki.

“Sorry,” Sasara pushes out, because it’s the only word he can say on command.

“What the fuck are you saying sorry for?” Samatoki raises a brow.

‘Stop looking at me.’

“I shouldn’t have…” Sasara trails off. “You must think I’m—”

“No, I don’t,” Samatoki interrupts.

‘Don’t look at me.

Samatoki’s stare proves to be too intense. Sasara snatches the cigarette out of Samatoki’s hand and takes a long drag. Weirdly enough, his lungs don’t burn as much when the smoke is directly from the cigarette instead of Samatoki’s mouth. He blows the smoke into Samatoki’s face, more as a taunt to get a rise out of Samatoki than anything else.

Samatoki sighs. “Is it in the past?”

“That’s such an unfair question, Toki,” Sasara chuckles dryly. “Go back to ruining your lungs.”

He presses the unlit end of the cigarette to Samatoki’s lips. Samatoki holds Sasara’s hand in place and takes a drag from the cigarette while meeting Sasara’s gaze. The itch in Sasara’s throat spreads to all under his skin.

“Now you’re just being unfair,” Sasara breathes out.

“Am I?” Samatoki asks, the smoke curling out lazily from his mouth as he speaks.

“Well, I accidentally spilled my big secret, and you’re practically rubbing it in,” Sasara mutters.

“So it isn’t a thing of the past.”

“Does that matter?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Samatoki gives Sasara an exasperated look. He finally releases Sasara’s hand from his grip and takes the cigarette. He snubs it out in the ashtray, though it’s still not close to done, and his other hand cups Sasara’s face.

“Sasara…”

There’s a longing in that tone, that expression. Samatoki looks at him as if he wants him, only him, and suddenly Sasara feels as if he’s the stupid one.

Breaking through Samatoki’s walls kept him so busy he forgot he has walls of his own—ones that are equally as tough to get through—that Samatoki surely was trying to tear down. In all of his guilt and shame, he reinforces his own defenses and rejects Samatoki’s words.

His thoughts are a storm as equally bad as the one raging on outside, and Samatoki’s words are but a puddle in all the words in his mind. He was too preoccupied with his own hectic storm to realize that it was distorting Samatoki’s words. But now, with the storm in his mind passing, he can see a little clearer. He can see why Samatoki doesn’t blame him and doesn’t want him to blame himself. Samatoki looks at him the same way he used to when they were two years younger, as if he would still give and give and give for Sasara until there’s nothing left. And he would, wouldn’t he?

God, Sasara’s an absolute idiot.

But seeing the yearning in such a simple expression from Samatoki makes Sasara melt, a small spark of hope in his chest reigniting. He leans in slightly before he can think about it.

Samatoki’s gaze flickers down to Sasara’s lips so briefly that Sasara might’ve missed it if he blinked. A sharp inhale dragging between Samatoki’s teeth punctures the space between them, but only makes the delicate tension swell. He leans forward as well.

His molten eyes continue to melt away at Sasara and feed the spark fizzling in his chest until it’s a fire licking burns in stripes along his heart. Sasara half expects to breathe out in smoky fog as they linger in this position, teetering into a territory they’ve never gone into.

Sasara dips into the unknown possibilities first, one hand returning to lay on Samatoki’s chest to guide himself into leaning in further. His other hand repeats the motion after a slight delay. Samatoki allows Sasara to push him against the back of the couch. Neither of them are brave enough to dive right into the desires finally put into the open, so they settle for unsure half steps as they nudge the distance between them towards a close.

The brush of Samatoki’s breath on his lips leaves Sasara dizzy and wanting, the slow breaths passing between them dusting off old feelings and peeling back layers until he remembers this part of his love too. A few years ago, his gaze often settled on Samatoki’s mouth, wondering what a moment like this would feel like. The yearning, the sappy daydreams he’d have all throughout the day, the lovestriken dreams he’d have during naps.

He forgot what this love feels like without the guilt.

But perhaps Sasara could hide in his feelings being reciprocated, finally rinse away the sense of guilt that douses every part of him. It’s so easy to fall into this moment and forget anything ever happened. Isn’t that what Sasara wants? Maybe a kiss would be enough to fix everything. He could finally shake off the guilt and run away—

Sasara flinches and pulls away from Samatoki.

He turns his head before he can look at Samatoki’s reaction. He knows he won’t be able to bear the look on Samatoki’s face. What does he even say? Sorry? The word feels hollow after the countless times he repeated it tonight.

“Okay,” Samatoki says vaguely before Sasara can speak.

It sounds like a blur between it’s okay and I understand and I’m sorry. Sasara can’t respond, his own words failing him. He feels as awkward sitting on Samatoki’s lap as when he first decided to sit there. The terse silence shatters when he sneezes.

“Shit, you’re still in your wet clothes,” Samatoki says.

Sasara looks down, viewing his long forgotten Peko-chan shirt upside down. “Oh, yeah. I forgot about that.”

Samatoki rests his hand on Sasara’s shoulder. “You’re shivering.”

“Now that you mention it,” Sasara rubs his arm with a hand, “I’m a little cold.”

“I’ll get you a change of clothes.” Samatoki shoos Sasara off his lap. “You can use my shower.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine—”

“You’re going to get a cold at this rate,” Samatoki interrupts as he stands, his wound suddenly not bothering him at all. “Take the fucking shower. You need to warm up.”

Sasara stands as well, getting colder by the second now that there’s nothing distracting him. Yeah, he probably needs that warm shower right about now.

“Okay,” Sasara says.

Samatoki wordlessly starts to walk, and Sasara follows. His sandals squeak obnoxiously as he trails behind Samatoki. Before the sound annoys him enough to make him walk barefoot, Samatoki stops at a door—presumably the bathroom.

“I’ll leave a spare change of clothes outside the door. My bedroom’s down the hall.” Samatoki nods towards a door further down.

He turns to leave, and Sasara grabs Samatoki’s wrist. Samatoki turns back, surprised.

“Do you need something?” Samatoki asks slowly when the silence continues.

Sasara’s gaze flits to Samatoki’s wrist in his hand, then back to Samatoki’s face. To Samatoki’s mouth. ‘It’s not that I didn’t want to kiss you.’ A statement like that would only raise questions.

“It’s nothing.” Sasara lets go. “Uh, thanks for letting me use your shower.”

“Oh,” Samatoki says, equally as awkward. “Yeah. No problem.”

He leaves in swift steps, though his limp is noticeable, and Sasara is vaguely relieved for the quick departure. Besides warming up, a shower might clear his muddled thoughts. When the bathroom door falls shut behind him, he deflates with a heavy sigh. There’s a sense of comfort to being alone even when he craves Samatoki’s presence.

He shuffles further in and stops when he passes the mirror. In the mirror, his reflection feels off. His face is drained of color, and he looks frail and tired. Hesitantly, he approaches the mirror and lets his unlike reflection come closer.

It could be the lighting, but he almost looks like a ghost. Not fully here—or somewhere he shouldn’t be. Isn’t that what he is? A shape of the past reappearing in the present, not fully remembered or remembering, haunting and unable to let go?

Here, he’s half formed. Here, there’s an identity he walked away from, different from who he is today. Here, who is he? He sways back and forth between the two like ocean tides abiding to the moon. He isn’t grounded here, drifting among the waves without an anchor. The late night, the storm, the cold he’ll surely have when he wakes up in the morning—they blend into a dreamlike state.

But, well, the Peko-chan shirt his reflection also dons sort of undermines all this internal conflict.

Sasara stares at himself some more before shifting his attention to the small bathroom window. It’s definitely still storming, but the downpour seems to be gradually easing.

He gets undressed and steps into the shower, turning the water on. It’s cold as soon as it hits his skin, and Sasara sneezes. He should’ve waited for the water to warm up. He settles for standing out of the general direction of the showerhead and curling his toes when the spray of the water hitting the tiles still makes it to his feet.

The water warms after a bit longer of the uncomfortable sensation of cold water under his feet. He steps back under the shower and slumps in relief as the warm water runs over his chilled skin. He stays like that for a moment, basking in the cold finally leaving for good as the water rushes to the shower drain. Then, he starts to wash himself.

He goes through the motions mindlessly, and his mind floats back into his sea of thoughts. Without the burning presence of Samatoki nearby, he has all the more time to think. The whole night since he woke up from his nightmare has been a mess of emotions, especially since he knocked on Samatoki’s door. Now, with the running shower as a backdrop, he can finally process what happened.

What he said and what he wants to say. What Samatoki said and what he thinks Samatoki wants to say. What he feels compared to what he thinks. Everything that happened already feels like it’s taken way longer than… What time even is it? How long has he been here?

But the time is beyond the point. Sasara’s exhausted. Emotionally, mentally, and physically. He’s ready to sleep the rest of his life away.

With that in mind, Sasara turns off the shower and grabs a towel to dry himself off and wrap around his waist. He opens the bathroom door just wide enough so that he can grab the change of clothes Samatoki left for him and changes into them.

Once he’s sure he’s no longer dripping water everywhere, he sets off to Samatoki’s bedroom, carrying his sandals this time so there isn’t an obnoxious squeak with every step. He stops in front of the door, unsure if he should knock before stepping in. Also, where should he even put his sandals?

As he dithers, a new thought enters his mind. If Samatoki only told Sasara where his bedroom is… are they supposed to share a bed? Does Samatoki not have a guest bedroom? That’d make sense, since he lives alone. Unless Samatoki does have a guest bedroom but would rather share a bed? But why?

Either way, the idea of sharing a bed makes Sasara flustered. Should he just offer to sleep on the couch? But Samatoki would probably refuse. And if he gets the idea that Sasara isn’t comfortable sharing a bed, then he’d sleep on the couch. Which definitely shouldn’t happen when he has a fresh wound on his stomach. So he shouldn’t bring it up at all. Act natural.

Sasara swings the door open with a bit too much force. Samatoki jolts in his spot sitting on the bed, his eyes jerking to the door and his hand grabbing the nearest thing he can throw. He drops it when he recognizes Sasara, but stays rigid.

So much for acting natural.

“Hey,” Sasara clears his throat, “I finished taking a shower.”

“Okay.” Samatoki gets up. “I’ll go take a shower now.”

Sasara nods, not trusting himself to not say something stupid, and shuffles into the room.

“You can leave your sandals at the foot of the bed,” Samatoki tacks on helpfully as he steps out. “And you don’t have to wait up for me.”

With that, he closes the door. ‘So I am sharing a bed with him.’ Sasara drops his sandals by the bed, flipping one over with a light kick when it lands on the wrong side. He tugs the neatly folded blanket back and slips under, scooting until he’s on the side of the bed pressed up to a wall. He pulls the blanket back up to his chest and keeps his arms over it.

He lays deathly still, on his back, arms stiffly at his sides. Maybe if he pretends to be dead, the ground will swallow him whole. Or better yet, if he stays still long enough, he can fall asleep before Samatoki gets back.

However, life isn’t that merciful. His thoughts crowd his mind in what feels like a nonstop party, complete with thoughts yelling over each other to be heard, chasing sleep far out of reach. He tries counting sheep, then breathing exercises, then trying to imagine smothering his own mind into silence in hopes that it’ll have an effect on his thoughts as a threat. None of these attempts work, and by the time he finishes with the third and returns to counting sheep, the door opens again.

Samatoki strides into the room as if he doesn’t have a single reason to limp. There are sweatpants in place of his jeans, but he’s noticeably still very shirtless. He probably didn’t want to put up with the hassle of putting on a shirt when he’s injured.

But what’s more important is his hair. His hair is wet and slicked back, a towel slung over his shoulders to catch the droplets still dripping down. The hairstyle is identical to how he used to style his hair when Sasara first saw him in Ikebukuro years ago.

Abruptly, Samatoki’s eyes are looking back at him. Sasara turns to his side, facing the wall and away from Samatoki. He resists the urge to look back.

“Are you still cold?” Samatoki asks.

“I’m fine.”

“Okay."

“How’s your wound?”

“About as good as a fresh wound can feel.”

A cool brush of air hugs Sasara’s back when the blanket lifts; a soft creak of the bed dipping under Samatoki’s weight follows. Sasara holds his breath while Samatoki shifts to get comfortable, only exhaling slowly when Samatoki settles and isn’t making contact with any part of Sasara’s body.

The silence that settles along with them is horrifically awkward. Sasara resumes counting sheep in his mind. He only gets to thirty six additional sheep, which is a total of fifty one sheep, before he breaks. He flips to his other side dramatically.

Samatoki opens his eyes from what seems like a much more successful attempt at attaining sleep and turns his head to face Sasara. How unfair. How can Samatoki sleep soundly in this situation?

“Nice look you have there, Toki,” Sasara says.

“This?” Samatoki runs his fingers through his pushed back hair.

“Brings me right back to the past.” Sasara pouts. “Isn’t that kinda mean to do?”

Samatoki scoffs in disbelief. “You’re really saying that? Now you know how I feel whenever I see your face. You look exactly the same.”

He grabs Sasara’s face with one hand and squishes his cheeks for emphasis. Sasara squirms away.

“Hey, let go!” He yanks himself free from Samatoki’s hold and sits up, rubbing his face gingerly.

He moves to lay back down, but pauses when he sees Samatoki’s arm slung under his pillow. He stares for a moment, then glances at Samatoki for an answer. Samatoki only looks at him expectantly.

“You could just tell me if you want to cuddle,” Sasara says.

“Shut up,” Samatoki huffs.

He pulls Sasara in when Sasara lays down, closing the gap between them into nothingness. Sasara debates with himself, but ultimately lays his head on Samatoki’s chest. He can faintly make out the sound of a heartbeat thumping slightly faster than it should be for someone going to bed. He brushes the thought aside.

Samatoki never sleeps with a lamp on, and tonight’s storm clouds filter out most of the moonlight, but Sasara nonetheless strains to take in the details of the foreign bedroom. The closet door is ajar from when Samatoki grabbed a change of clothes, and a leather jacket is on a hanger on the doorknob. The nightstand by the bed has a lamp, a pack of cigarettes, an ashtray, an empty can of beer, and an empty mug among other things absentmindedly placed on it.

Occasionally, bold stripes of white light cut through the window blinds and slide along the ceiling from the headlights of a car whizzing by a couple of stories down, unheard through the rain pattering on the window. In the brief seconds of extra light, Sasara pieces together more of the room. A pair of boots haphazardly kicked off near the closet, a patch on the elbow of the jacket hanging on the closet, a small spot of white paint that doesn’t match the rest where something was painted over, the loosening threads on the seam of the blanket snuggled up to his chin.

Sasara begins to count the seconds between cars passing to ignore how Samatoki’s hand tentatively settles on his hip. He slows his breathing. He gets to twenty seven agonizingly slow seconds before he feels Samatoki’s thumb slip under his (or, well, Samatoki’s) shirt and hike it up slightly.

Counting seconds proves to be useless when his skin tingles exactly where there’s direct contact between him and Samatoki. Sasara sighs and tugs the blanket over his head. It doesn’t help much, but it doesn’t make anything worse. Everything smells like Samatoki, whether he’s hiding his face or not. Every inhale is cigarette smoke, coffee, and iron. It’s suffocating and impossible to escape. The blanket over his head catches his breath and blocks out the air, quickly turning uncomfortably warm.

For once, Sasara feels as if he’s drowning on what was once familiar. The smoke too thick to breathe in, the coffee too scathing to swallow, the iron a sickening smell of wounds that should’ve stayed closed—wounds that Sasara opened tonight by showing up at Samatoki’s door. As much as he feels half present, a ghost clinging to someone who’s moved on, everything also feels too real.

The slight rise and fall of Samatoki’s chest in sync with slow breaths, the weight of Samatoki’s hand on his hip, the sleepy warmth leaking out of Samatoki’s body. Then, Samatoki, a memory. Now, Samatoki, living. A reality Sasara isn’t quite able to comprehend yet. After all, Samatoki is as much a ghost as Sasara is.

Samatoki, a concept, half finished and wavering brushstrokes of memories—that’s something Sasara can understand. That’s how Samatoki exists to him, in his mind. Frozen in place and time, forever happy. Samatoki is a concept more than a person, and only pieced together with what Sasara knows. He feels incomplete (because Sasara will forever wonder if he’s still forgetting something), and he carries parts of Sasara within that sense of incompleteness.

Samatoki, a person, whole and one rather than made up of bits and pieces—that’s something overwhelming. Samatoki, as he is now, is a reality too large for someone who’s been clinging to memories this whole time. But for every day that passed since Sasara woke up back in Osaka with a terrible headache, a day passed for Samatoki as well. Life continued on for both of them, molded both of them into something slightly different than before. Samatoki is different—somehow, someway, even in just his aura and presence.

Sasara wishes he could say running to Samatoki is like coming home, but it’s simply not true. He doesn’t know this place, this reality, this way of being with Samatoki. There’s no obviously empty space for him to pop into anymore, no role to fill in Samatoki’s new life that he can grab and cling onto desperately.

But this is where he wants to be, he knows that much. He wants to be at Samatoki’s side and relearn Samatoki as a person rather than a concept. That’s why, even when it burns him, Sasara snuggles closer to Samatoki’s side. Warm and safe and… somewhat forgiven.

He just doesn’t know if he deserves it.

“Oh.” Samatoki’s voice breaks the silence. “I forgot to say congrats.”

Sasara pulls the blanket off his head. “Huh?”

“I didn’t notice until I saw that you weren’t wearing a binder anymore.” Samatoki’s gaze dips to Sasara’s chest.

“Oh.”

Sasara didn’t get top surgery until well into his first year after returning to Osaka. So of course Samatoki didn’t know. Sasara never got to celebrate that milestone with Samatoki like he planned to. There are things Samatoki doesn’t know about him now.

“Thanks.” Sasara grins. “Finally getting top surgery lifted a huge weight from my chest.”

Samatoki half snorts half laughs at that, a smile sneaking onto his mouth. It’s as cute as in Sasara’s memories, and it reminds him that some things are still the same.

“Your puns are even worse than I remember,” Samatoki says lightly.

“You just don’t appreciate good humor!” Sasara says.

“I don’t need to know good humor to know your puns aren’t part of that,” Samatoki quips.

“Rude!” Sasara huffs and crosses his arms.

Samatoki chuckles, quiet but bright, and Sasara thinks that’s enough to light up the stormy night continuing outside. They sink into a comfortable quiet, the awkwardness of sharing a bed evaporating. Samatoki turns on his side to face Sasara, and Sasara scoots back slightly. It’s disappointing to lose the warmth of Samatoki holding him, but Sasara doesn’t complain.

“Can I see?” Samatoki asks.

“See what?”

“Your scars.”

Sasara pauses. “Yeah.”

He pushes the blanket down to his waist. Samatoki reaches out, halts midway, and then slips his hands under Sasara’s shirt and lifts it up. Samatoki glides a fingertip along the shape of Sasara’s scars, and his expression softens. He doesn’t look up, running his fingers over the scars as if to memorize them or burn them into Sasara’s skin anew.

He doesn’t speak, and Sasara doesn’t either. Sasara usually hates quiet with others, feels pressure to fill it with noise of some kind, preferably a joke. But there’s no pressure to interrupt a quiet like this. No, this is a silence that speaks—or rather, this silence makes room for other things to speak.

Samatoki’s gentle touches speak in whispers of adoration, each brush over Sasara’s top surgery scars another hushed proclamation of care. Sasara’s own heart thrumming in his chest, just above Samatoki’s fingertips, stutters out half bitten thoughts tinged with love. The loudest sound is the look of reverence on Samatoki’s face, an overflowing confession.

His hands wander, tender and delicate and careful, to Sasara’s other scars. He lingers over the worse ones, as if he relives the memory of Sasara being hurt when he touches them. Eventually, his hands move all the way back up, then a little further, to Sasara’s face.

“So, what do you think?” Sasara asks.

Samatoki shrugs. “You look like yourself.”

Sasara laughs. “I would hope so.”

“Shut up,” Samatoki mutters snappily. “You know what I mean. You look more like yourself, or whatever.”

“And how does that look?”

Samatoki sighs. “Happier. More confident.”

There’s a beat of silence, but Samatoki’s mouth is partially open, his lips clearly holding the shape of another word. He looks at Sasara—really looks at him—before he can continue.

“Handsome,” Samatoki whispers,

Sasara’s breath catches in his throat, slipping out in a nervous chuckle instead.

“You think I’m handsome?”

“Yeah. Handsome.” Samatoki lays on his back again, facing the ceiling. “Stupidly charming. Something like that.”

The bedroom feels all too hot, and Sasara hopes his face isn’t flushed as he pulls his shirt back down, even if Samatoki can’t see him now.

“Y’know, that’s… quite the statement coming from you,” Sasara says.

“Why?” Samatoki glances at him, but his gaze flits back to the ceiling just as quickly. “I give compliments where they’re due.”

“Debatable, but that wasn’t why.”

“Why then?”

“C’mon, Samatoki. Isn’t it obvious?” Sasara pokes Samatoki’s cheek. “It’s because you’re ridiculously handsome yourself.”

To Sasara’s surprise, Samatoki blushes—the audacity of this man to look cute—and turns his head to look at Sasara. A lock of still wet hair drops to his face, traces a line from cheek to jaw that Sasara wishes to follow with his eyes, his fingertips, his lips.

“Just because I’m handsome, I can’t think you’re handsome?” Samatoki asks.

“I never said that. I was surprised because usually you’d call me a handful.” Sasara chuckles when Samatoki groans at the pun. “But, y’know, being called handsome by someone who’s as attractive as you makes the compliment have more weight? Or something.”

“Okay, you can stop complimenting me now,” Samatoki grumbles.

“Aw, you’re shy,” Sasara cooes.

“I’m not fucking shy,” Samatoki retorts.

“Then you wouldn’t mind me saying that you’re honestly incredibly gorgeous?”

Well, that definitely wasn’t intentional. Sasara curses his own lack of filter. What the hell is he even saying, at a time like this? He should probably stop, but he stares at Samatoki’s adorably flushed face. He pushes on.

“Like drop dead gorgeous. Really living up to that Aohitsugi name.” Sasara winks.

“Stop with the puns.”

“Okay, okay. I just–you do know you’re unfairly pretty, right? You should be a model or something. Be on the runway instead of running away from cops.”

Samatoki gives Sasara a pointed look.

“Right. No puns. Sorry.”

That lock of hair still drapes over Samatoki’s cheek, almost like a taunt. Unable to resist any longer, Sasara darts out a hand to tuck it behind Samatoki’s ear. Samatoki raises an eyebrow in question, reaching up to touch his hair.

“Sorry. I was wanting to do that,” Sasara explains.

“It’s fine.” Samatoki moves his hand away. “It didn’t bother me.”

It’s not until Sasara lifts his gaze to Samatoki’s eyes that he realizes he was staring at Samatoki’s mouth in the first place. He opens and closes his mouth, but fails to supply any excuse to blurt out. Samatoki’s eyes drop to Sasara’s mouth, as if to reciprocate Sasara’s earlier gesture, and Sasara freezes on the spot.

He wants to kiss Samatoki. Really, really badly. He wants to grab Samatoki and pull him in, take what they both clearly want, but the guilt bubbling inside him makes him nauseous.

Samatoki’s hand grabs Sasara’s own under the blanket, squeezing lightly. Sasara squeezes back. Neither of them distinctively lean in first, but the gap between their faces is half what it was a few seconds ago.

“Sasara?” Samatoki asks, hushed.

The last time, at the couch, Samatoki said his name as a confession. This time, it’s a weight that falls on Sasara. Are you okay with this?

And is he? Is Sasara okay with this? After hurting Samatoki so badly, what right does he have to kiss him? To be with him or even near him? To be held and looked at by him this tenderly and adoringly.

The guilt presses into Sasara’s hand, and he pulls away from Samatoki’s grip, shaking his head. He wants to kiss Samatoki, but not like this. Not when the guilt tangles with his heartstrings until it seeps into his bloodstream and spreads all over.

Samatoki watches him for a few more moments, then whispers, “Why won’t you?”

Sasara could lie here, or tell a half truth, but the late hour and the expression on Samatoki’s face unravel him.

“Because I don’t have the right to,” Sasara says.

“Why not?”

“Why would I?”

“Because you want to, and I want to.”

“I’m sorry, I just—” Sasara takes Samatoki’s hand back in his own. “I feel so guilty.”

“It’s not your fault,” Samatoki says, unwavering.

“I want to believe that. Maybe I will, someday.” Sasara shifts his attention to their hands, unable to meet Samatoki’s gaze. “But… I just learned about everything I said to you that day. I need time to process, y’know?”

“Yeah. It’s fine,” Samatoki says soothingly. “I understand.”

“I do want to. Kiss you,” Sasara blurts out haltingly. “I, uh, really do. But if I ever do, I want to do it right. I don’t want to kiss you when I feel so guilty. And I know it’d probably make me feel better if I did, but that feels like running away and—”

“Sasara,” Samatoki interrupts. He squeezes Sasara’s hand. “It’s okay. You don’t have to explain yourself.”

Sasara sucks in a deep breath and lets it leave in a flood, carrying the tension with it. “Okay.”

He rests his forehead on their joined hands, peeking at Samatoki. Samatoki looks back at him, not at all angry or bothered by the rejection. Instead, there’s concern over Sasara painted on his face. Sasara tucks his face into his pillow and squeezes Samatoki’s hand.

Wait for me.

Those words flood his tongue in waves, each urge to say it worse than the last, and presses on the dam of his sealed lips. Wait for me is what he’s trying to say. He doesn’t want to kiss Samatoki in this state of mind, but what if this is his only chance?

For all he knows, a night like this is a dream that’ll dissipate when he wakes up or have passed in the morning like the storm outside. Tomorrow (or, well, today, since it’s well past midnight) they’ll return to reality, and Sasara doesn’t know how much of what’s between them will still be there. 

This night is a liminal time, detached from the paths they walk, nestled not in the past or the future or the present. They become half ghosts here, free of anything besides the other’s presence. But they’ll step back into their bodies and their lives eventually. Maybe in this dreamlike state where sleepiness and nighttime make vulnerability okay is the only time where a kiss is allowed.

Wait for me is a favor Sasara has no right to ask for. Samatoki’s life flows on without him, and who is he to stop it after what he’s done? Wait for me is a request that Samatoki would surely accept right now. But is it a promise they can carry even after tonight?

Sasara lets go of Samatoki’s hand again.

“Maybe we should sleep,” Samatoki suggests.

It doesn’t sound like a terrible idea, except for one thing: Sasara knows he won’t fare any better in attempting to sleep than he did before. He nods despite that fact and turns onto his back. Samatoki does the same.

The silence isn’t terribly awkward, considering the fact that Sasara rejected Samatoki. Again. In the same night. But even then, it feels awkward, and this room is still a constant and overbearing reminder of Samatoki.

Sasara tries not to fidget too much and unpauses the sheep in his mind to count them again. Maybe if he throws in some math equations he’ll tire quicker and fall asleep. He doesn’t know how much time passes between subtracting sheep, answering half assed math equations in his mind to count sheep, or letting the sheep merge into mega sheep in his mind, too worried of rousing Samatoki if he shifts to see the clock. 

He has to fall asleep eventually, right? Though the three mega sheep stomping around his flock of sheep probably aren’t doing him favors. He’ll just feign sleep until he gets there. It’s in this dazed state of half formed thoughts that the silence breaks again.

“Sasara?”

Samatoki’s voice is so muted that the storm outside nearly drowns it out. Sasara almost responds by instinct, always drawn to that voice once forgotten and now remembered, but he doesn’t. His lips itch for the kiss he denied himself, and the lines of thinking he combed out in the shower are a tangled mess in his mind once more. He doesn’t want to talk when he’s not sure what he’ll say.

“I know you’re awake,” Samatoki says.

Sasara doesn’t respond.

“You’re never that still when you sleep,” Samatoki continues. “You kneed me once in your sleep, y’know.”

So he definitely knows, but that doesn’t make the idea of talking seem any easier. Sasara fakes a dramatic snore and smacks Samatoki in the face.

Samatoki sputters in surprise before shoving Sasara’s arm away. “Oh, you fucker. And you never snore that loud.”

In response, Sasara moderates his snore to something softer.

“That’s closer. Seven out of ten,” Samatoki says, and Sasara doesn’t need to look to know that there’s an amused smile on his face. “Seven point five, if I’m feeling nice.”

Sasara fights the twitch of a smile at the corners of his lips.

“You also sleep with your mouth a little open,” Samatoki adds.

Sasara opens his mouth and fake snores again.

“Eight out of ten. Close your mouth a little.” Samatoki shifts on the bed with a soft rustle. “Here.”

A finger lightly presses under Sasara’s chin and closes Sasara’s mouth a little. Sasara doesn’t move, but this time it isn’t his own will that holds him in place. His breath feels barely there, and he can sense Samatoki hovering over him.

“You’d also cuddle up to me in your sleep.” Samatoki’s voice is tinged with nostalgia. “I could never get you off me in the mornings unless you were awake.”

Sasara sighs. “Damn, Samatoki, you’re brutal. Can’t a guy fake sleep in peace?”

He opens his eyes, wide enough that Samatoki can see that he’s looking at him. Fondness overflows from Samatoki’s eyes alone, but the ghost of a smile he gives Sasara nearly makes him wish he never looked at Samatoki in the first place.

“Ten out of ten,” Samatoki says.

Sasara frowns, confused. “I’m not pretending to be asleep anymore.”

“Yeah,” Samatoki leans closer, “that’s why you got the perfect score.”

Sasara smiles, but his heart aches in his chest. When was the last time Samatoki said or did something stupid or goofy like this with him? He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he last saw this side of Samatoki. He misses moments like these desperately, and he doesn’t know the next time it’ll happen again—if it’ll happen at all.

“So you can’t sleep either?” Sasara asks instead.

“Hell no.” Samatoki flops back onto the bed, and they both wince at the careless pressure on his wound.

“Yeah, me too.” Sasara pats Samatoki’s chest as Samatoki holds his side gingerly.

After the pain ebbs, Samatoki responds, “It’s just strange to have you here again.”

Sasara withdraws his hand. “In a bad way?”

“No, never,” Samatoki refutes instantly. He stares at the ceiling. “But it feels like I’m in the past again.”

“I feel that way too.” Sasara joins him in staring at the ceiling. “Am I really here? Are you? What if this is all some wishful thinking sort of dream? Like, I’ll wake up at some point and I’ll be back in Osaka.”

“If that happens, just come here when you wake up.”

“Why? So we can shout at each other again?”

“So we can end up back here again.”

Sasara looks at Samatoki. “You wouldn’t kick me out in real life?”

Samatoki looks at him blankly. “This is real life, dumbass. The answer is obviously no.”

They both look at the ceiling again.

“Okay, but hypothetically,” Sasara gestures at the air, “if this was a dream, and I woke up and went to you…”

“I might try to kick you out, but I wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re too fucking stubborn. You’d find a way to get to me every time.”

“I prefer calling that persistent.”

“Stubborn. You’re stubborn. And I can’t say no to you.”

A weight settles on Sasara’s shoulder. The smell of Samatoki’s vanilla shampoo wafts up to Sasara’s nose, and Samatoki’s hair tickles his chin. Sasara tilts his head, his cheek against the top of Samatoki’s head.

“Feeling like being honest?” he prompts.

“Yeah, something like that,” Samatoki murmurs.

“Then what are you trying to say? I can hear those words on the tip of your tongue. You’re kinda obvious like that,” Sasara teases.

“Shut up.” Samatoki swats Sasara lightly. He thinks for a few more moments. “I thought I could live with you thinking I hate you. If it meant you could forget about me and move on, because I thought things were better that way. I could’ve afforded that much. But when–I don’t know. When you actually thought I hated you and blamed you, I couldn’t let you leave like that.”

Sasara remembers Samatoki’s desperate, panicked, teary eyed expression. How, when it really comes down to it, Samatoki will always break at the idea of those he cares for not knowing that he cares. He can’t handle it.

“I could tell,” Sasara says quietly. Then, worried he said too much, he backpedals. “I mean, you looked pretty desperate back there.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Samatoki grumbles.

“Well, I stayed because of that look on your face.” Sasara lets the words sink in before adding, “I can’t say no to you either.”

Samatoki doesn’t respond: if it’s because he’s thinking or because he thinks there isn’t a need for a response, Sasara doesn’t know, but he doesn’t mind the lack of an answer. He thinks of something else to say.

“Do you think Ichiro and Kuko are getting along?”

“If they’re anything like how they used to be, then yeah,” Samatoki answers.

“That’s good,” Sasara says.

It’s easy to forget the two of them aren’t the only ones in the world like this. There were four of them before all of this, and their younger halves suffered just as much. Sasara can only hope that they’re healing better than him and Samatoki.

“Do you think they’re doing a better job with this whole… true hypnosis mic shit than us?” Samatoki asks.

“Oh, duh,” Sasara scoffs. “Of course. We’re a fucking mess, Toki.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Samatoki runs a hand over his face. “Fuck, they’ve always been better at this than us.”

“Bested by children…” Sasara chuckles. “You need to step up your game.”

“You’re a year older, and you’re getting bestied by them too,” Samatoki grumbles.

“Aw, did I touch a sore spot? Still in competition with them?” Sasara looks at Samatoki, though all he can see from this angle is Samatoki’s hair.

“I haven’t spoken to Kuko one on one in ages. Ichiro…” Samatoki trails off, a statement on its own, “hates me, probably. I don’t have time to be in competition with those brats.”

Sasara pulls away and tilts Samatoki’s face towards him. Samatoki’s gaze remains stubbornly not fixed on Sasara, but the frown and the furrow of his brows gives him away. His poor attempt to hide his hurt reminds Sasara of his own hurt. At least he’s on good terms with both Kuko and Ichiro, though he’s not close with them anymore. Samatoki, on the other hand…

“I miss them,” Sasara says.

“Huh?” Samatoki finally meets his gaze.

“Ichiro and Kuko.” Sasara grins. “Our brats, as you used to lovingly call them.”

Samatoki’s nose scrunches up. “Lovingly? Don’t bullshit me.”

“You’re the one bullshitting here. I still remember the look on your face when you called them brats!” Sasara counters.

It isn’t until after the sentence leaves his mouth that he realizes still remember isn’t an accurate phrase. He had forgotten everything once.

But Samatoki’s affection towards Ichiro and Kuko are among Sasara’s favorite memories. Whenever he did remember those moments, he clung fast to them. There are so many memories even of just walking at Samatoki’s side while Ichiro and Kuko run ahead and watching the fond expression on Samatoki’s face.

“Whatever. At least I never doted on them like you,” Samatoki says.

“Low blow!” Sasara gasps in mock offense. “I couldn’t refuse their cute lil faces!”

“Cute?” Samatoki repeats skeptically. “Ichiro, maybe, but Kuko was and still is an absolute menace.”

“Oh, c’mon, you can’t look me in the eye and say you didn’t like playing big brother with those two,” Sasara says.

“Fuck you,” Samatoki spits out after a moment of silence that proves Sasara’s point.

“I’m right!” Sasara declares smugly. “I wish they saw me like a big brother.”

“They probably did,” Samatoki says, almost reassuringly. Then he smiles. “You were just the goofy big brother and not the cool one.”

“Ohoho, so you’re implying you were the cool big brother?” Sasara asks.

Samatoki shrugs. “I totally was. Those two pushed you around way more than you could reign them in.”

“Hey! It’s not my fault I’m not tall enough to pluck Kuko off the ground!” Sasara huffs.

“Oh, shit, I forgot about that,” Samatoki snickers.

“How could you forget?” Sasara nudges Samatoki. “You used to do it all the time! Right before he ran off, you’d grab him by the collar of his jacket and pick him up!”

“He was like an angry cat.” Samatoki hums thoughtfully. “By that definition, I think I was scruffing him when I picked him up like that.”

They glance at each other and burst into laughter seemingly for no reason. Sasara leans against Samatoki and feels the tremors of laughter passing through Samatoki’s body. Sasara feels warm, happy, and safe. The whole world is contained in this room, this moment, with them. It’s like they’re young again, which sounds strange, because it’s only been two years. But sometimes two years feels like such a long time.

“We really should’ve kept up with getting you into comedy,” Sasara says.

“No way. Unless you want me to punch you way too hard in front of a crowd again?” Samatoki chuckles.

“Okay, so maybe not.” Sasara shoves Samatoki when Samatoki starts to laugh again. “But I still do think you would’ve been good at it.”

“In a different reality, maybe,” Samatoki agrees.

They trickle back into silence. The smile on Samatoki’s face shifts from happy to bittersweet.

“I miss them too,” he says.

“Oh?”

“But don’t you dare tell them that.”

“Of course. Your secrets are safe with me.” Sasara pokes Samatoki’s chest. “But maybe you should tell them that. Y’know, eventually.”

“Maybe.” 

Samatoki’s tone doesn’t give away if he’s actually considering it or not. Sasara decides not to pursue the matter.

“Hey, do you remember that ramen place we would go to all the time?” Sasara smiles.

“Oh, yeah. I remember that one.” Samatoki frowns. “I don’t remember the name though.”

“Neither do I, but I think we could find it if we were in Ikebukuro.”

“Yeah, I think so too.”

“Do you think Kuko purposefully ate more when we were paying for him?”

“Not just Kuko. Ichiro did that too. And so did you, when I was paying.” Samatoki narrows his eyes.

“Free food is free food!” Sasara says defensively.

“You’re a full grown adult, and you’re a year older than me. Pay for yourself.” Samatoki elbows him.

“Aw, don’t be like that!” Sasara pouts.

“You three freeloaded off me all the time.” Samatoki rolls his eyes. “How many times did you stay over at my place instead of going home?”

“Your place was cozier! You always had the most expensive and nice furniture.”

“That I never got to enjoy because someone would fall asleep sprawled all over my fucking bed while two brats slept on my couch.”

“I wasn’t there every night! Now you’re being dramatic. And you eventually got a pullout couch to make it more comfortable for Ichiro and Kuko to stay over.”

“I couldn’t let them sleep awkwardly forever,” Samatoki protests. “And Nemu nagged me about it too.”

“You could never say no to her about anything, could you?” Sasara teases.

Samatoki shakes his head, but a strained smile is on his face. Unable to watch, Sasara turns back to the ceiling. And as if on cue, Samatoki does the same.

“You should’ve put some glow in the dark stars up there,” Sasara declares randomly.

“Why?” Samatoki asks.

“Well, if this is how we reset whenever the conversation gets too much, I’d rather stare at glow in the dark stars than a boring and blank ceiling. We could spell something out.” Sasara draws in the air with a finger. “Or maybe some constellations would do? We could make stars out of the stars. That’d be pretty meta.”

Samatoki speaks after a slight delay. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Sasara drops his hand back to his side. He douses out the spark of hope from the idea that there could be an after, outside this hazy dreamspace of a night.

“I know I got upset when you said I hadn’t moved on when we fought,” he says quietly, “but you’re right. I do miss those days.”

“You can miss something even after you’ve moved on,” Samatoki replies. “I miss those days too. And I miss before that.”

“Before?” Sasara echoes.

“Y’know. When it was the two of us, and you were still hogging my couch instead of my bed.”

“I’m starting to feel like this is targeted. Do you want me to go sleep on the couch?”

“No, dumbass.” Samatoki smacks Sasara gently. “Stay here.”

“Alright,” Sasara says. “So what do you miss about back then?”

“I miss when we were a duo,” Samatoki answers, with a surprising amount of honesty. “You were my first partner. I never trusted anyone before I met you.”

“I know. I found you fighting all on your own, like it was you against the world,” Sasara adds.

“And then you started nagging me,” Samatoki continues. “I couldn’t shake you off. You were stubborn right from the start.”

“Well, what can I say? I’m like gum on a shoe. I really stick.”

“You had no idea how many broken bones you were signing up for.”

“I definitely didn’t.” Sasara sighs. “Mad Comic Dialogue… remember when we came up with that?”

“It’s more like you came up with it and spent the next three days trying to convince me,” Samatoki says.

“It definitely stuck though.” Sasara is the first to stop looking at the ceiling, turning his head to look at Samatoki. “You kept the ‘Mad’ part. Mad Trigger Crew.”

Samatoki looks at Sasara. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“You should give me credit,” Sasara jokes. “Fifty percent.”

“Fuck off,” Samatoki says in a not at all ‘fuck off’ tone. “I’d give you fifteen tops.”

“Twenty?” Sasara bargains.

“Fifteen,” Samatoki repeats firmly.

Sasara lets the silence drag. “Eighteen?”

Samatoki squints at him. “Seventeen.”

“Deal.” Sasara grins.

He scoots closer, and when all Samatoki gives is a cursory glance, he snuggles up to Samatoki, resting his head on Samatoki’s shoulder. Samatoki doesn’t react beyond relaxing under Sasara’s touch and shifting slightly to be more comfortable.

“Mad Comic Dialogue…” Samatoki mumbles, more to himself than Sasara, “that name faded into time. No one remembers us.”

“I remember us,” Sasara says.

Sasara sits with those words. He believes them. He remembers Samatoki and their time spent together. And with the course of time, memories may slip through the cracks, but Sasara doesn’t care for that. He didn’t lose memories to the passing of time. He didn’t lose them at all. Memories were taken from him, pried out of his fingers violently and abruptly.

But he remembers, even if it’s not everything.

“I remember us too,” Samatoki says.

“Is that enough?”

“I think so. It’s enough for me. Is it enough for you?”

“Yeah.”

‘As long as you remember me, it’s enough.’

Their hands find each other under the blanket. Sasara feels the rough bump of a callus on the side of one of Samatoki’s fingers as they slip between his. Samatoki brings their clasped hands out from under the blanket and presses his lips to the back of Sasara’s hand in a noncommittal kiss. Sasara’s stomach does Olympic level gymnastics and acrobatics, but he doesn’t pull away from it.

“I miss back then too.” Sasara rubs his thumb over Samatoki’s own as he talks. “I remember we’d get drunk at your place and pass out on the couch together.”

“So you remember me for the free alcohol?” Samatoki teases.

“No, I remember you for how much softer you get when you’re drunk.” Sasara chuckles. “It was really cute.”

“I’m not cute,” Samatoki says, very cutely.

“To me, you are,” Sasara says.

“Whatever,” Samatoki grumbles.

Sasara laughs. Samatoki is definitely way cuter than he’d like to think. Easy to tease and fluster despite his tough exterior, way more affectionate and clingy than he seems, a bright smile and even brighter laughter—the list goes on.

“What do you remember, if not our beautiful memories of hangovers on the couch with the curtains pulled shut?” Sasara asks jokingly.

“You crashing into my office every chance you got to bother me with some nonsense,” Samatoki says.

“Oh, yeah.” Sasara snaps his fingers with his free hand. “I remember that! Eventually, your guys just let me in. No questions asked.”

Samatoki shakes his head. “They were terrible security.”

“They knew me! I spent a lot of time trying to befriend them, y’know. And I did eventually become your partner in crime.” Sasara winks.

“Bet that wasn’t what you were planning when you first showed up at Ikebukuro,” Samatoki says.

“It definitely wasn’t, but I couldn’t really refuse.” Sasara stares at Samatoki’s half sleepy, half happy expression and commits it to memory. “Not when I felt like I could take on the world if I were you.”

“The world? Damn,” Samatoki clicks his tongue, “and here I was only thinking of running the city.”

“Well, okay,” Sasara flushes, “maybe not the world—”

“We might’ve been able to.”

Sasara blinks, incredulous. “Now you’re talking as wild as me.”

Samatoki merely grins. “You and me, Sasara. Do you think we could’ve left our mark on the whole world, if we had been together for a couple of decades?”

And who is Sasara if he can say no to that? The way Samatoki speaks makes him believe anything is possible, as long as they’re together. It’s that conviction again, that self assured confidence that Sasara is still bewitched by.

Still, he shakes his head. “Let’s not get too into our heads. It’d be too much grandeur for me anyway.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t really know what to do with the whole world,” Samatoki says. “Just the city would’ve been nice.”

“That, we could’ve done.” Sasara squeezes Samatoki’s hand. “We could’ve made it.”

“We would’ve made it,” Samatoki corrects. “If it were the two of us.”

Sasara studies Samatoki’s hand in his, Samatoki’s slow heartbeat in one ear. ‘We would’ve made it.’

“I wonder if we could’ve lasted forever, if nothing had happened to us,” Sasara whispers.

He feels Samatoki shake his head. It’s not the answer he wants to hear, but he ignores the slight twinge of hurt.

“Nothing lasts forever,” Samatoki murmurs.

“What happened to your high and mighty act? You think someone would’ve come along and dethroned us?” Sasara asks.

“No. But maybe we’d grow tired of the city.”

“So you’d give it up?”

“Maybe. Would you?”

Sasara hums thoughtfully. “Probably during some midlife crisis.”

Samatoki huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“I would travel the world and then settle down in some nice home still riding off the wealth we would’ve made,” Sasara says. “I might be in my mid forties at that point.”

“You’d settle down and live by yourself?” Samatoki asks.

“No.” Sasara looks up at Samatoki. “You would’ve been there with me.”

He blurts out the words before he can rethink them and freezes. It’s way too bold of a claim. What is he thinking? Even if this was a hypothetical, he suggested the idea of essentially growing old together like some domestic married couple. Shit, is it too late to somehow take that back?

“I guess I wouldn’t be opposed to traveling the world and settling down,” Samatoki says.

Sasara relaxes. “What a nice future that would’ve been, hm?”

He tries to imagine it. A life with Samatoki, away from thrill or crime or anything of the sort. Maybe they could live in some overlooked corner of the world, where nothing and no one could ever come between them. They’d live peacefully and happily, and Sasara knows he would still love Samatoki in a life like that.

“You could still travel the world,” Samatoki says. “I’m sure being some big hit comedian is giving you a lot of money.”

“I could,” Sasara agrees. “You could also still try to take the whole city.”

“I could.” Samatoki’s voice carries the air of a smile. “Rio and Jyuto are pretty strong, after all.”

“And they have a good leader, don’t they?” Sasara adds.

Samatoki huffs. “Damn right they do.”

Sasara doesn’t think of the future often; he’s more of a go-with-the-flow sort of guy. But the idea of traveling the world doesn’t quite feel as appealing if he were to do it alone, or with someone besides Samatoki. 

Ultimately, the futures they’re suggesting are separate ones. Though Sasara acknowledges it over and over, it’s difficult to think of a reality where their futures are roads in opposite directions as they currently are.

Sure, as things are now, they could say hi to each other at the next DRB or maybe occasionally meet and catch up, but that isn’t what Sasara wants. He doesn’t want a distant friendship that stays afloat on nostalgia alone. He doesn’t want his relationship with Samatoki to be the kind where they can barely hold a conversation for a few minutes when they could talk for hours in the past.

He wants a future where they’re close, in any sense of the word. But he can’t ask for it.

“So, Rio and Jyuto.” Sasara changes the subject. “How’d that happen?”

“Hm?”

“Like, how’d you guys make a group?”

“After Jyuto had a drug bust, I approached him and offered that we’d team up,” Samatoki explains. “He’d get me out of jail, I’d help raise his status in the police department by giving him intel. He accepted.”

“And Rio?” Sasara prompts.

“Jyuto met him first and thought we should recruit him so we could participate in the DRB. We didn’t have the best start… but it worked out.” Samatoki’s voice is fond.

“As in, you totally adore them, but you’ll never say that?” Sasara teases.

“I wouldn’t tell them directly,” Samatoki admits. “Especially not Jyuto. Not often, at least.”

“But you must care for them a lot,” Sasara says.

“I do,” Samatoki says. “They’re loyal. We’re in it together now. They’re my partners.”

“Like how we used to be,” Sasara muses.

Samatoki hesitates. “No, not really.”

“Why not?” Sasara asks.

“I feel differently about them compared to you is all,” Samatoki says.

Sasara doesn’t respond. He turns the words over in his mind, dissecting what it could mean. What’s the difference? He shifts, moving to rest his head on Samatoki’s pillow, so close their noses almost bump when Samatoki looks at him.

“Like you care for them more than you cared about me back then?” Sasara guesses.

“Why do you make the worst assumptions?” Samatoki scoffs. “I care for Jyuto and Rio as much as I cared for you back then. One isn’t better than the other.”

“Then what’s the difference?” Sasara asks.

“It’s nothing, really. I just…” Samatoki trails off, his hand brushing through Sasara’s hair before it settles on Sasara’s cheek, “cared for you a little differently than I’ve cared for anyone else.”

There’s so much tender fondness in Samatoki’s voice and touch that Sasara nearly cries again. How can Samatoki look at him like that, after everything? Like nothing happened—no, because of what happened. It’s not like Samatoki’s ignoring everything that ruined them in the past. Samatoki is choosing to still care, despite everything.

Sasara wants to ask why me? but he doesn’t think he’s ready for the answer. He doesn’t want to see the depths of how much Samatoki cares. The weight of Samatoki’s feelings is never a burden, but it’s something Sasara can’t hold. He isn’t deserving of it.

Samatoki withdraws his hand, but the warmth lingers a little longer.

“And how about you?” Samatoki asks.

“Huh?” Sasara’s heart leaps into his throat: is Samatoki asking how he feels?

“Rosho and Rei,” Samatoki elaborates. “How’d you guys team up?”

“Oh.” Sasara pushes off his disappointment with a smile. “Funny story, actually!”

“I’m not sure if I trust your idea of funny.” Samatoki eyes him.

“I’m going to graciously ignore that,” Sasara says. “Basically, Rei ran this multi level marketing scheme—”

“He what,” Samatoki interrupts.

“He ran a multi level marketing scheme,” Sasara repeats. “Listen properly. And he roped Rosho into it and one of my colleagues too! He also lied to one of Rosho’s students about being a talent scout… When me and Rosho found out, we fought him but he kinda wiped the floor with us. But! We worked together and managed to beat him! And, well, one thing led to another and we formed a group.”

“I feel like you’re skipping something important here,” Samatoki says slowly. “One thing led to another and you teamed up with a conman?”

“I’d say it’s pretty on brand.” Sasara grins. “I’ve teamed up with yakuza, after all. I’d say a conman is even a downgrade!”

“You trust too easily,” Samatoki mutters.

“I wouldn’t say that.” Sasara waves his hand dismissively. “I just follow what seems the most interesting.”

“And did it work out for you?” Samatoki asks.

“Yeah! I love Rosho and Rei a lot. We go out drinking sometimes and stuff, so I think we’re all pretty close.”

“That’s good.”

“But it’s the same as you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I care for them a lot, but I cared for you differently.”

“Even now?”

Sasara doesn’t know how to answer that. The answer is obviously yes—he did admit that he wants to kiss Samatoki earlier after all—but he isn’t ready to admit it out loud. Neither of them seem to be. They’ve danced around their words, indirectly confessing, but to speak feelings into existence is far too daunting of a task.

“I just want you to know that you’re not a second choice for me,” Sasara says.

“Fuck, don’t bring that up.” Samatoki pulls away, finally breaking their hand hold, and turns away from Sasara. “It’s embarrassing that I even said that shit.”

“No, it isn’t.” Sasara reaches out and touches Samatoki’s shoulder. “Samatoki, look at me.”

Samatoki doesn’t respond.

“Toki,” Sasara says. “There’s nothing wrong with what you said.”

Samatoki slowly looks back at him. Sasara carefully runs his fingers through Samatoki’s hair, tucking a few stray strands behind Samatoki’s ear. He gives his best reassuring smile.

“There’s nothing wrong with what you said,” he repeats. He drops his hand back to the pillow. “I’m sorry I made you feel that way.”

“It’s not your fault, Sasara,” Samatoki says. “Stop apologizing about everything.”

How is it not his fault? Samatoki feels like he isn’t enough. Doesn’t that mean Sasara failed to express his love properly? If Samatoki could even begin to understand Sasara’s feelings, surely he wouldn’t have that doubt anymore. If Samatoki could see himself the way Sasara sees him, there would never be a second of the day when he feels anything besides worthy and beautiful and perfect. If only Samatoki knew how he felt—how he still feels to this very moment.

“Okay. So it’s not my fault,” Sasara says. “But I still want you to know that you’re not a second choice to me. You never were.”

Samatoki turns his head away again, staring at the wall across from the bed. “Then what was I?”

The dozens of answers Sasara could give clogs his throat. He swallows what he can’t bring himself to say, and answers the best he can.

“You were my partner,” he starts. “And my best friend. The person I felt safest with and trusted more than anyone else. You weren’t second to anybody, I promise.”

After a few moments, Samatoki turns back around to face Sasara. It isn’t until he grimaces painfully that Sasara realizes he was putting pressure on his wound by facing away from him. And then probably was too stubborn to turn around even if it hurt. ‘What an idiot.’ Sasara smiles fondly.

“Okay, I believe you,” Samatoki says.

“Good,” Sasara says. “Because it’s true.”

Samatoki smiles, and they don’t say anything more. They’re quiet for a while, and Sasara watches as Samatoki’s eyes close as he snuggles into the blanket more. He assumes Samatoki dozed off until Samatoki opens his eyes slightly, glints of red in the gray rainy night.

“Sasara?” Samatoki mumbles.

“Mhm?”

“You said you couldn’t remember me for a bit, after the true hypnosis mic.”

“Yeah… I wasn’t lying to make you let me stay if that’s what—”

“You seriously always make the worst assumptions.” Samatoki lets out a gusty sigh. “No, that’s not it. I was wondering… what was the first thing you remembered about me? Or what memory came to you first?”

“Wellllllll,” Sasara wades through his memories, “it was a while ago. I’m not sure if this is really the first thing I remembered, but the earliest one I can think of…I think I remembered it in a dream?”

“Does sleeping help you remember things? I’m noticing a trend here,” Samatoki says.

“Maybe?” Sasara shrugs. “Sleeping could like… help me tap into my unconsciousness or something… Whatever. Point is, I had a dream of a memory. I didn’t realize it was a memory until later, but it was of that time I got that scar on my shoulder.”

“The one you whined about for weeks?” Samatoki asks.

“I didn’t whine!” Sasara argues. “But yeah, that one. I dreamt about when it finally healed, and I took off the bandages. Or, well, you did.”

“It was your first scar, right?” Samatoki slips his fingers under the collar of Sasara’s shirt.

He traces the shape of the scar perfectly from beginning to end, through memory alone. He still remembers. Sasara swallows a sudden lump in his throat.

“Yeah, it was,” he says, but his voice shakes slightly. Before Samatoki can point it out, he continues, “I asked you if I looked cooler. Remember that?”

“Yeah.” Samatoki traces over the scar one more time before pulling away. “And I told you it wasn’t cool if you got a scar from someone you couldn’t take down on your own.”

Sasara remembers that too. They were in the bathroom, in front of the mirror, and Sasara watched Samatoki’s reflection carefully peel back his bandages. When Samatoki said those words, he looked at Sasara through the mirror and smiled. Then he followed that sentence with a quiet chuckle.

At that point, after receiving his first scar and realizing how much danger he could end up in, Sasara was doubting his decision to stay. It was only slight, but it was the first time he really thought of how far he derailed from his original plans and what exactly he was walking into. But when he saw that smile, heard that laugh, he forgot it all. He wanted to stay. He was sure of it.

That’s how he remembers it, at least, but he doesn’t always trust memories. Not anymore.

Yet he wants to believe the warmth and affection he recalls is real. He wants to believe that Samatoki also felt those blooming feelings at that moment. He wants to believe that after they had stepped out of the bathroom, and he felt a soft brush over his skin, it was a phantom of a kiss that Samatoki placed on his scar, as if blessing or worshiping it. It could’ve just been the brief skimming of fingertips. But Sasara wants it to have been a kiss. He wants it to have been love.

Instead of mentioning any of those thoughts, Sasara dramatically throws his hand to his forehead. “Oh, but how could I even try to retaliate when my knight in shining armor was on my assailant before I could even blink, Toki?”

He bats his eyelashes for further emphasis, then laughs as Samatoki shoves him.

“It pissed me off that he hurt you,” Samatoki grumbles.

“I know,” Sasara says. “I just didn’t point it out back then because I didn’t think you were ready to admit that. So I just rolled with it.”

Samatoki huffs. “Don’t coddle me.”

“I never did.” Sasara ponders over his next words. “But it was obvious that you’d never worked with anyone before so I had to be clingy but not too pushy, y’know? I didn’t want to upset you too much or step over any boundaries I wasn’t aware of.”

“You were putting more thought into befriending me than I thought,” Samatoki says. “But by the time your first scar healed, I already thought of you as my partner.”

“Really?” Sasara asks.

“Yeah.” Samatoki rolls his eyes. “Why else do you think I beat the shit out of the guy who hurt you?”

Sasara touches his scar, traces over it the way Samatoki did a short while ago. He smiles to himself.

“I think I like this scar a little more now,” he says quietly.

Samatoki groans. “That’s cheesy.”

“Says the one who liked me so much he nearly killed the guy who gave me a little slash on the shoulder,” Sasara retorts.

“Well, you made it seem so much worse in the moment!” Samatoki counters. “You acted like you just got stabbed!”

“But it hurt! I hadn’t been slashed by a knife before, y’know!” Sasara pouts.

“Which is exactly why that isn’t a scar that makes you cool,” Samatoki says smugly. “You were still such a wimp.”

“Okay, fine!” Sasara exclaims. “You win that round. But now I’m cool, right? I’ve got a bunch more scars and the other guys had it worse… most of the time.”

He strikes what he deems a cool pose. Samatoki wordlessly stares at him. At first, Sasara assumes he’s unamused, but it drags out longer than that. ‘Did I say something wrong?’

“Do you like those scars?” Samatoki asks.

“Yeah!” Sasara answers without pause. “I think they make me look pretty badass.”

“You don’t regret them at all?” Samatoki presses.

“Regret them?” Sasara frowns. “No, why would I?”

Samatoki doesn’t answer the question. “Wouldn’t it be better to not have them?”

“Why?” Sasara feels a sense of dread.

“I don’t know.” Samatoki shrugs.

“Yes, you do,” Sasara says.

Samatoki bites his lip and lowers his gaze, silent. It’s a small, fragile silence.

Sasara takes Samatoki’s wrist in his hand and slides his fingers up a little higher. He brushes over a scar on the inside of Samatoki’s arm that he’s seen so many times in memories he struggled to recall in salvaged pieces.

“Talk to me, Toki,” Sasara says gently. “It’s okay. I promise.”

He doesn’t say anything more. He’s sure Samatoki heard him. Samatoki’s eyes flit to his then away uncertainly, as if his thoughts are scattered across the room and he has to gather them. Sasara waits patiently and hopes Samatoki still trusts him enough to say something.

“For one,” Samatoki begins, his voice measured into neutrality, “people would ask questions if they ever saw your scars. Maybe one or two on the arms is fine, but what about the rest of them? How do you explain that?”

People have questioned Sasara’s scars before. When Sasara first woke up back in Osaka without memories, he often forgot to worry about covering any scars. He doesn’t have too many on his arms, but he has enough to raise questions from his manager when he first reconnected with them to get back into comedy, for example. If anyone asked about them, he would brush it off with a terrible pun and very obviously change of subject.

Once he knew why he had the scars he did, he didn’t bother as much with excuses. It’s a secret, he’d say with a wink. He didn’t care what people speculated if he didn’t supply a reason. It probably can’t be worse than the truth.

Samatoki snaps him out of his thoughts when he continues to speak. “If you hadn’t gotten involved with me, you wouldn’t have any scars. Or you wouldn’t have as many. Those scars… don’t they show a bad part of your life? Being a criminal? Or some shit like that. Whatever.”

Sasara bites back his instant emotional response. It’s upsetting to know that Samatoki thinks he would be ashamed of his scars when he knows where they come from. His time with Samatoki was far from a bad part of his life. But this moment is about comforting Samatoki, not having an emotional reaction.

Sasara clears his throat. “No. These scars show the part of my life I spent with you. And that’s important, y’know? Think about it this way: if I didn’t have so many scars, maybe I wouldn’t have tried so hard to remember what happened when my memories got taken away. I think it’s nice. Having something that showed I was different.”

Samatoki smiles. “I don’t know. You look like you went back to being a softie.”

“You don’t know that!” Sasara huffs. “I could be ready to bust out some killer punches right now!”

“Are you?” Samatoki asks in amusement.

“Nah, not now,” Sasara pauses. “But I still have some killer punchlines.”

“Oh, fuck you.” Samatoki hides his smile behind his hand.

“But seriously,” Sasara lowers his voice, “I like the scars. I wouldn’t mind getting more scars if I get to spend more time with you. I don’t care about any of that. I wouldn’t trade the time I spent with you for anything in the world, even if it meant we’d be separated again and again—”

Samatoki covers Sasara’s mouth with his hand. “Holy shit, cut it out.”

His voice shakes when he speaks, and his eyes are shinier than usual in the dim light of the moon coming out (when had the rain gone down to a drizzle? and when had it started to get lighter outside?). They pause in this position for a few seconds, Samatoki’s hand sealing off anything else Sasara can say.

“Sorry,” Sasara blurts out when Samatoki moves his hand away. “Did I say too much?”

“No, I–Fuck.” Samatoki rubs his eyes. “It’s just. It… means a lot, I guess. But… y’know.”

Sasara isn’t sure he knows, but he nods anyway. Then he shakes his head.

“I don’t know, actually. Tell me?” Sasara hesitates then adds on, “Only if you want to.”

“Ugh.” Samatoki looks away. “Do you want me to start crying?”

The prospect of Samatoki crying is a bit terrifying. When Samatoki nearly cried while they fought, it froze Sasara in place. It made him stay even when all he wanted to do was run away. The hold that Samatoki has on him is dangerous, and seeing any amount of pain on Samatoki’s face always makes Sasara feel lost.

Had he even seen Samatoki cry before? His memories say no, but his memories could be incomplete. Maybe he has, and he doesn’t remember. In that case, what did he do in the past? Did he once memorize all the right words and touches to make Samatoki feel okay again? Or was he as lost on what to do as he feels now?

“If they’re not sad tears, yes,” Sasara says. “And even if they’re sad tears, you should let them out sometimes. It’s better for you that way.”

Samatoki lets out a long sigh and shifts to stare at the ceiling. Sasara doesn’t copy him, staying on his side and watching Samatoki stare off into the distance. His hands itch to reach out, but he keeps to himself.

“I… still dream about you sometimes,” Samatoki admits. “It’s few and far between these days, but you’re always there, Sasara. And sometimes I have really bad dreams about what happened.”

Sasara sits up. “I—”

“Let me finish first.” Samatoki’s gaze flits to him briefly.

Please is left unsaid, but Sasara hears it in the forming tears in Samatoki’s eyes and the slight tremble of Samatoki’s lip.

“Other times I dreamt that you would,” Samatoki takes a deep breath, “come back and apologize. Say you didn’t mean it. And that you cared for me.”

‘Oh.’ Sasara feels his heart start to ache.

“Like I’m doing right now?” Sasara asks softly.

“Yeah.” Samatoki nods and wipes his eyes again. “And the reminiscing, and talking about what could’ve been, and you saying I wasn’t a second choice to anyone–that’s all bad enough… but when you say that you would still–that you do still care that much… I—”

He sniffles, the tears finally spilling faster than he can wipe them away. He digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. The deep breath he tries to take breaks down into the start of a sob which he reels back in. He gives up trying to wipe his tears away and stares at the ceiling as suppressed crying shakes his shoulders.

“I want to believe you so badly, Sasara,” Samatoki whispers, his voice raw and trembling.

“Then believe me.” Sasara gently holds Samatoki’s face in his hands and wipes the tears from Samatoki’s eyes. “I meant every word. I promise.”

‘I love you,’ he thinks. ‘I love you, I love you, I love you. I love you so much.’ But he doesn’t know if saying those words will make things better or worse. He combs his fingers through Samatoki’s hair and waits until Samatoki looks at him.

“You mean so much to me.” Sasara continues to wipe away the tears as they spill. “Why do you think I showed up at your doorstep at 4am in the rain? And cried when I realized how much what happened had hurt you?”

He scoots up until he’s sitting by Samatoki’s shoulder and leans over Samatoki, cradling Samatoki’s face in his hands. Samatoki’s tears are slowing, but he’s nonetheless still crying. It shakes Sasara to see Samatoki like this. He remembers Samatoki being vulnerable in the past, during private and quiet moments like this, but seeing Samatoki cry is different.

It isn’t until now that Sasara realizes how much Samatoki was an anchor for him. When he showed up in Ikebukuro, uncertain and slightly lost, he latched onto Samatoki and never quite let go. It’s easier to move forward when it’s with someone else. Sure, he was there whenever Samatoki needed someone to lean on, but he has no memory of holding Samatoki as he falls apart like this.

He’s half made, nowhere near an anchor like Samatoki is. But if he’s enough as he is, he’d happily be the one who helps Samatoki fall apart and then come back together.

“You’re important to me,” Sasara says. “I’m different when I’m with you, y’know?”

“Different?” Samatoki repeats. “For better or for worse?”

“For better and for worse,” Sasara declares.

Samatoki smiles through his tears. “I could say the same. For better and for worse.”

“That’s good to know,” Sasara murmurs. He lightly pats Samatoki’s face. “And, just so y’know, if it was my choice I would’ve stayed with you. Through the better and through the worse.”

“I know.” Samatoki takes one of Sasara’s hands in his. “I know. You would’ve been there through the best and the worst. And I would’ve been there for your best and worst too.”

“I would’ve,” Sasara says.

‘I still could, if you want me to.’

They grin at each other, and it truly feels like one of the old days. There’s nostalgia lingering in the corners of their sentences, underlying hope in their words. It hangs in the air faintly, like a blur in peripheral vision. Sasara wants to find it, grasp it, return to a different time where they could’ve stayed together.

He can’t. Things are different now, and they can’t take that back.

But maybe that’s okay. Maybe things being different isn’t the worst that could happen. After all, he’s still here, and Samatoki is too. That’s all that’s needed. They’re both here. Breathing and alive.

“Hey.” Samatoki pokes Sasara’s side. “Lay back down. We should really get some sleep.”

He follows that with a yawn strong enough to push more tears out of his eyes. As if that were a signal, tiredness slams into Sasara’s body like stepping under a waterfall. He yawns and lays down.

“We got so side tracked talking,” Sasara mumbles.

“Even coffee isn’t going to help this…” Samatoki sighs. “I’m sleeping in until the afternoon.”

“I’ll brew you coffee as an apology,” Sasara offers. “If I wake up first.”

“I don’t need another apology,” Samatoki says. “But I’ll take the coffee.”

They’re back where they started. Side by side, staring up at the blank ceiling. It really would look better if there were some glow in the dark stars.

Sleep tugs at Sasara’s vision, but he doesn’t want this to end. This is the most honest either of them have been, a rare window of opportunity for things to be said. When they wake up, it won’t be the same as this dreamy nighttime. The day will banish the air of vulnerability and timelessness. Is there something else he has to say? Something else he has to know?

Sasara’s brain churns until it hits a screeching halt on a thought. He sucks in a deep breath and lets it out through his teeth.

“Samatoki?”

“Hm?”

“Can I ask you one last thing?”

“What is it?”

“You don’t have to answer. You told me a lot already. But… back then…” Sasara dithers, long enough that maybe Samatoki thinks he’s decided not to speak, “why didn’t you fight back?”

The question falls like a deadweight between them, loaded with so many emotions that Sasara isn’t sure what he’s feeling anymore. When he turns to look at Samatoki, Samatoki is already staring at him. Samatoki turns back to the ceiling, but it’s clear he’s thinking.

Sasara waits with bated breath for what kind of explanation Samatoki would give. This question has haunted him since he woke up in a sweat hours earlier, having relived everything in a dream.

“I guess I could say that I was shocked,” Samatoki says. “That it didn’t cross my mind to do anything because I was too surprised by everything you were saying. My reality was being turned upside down, y’know? And I was confused. And hurt. And lost.”

“Oh.” Sasara grips the blanket tightly.

“And before you apologize again,” Samatoki holds Sasara’s gaze firmly before he continues, “I don’t blame you.”

“Okay,” Sasara says, and he means it a bit more this time.

Samatoki turns back to the ceiling. “I could say I was too thrown off to remember to get back on my feet and fight back. By the time I really processed what happened, you were already gone.”

Sasara closes his eyes. He remembers that all too well. Leaving when he didn’t really want to. Deep down, a part of him was still trying to fight back, begging him to turn back around and fix this before it was too late. But that part of him was too small, too weak to do anything. Which isn’t his fault—or so he tries to believe—but it still feels like Samatoki should blame him.

“But saying any of that wouldn’t be the full truth,” Samatoki chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. “Maybe I loved you too much.”

The words slam the air out of Sasara’s lungs.

“I couldn’t bring myself to hurt you, Sasara.” Samatoki looks at him again, his expression a strange mix of affection and pain. “Not seriously. Not like that. I can’t look at you and then fight against you. Which is fucking pathetic for someone who claims he’s tough shit, but I couldn’t. I still can’t.”

Sasara’s vision blurs with tears, but he can see the kind smile on Samatoki’s face.

“You squeezed yourself into my life,” Samatoki says. “There’s no way I could change how I felt, dumbass.”

Sasara rubs his eyes. “Really?”

“Do you think I’d be lying right now?” Samatoki’s hands grab Sasara’s own.

He pulls Sasara’s hands away from his face and wipes his tears away. Sasara only cries more at the gentle gesture.

“But you…” he struggles for a breath. “You said maybe you…”

“Yeah,” Samatoki says. “I did.”

“Me too,” Sasara mumbles.

“I know. You said it way earlier when you were crying on the couch,” Samatoki says.

“Don’t remind me,” Sasara groans. “God, I’ve been doing nothing but crying all night, huh?”

“Maybe.” Samatoki flicks Sasara’s forehead. “So get it together. I don’t remember my partner being such a crybaby.”

“Then maybe you’re remembering wrong,” Sasara grumbles, rubbing his forehead.

“What I mean is,” Samatoki pats Sasara’s shoulder, “you’re fine. I’m fine. We’re fine. So there’s nothing to cry over, okay?”

We’re fine.

Are they? Are they fine? Sasara isn’t sure if that’s true, but it’s also all he wants to hear from Samatoki. If Samatoki, who makes him feel like he can take on the world, says they’re fine, then maybe they can be fine.

“Yeah,” Sasara says belatedly, wiping away his tears. “Okay. Just give me a second.”

Samatoki nods and sits up. He grabs the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand and opens a drawer to fish out a lighter. Sasara watches the lighter glow in the dim room, illuminating Samatoki’s face in burnt gold, before a thin orange line of a lit cigarette being burned through replaces it.

The cigarette stays between Samatoki’s lips, and he drops his hand away. He doesn’t lay back down even after a few minutes, staring off into the distance.

“What happened to going to sleep?” Sasara asks.

“I need a smoke,” Samatoki talks around the cigarette, smoke bleeding out of his lips. “All this vulnerable shit is bothersome.”

“You mean difficult?”

“Annoying.”

“Challenging?”

“You’re lucky I don’t have the heart to kick you out,” Samatoki scoffs.

“Yeah, yeah. You let me in like a stray cat,” Sasara says. “I promise I won’t overstay my welcome.”

Samatoki turns to look at him, the most blank look on his face.

“What?” Sasara asks, slightly self conscious.

“Overstay your welcome?” Samatoki repeats slowly.

“Yeah…?” Sasara says uncertainly.

“You–” Samatoki pinches the bridge of his nose. “Ugh. Y’know what? Whatever.”

“Wait, what is it?” Sasara props himself up on his elbows. “Don’t just say that!”

“It’s nothing,” Samatoki mutters. “Forget about it.”

“Samatoki!”

“Shut up.”

Samatoki takes another drag of his cigarette, slow and long, and releases it even more slowly. The smoke drifts upwards gently and vanishes in swooping tendrils. Then another drag, this time released through a heavy sigh through the nose.

“You can come over again sometime,” Samatoki says suddenly. “Just, y’know, a more reasonable hour and a warning at least a day in advance would be nice.”

“Right,” Sasara says.

It’s a promise. He and Samatoki, maybe—but does he deserve it?

“I could… tell you the things I remember.” Samatoki blows out the cigarette smoke in the general direction of the window. It might not help much, with the still air and damp drizzle. “Maybe it’ll help you remember more things, if you’re still forgetting. Or something. I don’t fucking know.”

“That’d be nice, Samatoki,” Sasara says softly.

Samatoki shrugs in a poor attempt at indifference. He flops back down, slides an arm under Sasara’s neck and over his shoulders. It’s such a casual touch, and it makes Sasara’s heart ache.

“There is something you promised.” Samatoki takes a drag, releases it. “From before, I mean. Maybe you remember it.”

“What did I promise?” Sasara tilts his head slightly to peek at Samatoki’s face from the corner of his eye.

“You had to leave for a few days. You never told me where to or for what reason, but it seemed important,” Samatoki says.

He stretches out one arm to tap the ashes off his cigarette on the ashtray. Sasara digs through his memories in the meantime, but he doesn’t recall it. Maybe he’ll remember someday, or maybe he never will.

Samatoki’s voice is quieter when he speaks again. “You promised me you’d come back.”

He doesn’t look at Sasara, lost in the memory. Sasara feels that terrible guilt again, so strongly he feels undeserving to even lay next to Samatoki.

“And you did come back after a few days,” Samatoki continues after a long pause. “Just like you promised. I missed you, and I think you knew that. You made another promise that day because of it.”

“What did I promise?” Sasara asks. “I… don’t remember.”

“It’s okay. It probably wasn’t a big deal for you, so you might not have remembered even if you kept your memories. But you told me that if you ever wandered off, you’d come back again.” Samatoki finally meets Sasara’s gaze again. “You kept that promise, at least. Even if you don’t remember it. And that promise was the most important one to me.”

“I guess I did,” Sasara murmurs. “Sorry for the delay.”

“Just make it up to me.” Samatoki pulls Sasara closer. “If you stayed away for two years, you better stay for at least two more.”

‘Don’t cry again, Sasara. Come on. Keep it together.’ But it’s easier said than done when Samatoki is asking him to stay, giving permission for Sasara to find a space in his life again. The idea of being too greedy terrifies Sasara, but Samatoki is letting him.

Letting the morning come and leaving this dreamlike night doesn’t seem so terrible now, knowing that something is waiting on the other side.

Sasara laughs. “I forgot how clingy you are, Toki! Two years, huh? I wouldn’t mind that.”

Samatoki snubs out his cigarette, though he’s barely gone through it. His grip on Sasara tightens minutely. He takes a deep breath.

“If you don’t mind that long, how long would you stay?”

‘Forever.’

“As long as you want me to be around, I’ll be here,” Sasara says.

Samatoki frowns. “How long do you want to stay?”

“As long as I can.” Sasara pulls away from Samatoki’s embrace to hold up his pinky. “I pinky promise.”

“What are we? Five?” Samatoki huffs but hooks his pinky around Sasara’s own.

“There. My promise is sealed.” Sasara grins. “I’m staying for as long as I can, so it’ll be hard for you to get rid of me.”

He knows his promise is vague. There’s so much more he can say. He could say he wants to stay forever, that there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. All these mini confessions and indirect professions of love. But he’s scared. He doesn’t feel worthy. He doesn’t want to be greedy.

He can’t ask for more when Samatoki’s already given so much. He should be content and happy with the fact Samatoki even wants him around at all, after everything. He’s been asked to stay, so he’ll stay. But only with the boundaries Samatoki sets. He won’t ask for more.

Coming here to reconnect and salvage what he can is one thing, but taking a new step forward into such a territory when he’s not even sure Samatoki wants—

“I think I still love you, Sasara.”

When he’s not even sure Samatoki wants to—wait, what.

Sasara is sure he’s giving Samatoki what must be the stupidest look to ever grace mankind. He couldn’t have heard that right, yet everything points to the fact he did. Samatoki is staring at him intently, awaiting an answer. He looks nervous, and Sasara thinks he can feel Samatoki fidgeting. So Sasara heard it right.

He sucks in a deep breath, holds it, lets it out slowly. He doesn’t know what to say, his mind playing the sentence on loop without fully processing it. But there’s only one answer to that. There’s only ever been one answer.

“I think I still love you too, Samatoki,” Sasara says, a little breathlessly.

Neither of them relax at his answer, staring at each other.

Sasara grabs Samatoki’s face, clear in the brightening sky outside, and drags him into a kiss. As if he unfroze them both, Samatoki grabs at Sasara’s shirt to pull him closer and returns the kiss just as intensely. Sasara melts into the kiss he’s been craving since the first time they nearly kissed on the couch.

He can give himself this, can’t he? Isn’t he allowed to have this? Have Samatoki in this way?

The guilt that he carries is still present, but it’s distant. He deserves this. It’s not his fault, and he deserves this.

Samatoki tastes like the cigarette he just smoked, and it’s not a bad thing. It’s exactly how Sasara always imagined kissing Samatoki would be like. Smokey and warm. Sasara slips his hands down to Samatoki’s neck, tangling his fingers in Samatoki’s hair.

They break away from the kiss. Sasara touches his lips and blinks. Oh. He really did that. All those years of pining, since the moment he laid eyes on Samatoki. The giddy feelings of years ago, the guilt laden ones of the present—they all led to this moment. It’s over. Just like that. Sasara chuckles quietly to himself.

“I don’t know what you’re giggling about, but giggle about it later.” Samatoki leans in again. “I’m a bit busy kissing you right now.”

Sasara tries to contain his giggles, but does a poor job. They bubble out of him, small bursts of joy spilling out of his mouth. He eventually feels Samatoki smiling against his lips. Samatoki pulls back and rests his forehead against Sasara’s own.

“What the fuck are you laughing over?” Samatoki asks.

“I don’t know.” Sasara grins. “I’m just… really happy. So happy. Super duper happy.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Samatoki sighs.

Even with the sigh, it’s said so fondly, and he looks like he wouldn’t want to hear anything else from Sasara at the moment. He places a shy kiss on Sasara’s nose. Sasara cups Samatoki’s face in his hands again, kisses Samatoki’s forehead, then ruffles Samatoki’s hair so his bangs fall over his eyes again.

“You little shit!” Samatoki returns the favor, though the most he can do is make Sasara’s hair frizzy.

“Sorry, sorry!” Sasara laughs. “I like your old hairstyle, but you look cute like this too.”

“Oh, shut up,” Samatoki grumbles, flustered.

Sasara reigns in his laughter and notices the blend of colors in the sky outside the window when he looks over Samatoki’s shoulder.

“It’s sunrise already,” he says.

“You’re kidding.” Samatoki turns his head and groans. “We stayed up all night?”

“Well, to be fair, I only arrived at 4am,” Sasara points out.

Samatoki turns back to Sasara, backlit by the warm gold of sunrise. He looks ethereal like this, when the sunshine crowns his head with tinges of fire. A small smile tugs on his lips, and his usually sharp red eyes are soft.

Upon seeing Samatoki’s warm expression, Sasara feels that guilt slide further away, to the point he can’t even sense it in the distance. He thinks it’s okay to let himself be forgiven.

The feeling that’s left over without the guilt, now that Sasara can describe. He knows exactly what it feels like and has felt it before. It’s nothing like returning home, but it’s not that far off either.

It’s like making a new home.

That feeling of uncertainty, the unsureness in which one might carry themselves as they move to a new house. Old things come along, but the idea of home is temporarily gone. In its place is the idea of possibility.

And that possibility is before Sasara right now, in the shape of Aohitsugi Samatoki. It could go as badly as it did last time, or it could be what they had both wanted in the past and still want now.

Even with that new possibility, this feels nostalgic.

It reminds Sasara of when he first arrived at Ikebukuro years ago—impulsive, uncertain, and hopeful. And like then, Samatoki is a promise of some sort of excitement that Sasara will find himself happily entangled in. Sasara looks at Samatoki and he sees someone he can one day call home again. They’re not there yet, but they could be.

They can be happy this time. Sasara believes that. He just needs to take the chance.

He presses one final kiss to Samatoki’s lips.

“I bet Ichiro and Kuko haven’t gotten together yet,” Samatoki muses.

“Why are you bringing that up now?” Sasara raises an eyebrow.

“Why?” Samatoki grins smugly. “Because we beat those little shits to the finish line, duh.”

Sasara pauses, then bursts out laughing. “You’re so petty!”

“Oh. shut up!” Samatoki punches Sasara lightly. “I know it feels good for you too.”

“You got me there.” Sasara rolls onto his back and points at the ceiling. “Take that, Ichiro and Kuko! We got together first!”

“We fucking win!” Samatoki cheers.

They break down into laughter together, eventually deteriorating into sleepy giggles. The exhaustion washes over them, and they find themselves reaching for each other until they’re in each other’s arms.

“So what now?” Sasara asks.

“We go to sleep,” Samatoki murmurs.

“Yeah, that’s a good idea.” Sasara yawns.

“You’ll still be making me coffee when I wake up?” Samatoki runs his fingers through Sasara’s hair.

“I suppose I have to,” Sasara sighs. “I already said I would.”

“Exactly,” Samatoki agrees.

“And after that?”

“Hm?”

“What are we doing after that?” Sasara pauses. “In the future, I mean? With all this?”

Samatoki hums sleepily. “We can figure it out after we wake up.”

That’s true. They have all the time in the world now. The sunrise pulls back the curtain of their dreamscape of a night together. But even in reality, they’re still here. Together again. No, together in a different way.

They’re starting a new journey, and Sasara wants to see every chapter to its last page. But that can all come later. After sleeping until the afternoon and making Samatoki (and himself) some good coffee.

Sasara nestles into Samatoki even more and closes his eyes, ready to sleep under the golden sun.

“Sounds good to me.”