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Flayon had a history of clinging to things when he risked losing them. He would fight and scream and double down, anything to make the end as good as possible. He’d curse the errant nails in the floorboards that poke holes in his socks, stubbornly switching sides so he can wear them for another week before finally saying goodbye. He’d grab his hammer and smash in the nails and curse them all the while. It was just one of his rituals.
That’s mine, he would think. Serves you right for messing with me.
It wasn’t healthy, not exactly, but sometimes you just have to let yourself be. You have to let the compulsion run its course. Hakka liked it too, he thought it was cute. His eyes would crinkle and he’d just look up and giggle, setting his glass down on the table while he ran over to get the hammer for him. He’d set aside bottles for him too, letting him be the one to decide when to throw them away. He’d hold mock funerals for any failing houseplants. He’d write him notes and reminders, give him security, give him peace. Hakka bought him new scrapbooks after the old ones were full, bursting at the seams with all the little reminders of every second of their love. He liked it. He understood it, the way that new life breathed into things when they’re on the verge of death.
It’s not like he cared about everything, associated deep and personal memories with the nth broken mug or the shirt he bought years ago, desperate for something clean to wear. He didn’t. No one can care about so many insignificant little things. He only cared about one thing. It was about the principle of it all, giving something a final, proper send-off before he can move on.
And he clung to Hakka too. But he’d never lose him.
He’d never let that happen.
He never got tired of sharing a space with Hakka. It was addicting.
He never wanted to be alone. It’s not like he didn’t have friends, didn’t have a life away from their home. He just... didn’t want to leave. It was comforting being there, spending time in their home cobbled together bit by bit: shared furniture built over evenings of laughter, dents in the wall from worn posters pinned through the back, the warm smell of something so intrinsically them.
Hakka was everywhere. The password to his voicemail, 0421. His wallpaper, his extra face ID, his number on speed dial and his emergency contact, housed in every waking thought. His name lived in the space under his tongue, always waiting for its chance to jump out. If he went out alone with friends, he’d inevitably be pulled home, unable to stay away. It’s just a fact of life. To survive, a healthy Flayon needs 4 things: food, water, shelter, and Hakka.
Flayon was certain that if you could mill through his brain, if you could unshelf his book of life, it would naturally fall open to the page containing Hakka, spine creased and cut open from permanent revisitations, unable to turn the page.
It feels as if loving Hakka had been hard-wired into his system from the start.
So at the end of the day, fresh off a catch-up with Shinri, when he absentmindedly punched in the numbers on his phone, he knew he’d get a response. He had a fun day. He loves his bros. He really, truly does. But time wrenched apart is time that eats at his skin, and once his friends go back home the knowledge that he is completely, utterly alone sinks in like salt on an open wound.
It's too late and too quiet and the world is too big, too expansive, too much to tackle on his own. Hakka should be asleep by now, but he won't be. He's waiting out there somewhere, hand soldered to the phone waiting for a sign.
Sure enough, one ring in and he feels Hakka's voice tether around his neck like a chorus of angels, the best sound in the world. It makes him feel safe. It pulls him home like a moth to a flame.
“Wait there, I’ll come pick you up,” is what falls from Hakka’s lips before he even seems to register it. They fall into step as naturally as breathing. “I missed you,” is what follows after. Da capo. Like clockwork.
And he missed him too, didn’t he? That was the problem. One day apart and he’s already in shambles. He sat on a bench, kicking his feet up and down with a silly little smile, giddy at the thought of coming home.
Hakka smiles against his skin as he pulls up and wraps the seatbelt tight around his chest. He shines so bright that it burns.
“I’m sorry you have to deal with me,” he offers, words muffled against the dashboard, face still buried in Hakka's coat left hanging off his shoulder. Because he is. He knows it’s a lot, that they’re a lot. He grabs a ring off of Hakka’s finger and twists it around his own, letting the feeling of security wash over him and ground him as it slides down. The weight makes him feel whole.
“Do you think I’m any better? I always want you beside me,” is what he gets in return, words slipping through to patch up his cracks.
It’s true, though, they talked about it before. How sometimes Hakka wanted to keep him forever, to tuck him away under lock and key and never let him go. How sometimes he wanted to chain them together and crawl into his chest, to become his heart and live in his soul. How sometimes he looks in the mirror and all he can see is his own missing pieces. It feels different because he’d like that though, because it’s never something he’d have to deal with.
Being together made them feel complete.
Hakka was the knife that ran beneath his skin.
There’s that myth about Zeus splitting people in half, forced into pairs seeking out their soulmates, and it all made sense when they met. His life started with Hakka and it would end with him too. Like Romeo and Juliet.
They were bound by the red string of fate- or red and purple maybe? Hakka always struck him as more of a purple guy, to be fair. It suited him. Purple for royalty and power. Purple for the ruler of his heart. Red or purple or a mix of the two, Flayon wanted to grab that thread and stitch them together until they could never be apart. He would make it all delicate and pretty, a blanket or chain stitch maybe, and entwine them so tightly until no one could ever remember a time they were apart.
Hakka and Flayon. Flayon and Hakka. Twin pillars that held their vigil, carrying the welcome weight of all their love atop a foundation of manic highs and catastrophic lows.
For now, he settled with a kiss, chaste and sweet and fatal, sealing them together for the rest of their lives. His own personal brand.
And they were happy.
When they kissed, he thought about it, the idea that they were sharing breaths, the idea they had something that was completely theirs that no one could take away. He wanted to drown in that feeling, to live in it.
At night, as he felt Hakka’s arms curl around his back, he wished that he’d wake up one day unable to leave, their bones melted together into a single person. The person they were always meant to be. But for now, this was enough.