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To Keito, 12:00 is no different from 11:59.
The stars, thousands of light-years away, twinkle just as bright as before. The chill of the nighttime air and the rooftop concrete is unrelenting. There is no rest nor key change in the crickets’ symphony. Next to Kuro, the tranquil rise and fall of Keito’s chest as he slumbers continues. The only thing that has changed is that Keito is officially 20.
Kuro had always made an event of staying up for his own birthday, seeking the dopamine rush of being closer to adulthood and the knowledge that a celebration was imminent. Keito was, evidently, not the same. He’d warned Kuro that he couldn’t make any promises when Kuro had invited him and Souma to the Starmony roof to stargaze in the hours leading up to his birthday. He’d made a valiant effort, blinking hard to dispel the drowsiness and dutifully answering the questions Kuro had posed to keep him talking, but somewhere around 11:00PM, he’d succumbed to sleep. Midnight was three hours past his typical bedtime, after all.
Souma had decided to turn in early to avoid passing out on the concrete, a wise decision. Seeing Keito dozing against the hard surface, cushioned only by a thin quilt Kuro had brought for them to sit on, reminds Kuro that even if everyone in Akatsuki is known for their stubbornness, it’s Keito who’s the worst of them all.
Kuro wrings his fingers out, sore from being leaned back on, and turns over onto his stomach, pillowing his chin in his arms. Horizontally, he can see Keito’s face more clearly. Keito’s breath is soft and near-melodic coming from his slightly parted mouth. His fingers twitch every so often in his sleep. His glasses dislodged, there’s nothing blocking Kuro from counting every one of his eyelashes.
He’s so beautiful. He was beautiful when he was 16, he’s beautiful at 20, he’ll probably be beautiful for the rest of his life.
His forehead is also looking really kissable right now.
Nope, not happening. Kissing someone’s forehead isn’t typical platonic affection, at least for people with as traditional and masculine upbringings as Kuro and Keito have. It’s perhaps even more inappropriate because the two of them have been stuck in will-they won’t-they limbo for the better part of three years. Kuro has been privately agonizing over if this can be considered a date ever since their underclassman left.
But then again.
If he does it softly enough, Keito never has to know.
Keito’s bangs tickle Kuro’s hand as he brings it up to brush them back from his face. Kuro holds his breath as he presses his lips, chapped from the frigid breeze, to the space between his eyebrows.
He pulls back in alarm as Keito stirs slightly, but he just mumbles something incoherent and nestles his face further into the blanket. Phew. Kuro’s heart thrums from the adrenaline of almost being caught, and from just how cute Keito’s sleepy movements are. Perhaps he shouldn’t have crossed that line, because now it’s taking an incredible amount of restraint not to do it again.
It also occurs to him that Keito’s rolled into a position that surely won’t do any favors for his already extremely knotted back muscles. He sneaks one hand under the blanket and Keito’s body, then the other, and lifts, legs straining with the additional load. With Keito basically dead weight, it’s going to be a challenge, especially with doors and stairs, but it’s nothing Kuro hasn’t handled before. Additional arm strength training.
It’s at the bottom of the stairs leading down from the balcony that Keito finally stirs, jostled awake by the uneven movement. He rubs the corner of his eye with his palm, voice downy from sleep. “Mnn... Kiryu?”
“Mornin’, princess,” Kuro rumbles in amusement.
“You – What are you doing?” His eyebrows are returning to their usual strict furrow when he comes to realize their position. “You should have just woken me up and I’d have walked myself.”
“Not a big deal. You’re light as a feather. Enough that I’ll start worryin’ about whether you’re eatin’ enough.”
Keito sighs, his attempt at escape meager and short-lived, and nestles his head limply against Kuro’s shoulder. Kuro feels for the first time that his knees aren’t sturdy enough to support them both. “My diet’s fine. More likely, it’s just that you’re freakishly strong.”
Kuro laughs lightly, lowering Keito to get his pinky into range of the elevator button. “C’mon. It’s your birthday, you shouldn’t have to lift a finger. Or a toe, in this case.”
“On the contrary, I’d say 20 is about 18 years past when you officially age out of being carried by others,” Keito retorts as Kuro steps in. “Ah... what time is it?”
“12:15, about?”
“Mm...” Noticing Kuro’s hands beginning to strain, Keito wraps his own around Kuro’s shoulders for support. “You wanted to watch the day roll over with me, didn’t you. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it.”
“It’s alright. I’m still the first person that gets to wish you a happy birthday. That’s all I really wanted.”
Keito huffs, but he’s smiling. “And yet you haven’t done it yet.”
“I’m gettin’ to it,” Kuro complains. He’s smiling, too. “Happy birthday, danna.”
“Thank you, Kiryu.”
The elevator dings, announcing their arrival to the empty second floor hallway. Muscle memory guides Kuro to the fourth suite, guides Keito’s keys through the motion of unlocking the door. It’s near pitch-dark, the faint scent of lavender tinting the air, Keito’s roommates forming two identical slumbering lumps in their blankets. It’s a miracle they haven’t run into anyone conscious yet.
It occurs to Kuro that he’s just bridal-carried Keito over the threshold of his residence.
The door emits a quiet ker-chunk behind them as Kuro slips off his shoes and carefully pads across the room to deposit Keito onto his bed. It doesn’t seem likely that he can successfully get Keito under the sheets without Keito’s own cooperation, so Kuro gathers the red quilt draped over the nearby armchair – his own creation – and uses that to tuck him in instead.
Keito unloads his keys, wallet, and phone from his jacket pockets, and Kuro huffs out a chuckle as he attempts to feel around for the surface of his nightstand without opening his eyes. Eventually Kuro takes them from him, as well as the glasses off of Keito’s face, folding them neatly to set aside. They’ve come a long way for Kuro to be able to handle Keito’s glasses without protest.
With Keito’s shoes removed and placed near the entrance, they’ve done all they can do for Keito to rest soundly barring the steps of his actual nightly routine. Though the dark enshrouds Keito’s face, Kuro can hear his breaths slowing into time with the peaceful rhythm of sleep.
“Happy birthday, danna,” Kuro whispers, and it’s dangerous how affectionately it comes out. “Sleep well so you can celebrate a lot today, yeah?”
He’s about to get to his feet and out of Keito’s hair when he feels a hand curl around the hem of his sleeve, tugging insistently.
It’s not so much a proposition as it is an order when Keito murmurs, “Stay.”
Heat rushes over Kuro’s face like a sudden summer breeze. “Huh? In your bed? Won’t that, y’know… look bad?”
“Shino isn’t the type to gossip, and Hidaka has a Trickstar member sleep next to him every other night. I’m sure it won’t be a problem.” He blinks, sloth-like, at Kuro. “Consider it your birthday present to me.”
Kuro is not a great sleep partner. Kuro snores, and kicks, and runs hot, and Keito has complained about him on almost every occasion that Akatsuki overnight together. And even still, Keito is asking to sleep next to him, on the night of his birthday, and views that as a gift.
If this were to happen, surely Kuro would be too nervous to breathe, let alone sleep. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d lost sleep over Keito, but certainly the first time it’d been over his physical person and not just the rose-tinted replica in his imagination.
Another tug at Kuro’s sleeve jumpstarts him into action, and Kuro’s mouth decides before his brain can. “I’m comin’.”
He lifts the cover to slide in next to Keito, head sinking into the pillow. Keito shifts backwards to give him space, but it doesn’t stop the tip of his socked foot from tickling Kuro’s ankle. Kuro drapes the blanket over them both, and the realization that it smells like Keito does from frequent use sparks fresh jitters across Kuro’s body.
It must be exhaustion eroding Keito’s filter when he murmurs, “You’re warm.”
If Kuro is warm, then it’s certainly Keito’s fault for kindling the fire. He’s burning with equal parts affection and embarrassment, burying his face in the pillows. He mutters, mostly to himself, “What are you doing to me...”
“I’m sorry,” Keito whispers, drowsy yet all too sincere, and Kuro wonders if he understands what he’s apologizing for.
Kuro holds back a sigh. One day they’ll have to address whatever this is head-on, but the early hours of Keito’s birthday is as inappropriate a time as any to do it. “Don’t be. Just go back to sleep.”
Keito hums his assent, already slipping away, one hand curled up to his heart. Whatever frustration Kuro felt seconds earlier from Keito’s unintentional flirtation soon disintegrates. Perhaps Keito is officially an adult now, but there’s an innocence shining through his slumbering form that reminds Kuro of one of a long list of reasons he fell in love in the first place.
Sleep will come for Kuro soon. He can feel it approaching, like the headlights of a night train in the distance. Until then, he’s going to savor this moment: the rise and fall of Keito’s chest, the warmth of his foot nudging against Kuro’s own, the feeling of being wanted, of being a comfort to someone and not a presence to be feared.
When they wake up, Keito will act as if it’s any other day. He’ll work himself just as hard as usual, fend off compliments and accept gifts with his typical stern, awkward demeanor, and go to sleep before midnight. For Kuro, though, it only becomes more apparent with each passing year that Keito’s birthday is a special occasion; a chance to express gratitude to the universe that Hasumi Keito, by all strokes of luck, was born.
(When Kuro sleeps, he dreams of spending Keito’s 30th, 40th, 50th birthday with him, until they wear age on their faces and can do little more than lie next to each other, whispering under the covers and sharing warmth, just like this, just like this.)