Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s an accident when he runs into him, maybe more of a consequence of carrying a few too many boxes at once than he should have, but if anyone asks, then it was definitely Hakka’s fault. Flayon’s no saint, he can accept blame when it's fault and hey, maybe he spends a little too much time drawing pictures in his head on walls that were never meant to be painted. Call it a spell of absentmindedness. That doesn't change the fact that, as the one carrying all the boxes, he couldn't possibly have looked up and see the purple blur zooming towards him. And really, anything can be Hakka’s fault if you try hard enough to prove it. 

Probably. 

Okay, so maybe he wasn't looking at the door in front of him and maybe he shouldn't have been carrying everything at once, but he swore some kid was judging him for his inability to smoothly carry everything last week, so he was definitely going to prove it here and now without even using the cart to carry them. Aha! Fuck you, kid. So there he was, staring at the door and thinking about how he was ever going to fish his keycard out of his pocket and that he really should have made a robotic keyholder for his pet project this term instead of a mini mech and what modifications he needed for the next prototype showcase and whether Bettel needed any more props for his next performance and why the walls were such a boring colour if he was going to be stuck here until someone eventually opened the door for him and whether anyone was still around and what he was going to eat that night, probably chicken because it’s cheap and tasty and you can leave it marinating for a while, and generally just minding his own business when suddenly this ungodly ball of energy and good vibes comes sprinting out the door beside him. 

Flayon heard him before he could see him, turning a bit at the sound of his boisterous laughter, turning just in time for Hakka to slam heartily into his shoulder because the universe hates him today and wants to see him drop everything on the fucking floor because spite is for losers. 

Except somehow he doesn't. So maybe it’ll still be a good day.

Little miracles.

“Whoa, little dude, sorry ‘bout that,” Hakka said with a smile, reaching out to steady him with a gentle grip. 

This is the moment where he should be all smooth and normal, say something cordial to make this (kind) stranger go on with his day so he can get back to staring holes into the lab door until it magically opens.

“Aren’t we like the same height though?” is what comes out of his mouth instead because when he glances down as he gathers up his words all he can see are these horrendously thick platform shoes. Seriously. They're actually fucking huge. Maybe he's testing mobility accessibility or something? Lab 6 is usually biochemistry though, so those platforms are a pretty bad choice for that. He’s heard way too many horror stories about tripping over plugs and shattering glass. Maybe it’s just a fashion choice then, albeit a weird one.

“It's all about the vibes, brother. I think tall thoughts and you give off cute little guy.” 

Hakka chuckles to himself a little at his own joke in response. He’s the cute one. Not that he’d ever admit it. 

“You need a hand?”

Flayon considered saying no, but honestly, he really just wanted to get back to his station and bird boy over there was looking like his best option by a longshot. Now that he thinks about it, he's pretty sure everyone already said something about leaving for the day after practicum.

“Thanks. Forgot I left my card in my pocket so I was stuck out here for a bit,” he lies, passing over one of the boxes to free up a hand and grab his keys. Next term’s project will just have to be a hovering robot to unlock doors for him to avoid any future encounters like this. Admitting his weakness to a stranger? No, thanks. Never again.

If he notices the lie, Hakka is mercifully silent about it and for a while all Flayon hears the sounds of his footsteps tap tap tapping behind him until they finally reach his workstation. 

“You know, I think they banned Naruto running in the hallways precisely because of people like you,” he says lightly, bickering with him just because he can. He seems like the type to enjoy it. Hakka merely grins in response, bowing with a flourish after he carefully set his boxes down on the floor.

“Rules were made to be broken, baby! Next time, I'll slow down enough to get your keys out of your pocket for you on my way out. A little hand to pocket action, eh? How about that?”

It could easily sound slimy, but Hakka’s still so earnest and cheerful that it's hard to believe he even knows what he’s saying. Maybe he doesn't. Maybe that's his secret.

To top it all off, Hakka waits a beat before clicking his tongue and sending an exaggerated wink his way. He's so unserious.

Flayon kinda wants to punch him. Just a little, teeny whisper of a punch, nothing major. He’s infuriating. He’s hilarious. It's cuteness aggression probably because how dare he say shit that's so incredibly not charming but make it sound endearing nonetheless?

“I'll take my chances on my own, thank you very much,” he replies in a huff. The sound of his muffled laughter easily betrays his words though. Oh well, you can't win them all.

Flayon can feel the traitorous smile blooming on his face as he ushers him inside. Fine. Whatever. Maybe this other kid isn't so bad to have around.

“So this is your lab? You make robots and shit? That's pretty cool,” Hakka asks, watching him flatten all of the boxes and sift through the components. His nails scrape against the cardboard as he fiddles with the tape. Sharp.

“Yeah, this station is mine,” Flayon replies, sorting out his various spools of fibre into their respective drawers. Next time he’ll need to pick up some more lenses and another clamp. “You work next door?”

“No, no. I’m not. I just wasn't paying attention and ended up in the wrong place.”

He doesn't elaborate, so Flayon doesn't ask. It’s probably for the best though. The only thing he heard about Lab 6 was that one guy liked drinking out of skull-labelled erlenmeyer flasks and scaring all the new kids by telling them it’s poison. He’s already had enough excitement for the day, nope, and all he really wants to do is crank out some overdue modifications for his prototype and clean it all up before the janitors politely intimate that he really ought to go home so they can do their job. It’s not his fault that his supervisor monopolises the processing stations during non-nocturnal hours, okay? Flayon was a morning person, sure, but sometimes morning people need to work through the nights to make ends meet. He usually just sets a coffee cup on his desk before he leaves, pretends like he was there if anyone asks, and sleeps through the mornings to make up for it. No one really cares as long as he finishes his work on time and shows up to their meetings.

“I’m glad I ended up here though. Maybe it wasn’t the wrong place after all.” Hakka’s voice breaks him out of his reverie. He's too fucking nice.

Once he got bored of just watching, Hakka started playing with the loose trinkets on his desk, glancing up at him every once in a while to silently ask if it's okay to touch them. Once he’s done with them, he puts them back exactly where they were. He's incredibly gentle, actually, first meetings aside. Like a really gentle, really fluffy sheep or one of those giant friendly dogs. They talk and they talk and sometimes Hakka sounds like a cute little tea kettle when he laughs. It’s hard to genuinely be mad at him, but maybe he never really tried in the first place.

“Hakka? Hey buddy, you in here?” A voice calls out from the doorway. 

“Well, looks like that's my cue to leave. See you around uhhh–”

“Flayon!” He blurts out. “My name’s Machina X Flayon. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Flayon! I like it. Rolls off the tongue well. Well, call me if you need any more manual labour,” Hakka shouts as he rushes out, making a ‘call me’ gesture with his hand after one last lingering glance into his eyes. 

He’s crazy. He’s a whirlwind coming and going and Flayon doesn't even have his phone number. How would he even call? Plus, he wouldn't be caught dead struggling to carry all his parts again. He's probably never going to see him again, but part of him really wants to. The stupid part of himself, maybe. Or the weak one.

Flayon grumbles to himself a little as he finished packing things away into their own little drawers. He doesn't even work here, he reminded himself. Don't get so worked up over pretty boys with giant shoes. Even if they do make you laugh.

How dare he be so fucking likeable.

He always had a knack for putting a smile on his face.

As always, it’s all Hakka’s fault. All of it.

_

Sometimes it’s good to be wrong. 

He doesn't like being wrong, but Flayon can tell when he’s lost. He’s not that stubborn.

He does call. Eventually. If only because someone hastily shoved a bright approximation of a business card under the lab’s door reading ‘caw caw caw-ll me some time’ next to a big drawing of a purple bird with eyebrows and a fanny pack. Your handsome saviour, he wrote beside it. He’s lucky that Flayon was the only person around at the time though, otherwise it could have easily ended up in the trash.

For what it’s worth it did end up there, if only for a moment, tossed in there long enough so Flayon could send a picture of it lying among his scraps. He took it out after, fingers smoothing out the crinkled edges just in time to receive a pointed accusation about how he wasn’t treating their son right and how he’d never ever be forgiven. Cute.

Hakka forgot all about his mock outrage the moment he suggested they meet up again, sending a response rife with exclamation marks and emojis. He names the bird Junior. He sends him a link to this café he's been eyeing (something about the killer vibes, whatever that means) and urges him to come as soon as possible. The minute he replied, Hakka forgot all about the picture and the trash and his insistence that Flayon needed to pay reparations for their son. That’s just how they worked best. Bickering even when they’re both perfectly happy with everything going on. Switching moods whenever they want and following each other's lead.

Their first real meeting lasts well over 5 hours, a quick coffee turning to an entire debate about food and life and love and the meaning behind the universe’s curiosities. There’s the arcade where they rush to beat each other in every game, and if not, where they collude to try to place on the leaderboards. There's the music store with a giant piano, the way Hakka bounces up on the balls of his feet to peek into each of the glittering display cases. 

The cycle works like this: someone reaches out or doesn't because at some point it’ll happen anyway, they spend much too long accomplishing much too little, then they swear to do more next time. The thing is, Flayon likes being contrary sometimes. He’s always needed to understand the world around him, to push it to its limits. It's that drive that brought him here in the first place. Sometimes it gets him into trouble or strings him into unnecessary conflict. Hakka isn't immune either, especially not when they spend more and more time together. He's an expert at navigating it though, swallowing up his words with none of the heat. 

They never need to talk about it. It just always worked out somehow. Sometimes talking to Hakka was like talking to a mirror. It’s a little scary how easily they interlock into each other’s lives.

What started out as an accident became weekly meetings, then daily, then unplanned and constant like he’d be ready at the drop of a hat for anything and everything. Their energies meshed together better than he ever could have expected. Sometimes Hakka was the last person he saw before heading to bed and the first person to greet him when he eventually pulled himself out of bed.

So yeah, turns out Hakka’s pretty good for his word, all things considered. He’s still a little shit though. Case in point, he’ll never forget his first meeting with his new friends from the lab next door and it’s all because of the infuriating, loveable scoundrel that he reluctantly calls his best friend.

It was a pretty normal Thursday: meetings, rotating group presentations, status update, journal club, and then debates over their lab’s dinner plans. He’s about to pitch in an idea to go for waffles and pasta when Hakka swerves into the alcove, grabs his wrist with a rushed apology, and pulls him into the lab next door.

“Everyone, listen up!” Hakka announces as they barge in the room. Only about half of them even bother to glance in their direction. They must be used to his antics by now. “This is Flayon! He’s the one I was telling you all about. Please talk to him so he can finally count the number of friends he has on more than one hand.”

Flayon punches his shoulder and then shakes his arm down to bring their hands together instead as Hakka keeps pulling him forwards. He punches him again, softer this time, as he keeps dragging them closer and closer to the other kids despite his numerous protests. Flayon’s about to counter with an account of Hakka’s own fair share of friendless behaviour when Hakka starts talking again, spitting out introductions at a rapid fire pace. He recognises a few of their faces from here and there, but it’s hard to digest everything when Hakka speaks at a mile a minute and barely gives him any time to hear anyone's responses.

“–and the halo guy over there is Magni. Approach him with caution, when we first met he successfully convinced me he was in fine arts for months! He just kept lying and showing me all these sketches until I finally came here with Altare for the first time to meet the guy he’s always talking about and I caught him in the act. Potion in hand! Literally red handed! I don't think he was ever going to tell me. Super talented, great artist, swell guy, but super committed to the bit.”

Magni gives him a small wave before returning to his distillation. Perched on his desk is a plaque that claims that you’ll never know if you were cloned and killed and replaced in your sleep. Next to that is a whiteboard tallying the number of lives he’s supposedly taken. Charming.

Hakka offers to take him to some other places but he shuts him down before he can suggest making a quick visit to the HANA lab. Sure, technically he vaguely knows another student there from a mixer at the beginning of the year. Shinji? Suiji? Shuichi? All he remembers is being engrossed in a really long discussion about the type of hybrid water lily he was working on. It was cool though. Requires a type of patience that’s hard to come by. He seemed like the best kind of person to know, if only he could get the courage to visit. Regardless, there are plenty of other ways he can meet him again without embarrassing himself in front of their whole staff. Again. Like always. 

He’s really not ready to embarrass himself again today. They always call him cute and it always catches him off guard and he doesn't want to leave a bad impression or mess up their experiments since he admires their work and Hakka has it so easy since he can just waltz in there and give them a hug as if they’re old friends and maybe he could do that too if he was brave enough but– well anyway, visiting HANA can be saved for a later date. When he’s ready for it.

Flayon has no shame in using his skills to get what he wants, so he swiftly distracts him by bringing up the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and suggesting they go and get some pizza in their spirit instead, group dinner be damned. Maybe it’s a little unfair to focus on things he knows Hakka can’t resist, but what can he say? He knows him too well. And besides, he just likes listening to him talk. There was something inexplicably warm about his voice. It makes him feel at home. If he starts a conversation just to hear him respond, can anyone really blame him?

“–so I tried to write a rock opera about them when I was younger. Not joking. It was a disaster, but I had so much fun so it was alright.”

It sounds horrendously cute honestly, the image of baby Hakka serenading a bunch of turtles. Heck, it wouldn't be out of place even if he did it right now. There’s Banzoin Hakka, at it again. What’s he doing? Nobody knows.

“I already know what you’re thinking,” Hakka interjects with a grimace. “No, it was not cute. I put a laundry basket on my back and drew on my face with marker to look more like a turtle. In public. With a guitar made out of a box and string. For an hour. It was terrible.”

“Wish I could have seen it,” he barely gets out through a peal of giggles. “You haven't changed a bit, Mr. xXxRavensParadigmxXx.”

“We’re all pretty cringy as kids. I like to think I'm a better musician now.” Hakka smirked as he picked up another piece, sprinkling on a dash of pepper. “You know me so well though. I have always been the coolest and the cutest. I'm glad someone out there finally recognises that.”

“Shut up,” Flayon whines, tossing a napkin at his face. It falls a little short and Hakka, ever the performer, makes a big show out of bowing and curtsying while he picks it up, using it to delicately dab at the corners of his mouth.

“Make me,” he challenges, tone bordering between sharp and playful. The amusement practically dances in his eyes. He's the most infuriating person Flayon’s ever had the pleasure of meeting.

Flayon waits less than a beat before grabbing another napkin and shoving it directly in his face. He doesn't miss this time. Hakka makes a big show out of clutching his neck and choking and dying long after he's already pulled away, only breaking character when they finally meet eyes and he can no longer stifle their laughter.

“Flayon! We’re in public! Save it for when we get home!” 

“Shut the fuck up, bro. They’re gonna get the wrong idea!” 

He can hardly hear over the sound of them trying to be louder than the other. Hakka just grins in response, wiping off his fingers in one of their discarded napkins before softly patting his head. He can feel the fondness practically dripping from him like dewdrops hugging the morning grass. 

The pizza is pretty good, but the company makes it better. 

-

The rumours about Magni are wrong. Obviously. But he still looked a little too happy when Flayon asked about his favourite ways to drink poison. Someone ought to double check his concoctions just to be sure, but it certainly won't be him.

Hakka wasn't kidding about the art either, there's something really fluid and free about everything he does. He really tries to present himself in that unknowable kind of way, rife with an air of mystery. He says it makes the kids bother him less, which is weird if only because whenever the “kids” come by he’s nothing but warm smiles and bright eyes.

The first time he really sees him in his element is when they all get together to draw posters for Hakka’s term performance. They make a game out of it, betting the most sacred of all prizes: rights to decide where they’ll go for dinner. Losers split the bill. And yeah, turns out Magni’s no slouch in the art department. He drew a pretty slick rendition of a crow shredding on a guitar. Then he drew one beside it shredding cheese, as one does. Multifaceted. One might even say it's colossally unfair to be forced to compete against him.

He was a little surprised at the turnout, seeing a few faces he hadn't seen in a while. There was Axel, from the biomed lab, giggling as he scribbled some extra details onto Altare’s while his back is turned. He's young, but full of strength and passion. He’s the kind of person that’ll change the world some day, if only someone would finally let him. And of course, he invited Bettel, and Bettel brought Shinri after he swore up and down that he would never let it leak how much he looked up to his seniors at HANA. (Even if they already know.) Even Vesper made it, poking his head out the archives long enough to drop by. And it’s for Hakka, of course, and with Hakka came Flayon. Everyone knew that.

As he always says, never underestimate the power of food to bring students together. Underfed, underpaid, overworked, and profoundly invested in their projects. The nation’s future.

He doesn’t like to brag, but Flayon’s pretty sure he made a fucking masterpiece over here. Twintails and a cute smile, who could resist that?! No one! The Hakka in his drawing is the cutest idol-esque performer ever, so it’s going to be an easy victory for him. Call him biassed, but he definitely made the best one of the night. Easy as.

That said, he also grabbed an extra poster paper precisely so he could make one of them look like a wanted poster, complete with appropriate hellfire and devil horns. The disqualification (no one said anything about multiple entries! it’s a mere technicality!) was worth it just to see the look on Hakka’s face. 

Have you seen this bird? Come to Tempus Hall at 7pm to find out!

Wanted: Bazoinga Hakka.

Reward: Nothing. You can keep him, actually.

Usually, Flayon is a cocktail of emotions, a dash of curiosity fueling an onslaught of possible projects that fight for dominance within his head. Today, however, he can afford to take some time to himself surrounded by good people and good vibes. He’s made good progress on the C-TRUS, his next presentation is coming along nicely, and all he really wants to do is take a breather before hobbling back to the archives to crank out the next part of his thesis.

He stretches out on the couch with a contented purr. To his left, he can hear the sounds of Axel and Altare trying to throw snacks into each other’s mouths. It kinda sounds like Altare’s winning, but whenever one of them takes up the lead they seem to start a whole new scoring system instead.

“Hey Flayon?”

There’s a chest covering his field of vision, one blanketed in what could charitably be called an ugly Christmas sweater if it was anywhere near Christmas. But it’s not. It’s purple and patchwork like a Hawaiian shirt with tiny treble clef trim. He already knows it’s Hakka’s without even looking up because of course it is, because who else would wear that now, because of course his gaze was already pointed in his direction before he even tiptoed his way towards him. He doesn’t dwell on that last part though. Hakka laughs when he points out the trim and strikes a pose like they’re on a runway instead of the carpet on the fringe of his cosy, little apartment.

“What’s up?”

As he gets closer, Hakka lowers his voice to a whisper, hastily cramming himself beside him. He sticks his tongue out before shifting over to give him some more space, but Hakka remains stubbornly glued to his side. “You’re coming to my show, right?”

It takes him exactly 0.01 seconds to formulate his answer. In fact, it’s ridiculous that he even had to ask. Crazy, even. “Of course I am!” Flayon huffs and folds his arms across his chest. “In fact, I’ll be sure to give you a standing ovation because you deserve it and you’ll get so embarrassed that you die. In a good way, of course.”

Hakka doesn’t reply right away, letting himself get carried away by the atmosphere instead. He smiles softly as he carefully entwines their arms together like two tendrils of ivy. Hakka’s always been so gentle. He’s got an artist’s hands, fingers moving with the strength and delicacy honed from all his years performing. His thumb is rubbing against the edge of his hand in stuttering strokes, movements a little shy, a little too clumsy. It makes him feel nervous just watching him, so comforting and close as if he’s about to deliver a storm of terrible news. Oh Flayon, I broke every string and all of my spares so I’m afraid I can’t perform after all. Oh Flayon, I think your poster was so bad that I need to report you to your PM for terrible craftsmanship and you’ll have to find a new lab. Oh Flayon, I don’t want to see you there and I never have, so I was hoping you’d say no and spare me the trouble. 

And he probably won’t say any of those things, but his head is buzzing as he stares longer and longer at the way their limbs fit together. It makes him feel heavier than he’s used to, like he could crumble into pieces and take Hakka down with him and how dare he. How dare he let him.

Hakka laughs again, but there’s something a little tense stitched into it. The needle catches in Flayon’s throat. His hand itches to occupy itself with something, but it doesn’t seem to want to break out of Hakka’s tender hold. He gets it. He wouldn't really want to either.

“Good.” Hakka finally says, after what feels like an eternity. The thumb of his other hand traces a dangerous path along Flayon’s cheek. “Because it really means a lot to me to have you there.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world!” Flayon replies cheerily, heart soothed and sated and eager to shake off the notion that something could ever be weird between them. It’s a safe answer. Safe answer and safe delivery. If he uses safe answers, then nothing will ever get too messy between them. Right?

He closes his eyes for a blink longer than he ought to. Breathes in. Breathes out. It’s all just too much for him right now. He needs to take a moment to prepare himself.

Hakka’s answering grin could probably power hundreds, maybe even millions, of robots. It’s absolutely blinding. One day scientists will harness the power of Banzoin Hakka and solve the need for any other energy source. Someone could already study the way every room feels so incredibly warm whenever Hakka’s inside of it. They’d solve all of the world’s problems while they’re at it because the world is just a better place with Hakka around. Hell, he could be that scientist if he wasn't so busy already with his own machinations or quite so concerned about claims of biassed findings. Though he’s not biassed if he’s provably correct. Which he obviously is.

His gaze is so warm as he takes in the chaos around them, and sure Hakka looks at everyone like that because he’s just the sweetest, the best, the brightest star, but it makes a little part of him absolutely preen in his chest nonetheless. There’s pride in there too. That he could be a part of it.

It’s a great bounty of friendship, he believes, to be able to bask in his own little sunshine. Maybe the scientists should never get the chance to study him after all because what is Flayon going to do once they take him away? He can't trust anyone else to do it. Hakka’s made his own little home in his heart. But if anyone asks, he’d never admit it. He’s always been a little selfish like that.

Flayon loses, but he finds that he never really cared about the competition anyway. In fact, if anything, he still feels like the real winner. He can’t scrub the smile off his face as they carefully tape them on Hakka’s bedroom door. Funny how life works sometimes.

-

“I fucking hate you,” Flayon grumbles as he trudges through the door. The soles of his shoes squeak a little as he drags his feet along.

“You can’t afford to hate me. You’ll be down to like 2 friends and that's a little pathetic.”

“Good riddance.”

They gradually make their way up to the counter, slowed by Hakka’s insistence to match his steps with an arm around his shoulders to keep him upright and steady. He’s stewing under his coat, Hakka’s scarf, and the sweater he keeps for nights in the temperature-controlled part of the lab. He was never going to freeze in the balmy autumn air, but the gesture is a little nice, even if he isn't going to say that out loud.

He orders a cup of tea. Hot. Hakka merrily adds on a breakfast sandwich and a blueberry muffin. He doesn’t say it, but the muffin is obviously for him. His favourite fruit.

“You’re paying. You dragged me here, so it’s your responsibility.”

“My hands are completely full with all of your bags and my wallet is just so deep in my bag that I couldn't possibly reach it,” Hakka laments, letting them sway back and forth a bit. In his hands are his own bag, plus Flayon’s backpack and another bag full of the makings of his current prototype. Their matching keychains knock together with a soft click. “Besides, I paid last time.”

“You cheated last time,” he mutters. It’s true. Last time he bodychecked him before he could fish out his card.

Usually they argue about who gets to pay, so pushing the reverse is a bit of fun.

“I have other customers to take care of, you know.” The barista sighs as he gestures at Hakka, who’s standing closer to the counter, and motions for him to get on with it.

Flayon shares a commiserating look with the barista. “See? All this effort to drag me over here and I barely even get a muffin,” he chirps out, stretching his arm and passing his card over before Hakka can even think about pulling out his wallet. You snooze, you lose.

He munches at the crumble on top of the muffin as Hakka builds a mini tower out of coffee creamer cups. “Stop playing with that and tell me about your day already.”

“I dunno. Been working on a new song,” Hakka pauses before continuing, tone unexpectedly serious. “I also got a new toothbrush.”

“What kind?”

“A normal one? Electric, though. You’ve been showing me way too many DENTMAN promotional pictures, so I figured it’s about time.”

“Do you like it?”

Hakka shrugs. Flayon takes that time to peel the wrapper off his muffin and crushes it into a little paper ball. The sugar clings to his hands a little as he brushes them off. Hakka’s already finished his sandwich, so he tosses it onto the empty plate left between them. Three point shot.

“Does it matter?”

“Of course!” Flayon huffs. “I need to hear about your life. And DENTMAN. The world’s premier tooth-focused hero.”

“It’s been good.”

“Yeah? That’s good.”

Hakka’s been staring at him the whole time they’ve sat here. Hakka doesn’t pry, doesn’t make him talk about it if he doesn’t want to, waits till he’s ready to talk because at some point, once he’s gotten out of his own head a little, he always will be. He continues talking to fill the space, one-handedly fiddling with the creamer again, and their fingers intertwine idly.

His own cycle goes like this: he comes up with an idea, gets sucked into it, fixes up half of it, realises it doesn’t work, redoes it, rewrites his notes, comes up with something else, tries it all over again but harder and better. Because surely he can do something if he just puts in a little more. He tries and he tries and he tries and complains a little about the workload all the while. Then, after he reaches a good stopping point, when he finally gets a couple days to rest, Flayon doesn’t really take them because the accompanying anxiety that comes with not being productive enough begins to eat away at him. The need to rest is never outweighed by the knowledge that he becomes absorbed into anything he focuses on, meaning he can only do the most important of things. He always needs to choose.

It’s tiring, but inescapable, and he’s in the worst part of the cycle now, the part where he’ll bargain time away to push towards the rest period, so it’s not surprising that Hakka came over to drag him out of it.

Flayon should have known better. It’s impossible to get anything past him. The dart of his eyes and the slight quirk in his mouth that quickly emerged as he popped his head into the lab were all signs that Hakka could tell that something was wrong. His remedy was, as always, some company, a warm(ish) meal, and a little kiss on the forehead as he wrangles him into his apartment and tucks him safely under the covers. They were probably on step 5 of 10 of plan “get Flayon the fuck to bed and off to sleep.”

If anyone asks, he does not squirm under the attention because he’s got a little more self control than that. Even if it is a little weird. He’s still getting used to it, caring and being cared for. He does, however, know when to lay off a little on the stubbornness. There’s a time and place for mulishness and coffee with your bestie is not really one of them. What would Bettel say? They’ve been working on communication lately. When he finally resolves himself, he untangles their fingers. Hakka tugs on them slightly for a second longer before dropping it, warm and content.

“It takes a few hours to 3D print the pieces I need for my newest model,” he eventually explains. “I stayed up so I could have the uninterrupted time to tweak the relief holes and the supports. Then I could adjust it, reprint the pieces I messed up, and bring them home so I can assemble it after I sleep. Everyone else needs the printers too, so I figured this was the best way. And, well, I didn’t think I would stay for so long, but I had to do it twice, so I’ve been there all night.”

And Hakka, well, Hakka never brings him places to chastise him. He is a miniature sun. He is sunbeams and cinnamon and the crackle of an open fire. Flayon melts slowly under his attention, warmed down to the bones as his bravado eventually dissipates. Satisfied with his response, Hakka wraps his arms around him in a quick embrace before cleaning off their table. It’s his way of saying sorry, but also his way of saying that he understands it all. He offers his hand again as they walk back to his apartment.

“Let’s get the little prince safely home,” he says as they pass by the park, sounding a little worried but mostly warm. The breeze flutters between them.

Shaking off any lingering lethargy, it doesn't take long for conversation to flow easily between them once again. Flayon explains how someone hasn’t been using the bed adhesives lately, which just exacerbates the printer problems that already exist as they keep submitting their jobs regardless. Hakka talks about how he feels about this chord sequence that’s been bugging him. He smells soft like his coconut conditioner and the familiarity brings him down a gear.

It’s nice. 

Somehow, despite his sudden burst of energy, it’s almost like Hakka’s mask begins to slip a little. He can tell that he bears a heavy weight, heavier than normal, can hear it in the way his steps thunder down the steps in a jumpy sort of pitter-patter. He always runs like he’s trying to shake something off. Maybe Hakka takes these moments for himself too, unaware that Flayon can see it. He has always been careful about how he presented himself to others, no matter how little it may seem that way.

“I told you I want my ashes mixed with coffee some day, right? Then everyone can get a taste of how I lived.”

He shudders at the thought for multiple reasons. Classic Banzoin Hakka and his classic bizarre desires. He’s glad that he’s never cared for coffee much anyway.

“Remind me to never go to your funeral.”

“Don’t worry, Flay. I always planned for us to go down Bonnie and Clyde style some day. We’re a team after all! I can make you some Hakka coffee if you still want it though. I’ll find something to cut off for you.”

“I think we need a team un-bonding activity,” he responds drily, fumbling with his keys as they jiggle into place. “We are far too comfortable with each other.”

Sleep comes surprisingly easy to him that afternoon and when he wakes up, it’s to the sight of a pot of soup on his stovetop. His favourite. In the fridge is a container of dinosaur egg oatmeal and the sight of all of it makes him smile. 

-

His fingertips are a little slippery and stained as he opens the door. Some kind of residue from some… something. It’s hard to keep track sometimes. Flayon’s about to dash over to the washroom when he nearly collides into Hakka and Bettel, walking down the hall with cans of soda in their hands. Fashionably on time, as always.

“Be out in a minute!” Flayon shouts as he dashes past. He needs to grab his jacket and backpack once he makes it back. They’re caught up in some deep conversation, empty cans collected safely aside, as he wanders back to the lounge. Hakka steals a couple smiling glances his way as he sidles up beside them, hand in hand as they walk to the station.

“Talking about your plans for screaming lessons again?”

“Nah, Hakka’s dishing about his cat’s caretaker. Apparently they’ve been having a rough time lately and he wanted some advice.”

Hakka’s never mentioned anything like that to him. Flayon cringes a little as he thinks about it. Hopefully nothing serious happened.

“Oh,” he pipes up, feigning nonchalance. “Something happened with your brother? Is everything okay?”

“No, no, not my brother,” Hakka replies in a hurry. His sweater is falling off of one shoulder and Flayon itches to resist the urge to fix it. “He’s too busy to take on responsibilities like that.”

“Oh, your other brother then?”

“No, it’s someone else apparently,” Bettel snorts. “He won’t fess up who though.”

“Secret lover status: unconfirmed. Co-parenting is pretty serious though, so make sure to invite us to the wedding,” It’s a joke. Flayon’s good at joking, good at slathering any awkwardness is a flattering shade of avoidance. The words taste so heavy, broiled and brittle like shards of overcooked caramel. You can’t own a friendship, but it’s a little weird that there was something like this, something he was evidently willing to share but still decided to keep from him. He never even realised Hakka was worried about anything, even though he always tries his best to keep up with him.

“Kick their ass if they try anything you don’t like,” Bettel adds, cracking his knuckles. “Then let me know afterward, so I can kick their ass too.”

Hakka looks sheepish between them, like he doesn’t know what to say. The worst part of it all is that he doesn’t deny a thing. He’s just standing there smiling softly as Bettel continues to probe him for answers.

Flayon concentrates and thinks the thought really hard as if he can put it directly into Bettel’s head if he tries hard enough. If there was anyone he was ever going to develop a telepathic connection to it’s– well, it would probably be Pion or maybe even Hakka, but Bettel’s a good next bet.

Stop talking about it. Stop talking about it. Shut up, Bettel. I mean no, don’t shut up, never stop talking, but please talk about anything but that.

Flayon waits for a moment, but if there’s any chance that he’s gotten through to him, he doesn’t show it. Bettel keeps going, unabashed, harping about how his partner must have bad taste to tolerate someone like him. And it’s weird, isn’t it? The fact that he’s never heard about them before, never seen them even. And yet Hakka trusts them enough to take care of Bakeneko if he can’t. Sure, he may not be the most perceptive, but he couldn’t have missed something as important as that, right?

It makes him feel weird because maybe, just maybe, Hakka doesn’t trust him enough to talk about it. The thought burns a little, so he clears his throat to try to soothe it. It doesn’t really help. Not even the promise of shitty food, air hockey, and Dance Dance Revolution helps.

“Can we take a rain check?” Flayon rushes to explain, sheepish as the train finally comes to a halt. “I’m not feeling too good. I should go home, drink some tea, maybe leaf over my reports if I have the time. Sorry guys.”

Bettel takes one look at his face and instantly agrees with a reassuring pat on the back. They were supposed to hit the arcade together, but Hakka doesn't complain. Though Hakka never really was the type to complain, at least not to him. He teases him a little and leaves as fast as he can, just barely enough to make everyone else believe that everything is okay. The thing is, Flayon knows him better than he has any right to. Under all the charm and humour and good vibes, there's a vulnerable softness to him. Hakka, who’s usually so shameless and unbothered by his lack of expertise or anything of the sort, walks away in silence.

His steps are a little too heavy as he retreats with Bettel. They drag on for a fraction too long.

It makes it worse, maybe, that Hakka doesn’t let him see it, that he keeps himself guarded from him.

Sometimes it’s easier to pretend he’s looking straight through him, instead of fixated on him. Flayon stares extraordinarily deeply at the peeling advertisements behind him, as if they're suddenly the most interesting thing in the room. And maybe it is, he reasons, or at least the thing that will hurt the least. It’s much better than the sight of Hakka’s back, arms tucked in front of him as he trudges out the gates as soon as he possibly can.

-

Hakka calls.

He watches his phone come to life, feels it buzzing against the pillow. He almost regrets giving him the most annoying, incessant ringtone just because it “was fitting.” And it is. It takes too long to die down.

Everything is still for a moment until it starts again. Short bursts this time. Messages instead.

hey flay

One beat.

toiling in the lab mines again?

Another.

haven’t seen you in a while. how about some dinner? we can finally …

He can imagine how the message ends. Maybe it’s something like you always have so much to talk about except when it matters. 

Flayon sighs and tucks his phone beneath his pillow. He does not even try to read the rest. It’s a problem for another day.

“I’m not,” he urges, shaking his head over and over. “I’m not.”

Everything is going to be okay.

-

Flayon pillows his head in his arms, squeezes his fists into his sweater, and lets out a monumental sigh. There's a misconception floating around that his scattered, maybe too reactive, chaotic persona is where he begins and ends. 

He’s just the mad scientist tinkering away at his robots. 

He’s explosive and hard to deal with, especially without someone flapping around to keep him grounded. 

He means well, but often misses the mark. 

That’s the one that hurts the most. He's heard the undergrads whisper about it among themselves when they tiptoe around him. 

There’s Machina’s station. Don't mind him, he's just like that sometimes.

It's not like he can expect differently from them, from people who don't even matter. But shit. Just like that, huh? As if he's wrong for existing the way that he is. It's a little unfair, isn't it?

They usually try to corral Hakka his way too, but he refuses each time, so he's been sticking out more than usual.

So what if he's taking his self-imposed Hakka avoidance a little too hard? He’d feel that way about any friend. Or no, maybe he wouldn't; he's not really sure, but he hasn't been in the mood to dwell on it.

And Hakka would–

They're similar in a lot of ways, but he usually appears a little looser, a little less guarded. He probably hears the same kinds of things though. Don't mind him. He's a little loud, but he means well. He’s just excitable. 

That’s probably what they’d say, completely missing the point, because they'd never know him as well as he does.

Everyone hears something like that though, right? Either because you're too much for them or not giving them enough. Because they don't like what you give them. That's just how it is sometimes. People might not like you for the same reasons you like yourself and you just have to deal with it. It doesn’t make you undeserving. You just have to do what you need to.

That’s what he reminds himself of. You just have to do what you need to do. Everything will work out eventually, or maybe it won't, but then you’ll be used to it. When you're used to it, everything will be fine.

Everything should be the same as always, the long nights, alternating cups of cinnamon and chamomile, but it doesn’t quite fit together. He feels like he’s trapped under the heat of a spotlight, frozen beneath the gaze of an ever present audience and he’s supposed to sing or play something and he’s lost all his words and Hakka was always the musician between them, wasn’t he? So where is he? Why isn't he here? How can he be the one performing alone?

Flayon feels scrubbed raw, mottled pink and red patchwork like his fading hair (a dare, a joke, something he liked way more than he should have, the image of Hakka’s warm hands teasing and trailing through his hair as they finally washed out the bleach that’s burnished permanently on his core right above his heart and they're touching, always touching, fingertips featherlight on his face and–)

His ears are warm. 

His cheeks too, when he finally gets the courage to touch them.

Another gear clatters to the floor as he sweeps his arms out in front of him in a dramatic flourish, pushing the daydream away. Fuck.

Maybe they were right about something.

Maybe that’s why he felt so weird about it.

-

He dreams about it a little, an amalgamation of any and all of their previous days together. They’re flicking flour onto each other’s backs whenever the other stops paying attention and can’t stop fucking laughing like a whistle about these matching loser fannypacks Hakka saw at the store that match their son's and gossiping about the flirty dialogue in the game he’s been playing and twirling the red-and-black streaks in his hair from their fucked up dye job and arguing about the nonchalance in how he would delight in letting Flayon watch him sleep and now Hakka’s whining a little and hiding his face because his face is so red and breathless and he needs to look somewhere else to catch his breath and it’s all just so much. Flayon grabs his cheeks to turn his head back towards him and it takes exactly 1 second to set them both off again. There’s nothing special about it, but he still feels a torrent of warmth flood his chest even though none of it is real, at least not in that way because all of it was real but not all at once, and it’s not really that different after all is it and–

Shit.

Flayon shifts on the bed and tries to focus on the sound of the rustling sheets after allowing himself a budget of 20 seconds to spend on yearning. Machina X Flayon is not the type of man who yearns, so he refuses to do anything more. It’s not so different from before, except that now he’s aware of it, which obviously makes it much worse. 

And Flayon’s not so naive to forgo a chance at love because it’ll ruin things. No, they’re obviously mature enough to have a conversation about it, but not now. Not for a while. He’s sexy and cool and not going to shy away, just, well, he needs to own this feeling first. He needs to feel completely comfortable existing in it before considering sharing it with someone else, even the people he trusts the most. That’s just how he works. He needs to protect himself.

In the morning, he shakes himself out of strawberry-scented daydreams and pretends like everything is the same. 

Even if it isn’t. 

-

While he’s packing up, Flayon receives no less than 10 calls in a row from Bettel. He finally catches the last one. He’s a bit out of breath, running around helping one student tweak their optical delay line on the optical table and catching his mentor needing one of the teaching assistants to step in on proctoring exams since someone had a medical emergency and fixing the printers that have jammed again because he needs to have a hard copy of this new paper to pore over it later and, well, unfortunately doing everything except running down to the theatre like he wants to. It’s already half past seven, meaning the show has already started and god if he doesn’t wish he could have finished any sooner, but if he rushes he can probably still catch the tail end of it. He promised, after all.

Tempus Hall is a bit more than a quick sprint away, so he absolutely books it through the middling crowds of students trying to find dinner or trudge back home to their tiny apartments. 

“For the last song of the night,” he hears as he tiptoes through a crack in the door, “I wanted to change things up a bit. I think we love in many different ways and music is one of them. If I could love, I’d love you. And if I couldn’t, then I’d do what I could anyway. If love is a dance where we stay together through the fumbled steps and ritardando, then the least I can do is continue playing the music until the song ends.”

Hakka’s guitar, clutched softly in his hands with its midnight purple strap, reflects light off into the darkness in little ripples. As he sneaks into a seat in the back, he stares up at Hakka bathed in the spotlight, bright like the horizon, like Regulus in Leo, like the green light at the end of the ocean that signals to travellers that this is it. This is what you came here for. Enchanting and untarnishable. Like fireworks.

You can hear the smile on his lips as he sings. It’s fucking beautiful and worth every moment. Flayon is utterly silent, red hair and red eyes and red heart and red words stuck in his red chest. It’s almost too much to bear, so he looks away for a moment, just to come back the very next, enchanted. He loses himself in smoothness, the way his vowels are a bit pulled, all yearning and unguarded tones pulled like spun sugar from his core because he trusts the room so deeply to listen, to listen and to savour, and savour he will.

It’s not his fault, perhaps, that he gets lulled into a quiet, reverent state, deep in the darkness of the auditorium as he’s surrounded by Hakka truly in his element. Though maybe it is, that he doesn’t notice a pair of footsteps marching their way up towards him.

“Sleeping already? Was my performance not engaging enough for you?”

Hakka quirks his thumb towards the side door and they slip out into the symphony of stars. Bettel nods at him as they go, pointing to the dressing rooms. He’ll come back afterwards to meet him.

They amble towards their favourite park, the one with the prettier, less cold, less hostile benches. There’s a shop nearby offering half off its last stock from the day’s prepared food. 20% off for a bag of potatoes. 1+1 bundles for orange detergent. Then there’s Hakka, his delighted face flashing across the flickering lights, and he seems so happy as they run in tandem across the crosswalks away from cars that don’t really exist.

“I didn’t sleep the night before,” he eventually admits, hiding the yawn by pretending to adjust the straps of his bag. “Sometimes I get caught up in my own plans. And I miss you when you’ve spent too long outside of them. Isn’t that stupid?”

What he really means is I could never find you boring but he’s not sure if it’s the right time to be making declarations like that, still high off the adrenaline. It's never really the right time.

Hakka’s hair slips from its perch and nest of pins, hanging limp in front of his face. He can see the lights faintly behind them, warped into oblong forms through the beads of sweat on his forehead. Even now he’s glazed in perfection. There’s a rawness to it, the way that he practically glows in the aftermath. In his childhood, the stars were like frozen crystals dangling so far up there. But this, this magical feeling, the way that he looks at Hakka and exhales pure starlight feels pretty damn close.

He is quiet for a minute before he asks the question. “Want me to sing for you? I saw you running in late, so you missed the best part.”

Flayon curses inwardly because he thought he was being as stealthy as possible, and yet somehow he still managed to fuck things up a little. 

“Sorry.”

“Nah, it’s not your fault. Bettel caught me up before I went on. It’s just that you’re a little hard to miss. You’re just so cute and short and you tiptoe like a cat when you don’t want to be spotted and–”

“Sing then, Mr. Ten-Centimeter-Heels,” he interrupts. “If you would be so kind.”

One of his songs is called The Rose. The rolled syllables roll off his tongue like a sigh, sonorous without anything to accompany them. They’re the only ones in the park and he relishes in the song that surrounds them. Hakka is tired. There are bags under his eyes and his skin blisters under the wind, but he simply continues, resolute until the very last note.

They share a glance and he laughs, all his teeth on show like flecks of criss-crossed confetti.

“Wow. You are so perfect.”

“Shut up,” he replies, swatting at his shoulder, but there’s no heat behind it.

“You’re going to hear that all the time from your fans, you know. You can call them your little Hakkitos and they’ll cheer you on with their Ultra Orange light sticks. Maybe I’ll figure out how to make them purple just for you. Ultra Purples.”

“It’s just that it’s different,” he admits, exhaling shakily, “coming from you.”

His heart stutters in his chest, a triplet in what should have been a clean subdivision in 8. He tips his head back to search through the abyss of his gaze, stares back at him with wide eyes.

“Are you saying that I can’t be your fan?”

“Is that all you’re ever gonna be?”

Oh.

He’ll never admit it out loud, not in so many words, not when he knows how smug Hakka will act when he hears, but he’s never felt quite so right until they met, until they were flying at 50 on the back of his bike and watching the lights streak around them, until they were spending nights curled up in blankets as they pass funny clips on their phones back and forth. He still doesn’t like the city, knows he’s going to leave one day, but being with Hakka makes him feel a bit at home.

“It was going to snow this morning and the air was thin. I saw it on the forecast, you know.” Flayon offers him a smile, the kind that’s inexplicably tied to the thought of Hakka’s face. Flayon purposefully draws his eyes to the ground to distract himself, to his shoes, still as high as the godforsaken first day they met. Some things never change, but maybe that’s a good thing. “I knew I should have been trying to sleep. Maybe I could have done more if I had.”

He thinks about the snow, cold and soft as it fluttered to the ground. It would have melted before the day even began and it was so incredibly beautiful.

“I guess I just wanted to see it, you know. In case I missed my chance.”

Flayon glances at him again and half-smiles like he can’t decide if he’s showing his hand too much or not. Hakka becomes more and more of a silhouette in the air as the lights begin to flicker out behind them. These kinds of moments are the type that’ll come back in dreams.

He counts the seconds that pass like dripping honey.

One. 

His throat feels dry.

Two. 

He shifts his gaze past Hakka’s shoulder, concocting blueprints out of constellations.

Three.

There’s a sound, but it's not his own.

“I– Marry me,” Hakka eventually says with a start. Out of every possible thing.

Of all the things he imagined he could have said in response, it was never going to be that.

“What?”

“What?”

“No, you do not get to say what to me! Explain yourself right now, you fucker. Is that supposed to be the ring, huh? Married, huh?”

Hakka jumps a bit, looking down at the pick in his hands. He just finished his set a few minutes before they ran out, too preoccupied with dragging Flayon out the back to grab most of his things. It’s lucky he had anything at all, to be honest.

“I– umm.” Hakka takes a breath, then exhales quickly before letting it flood out of him. “You said before that I should invite you to my wedding but there was never anyone else and I don't know if you got that, we haven't seen each other much lately, and I, well. I didn't mean to say that. Sorry. Not that I never want to marry you either! I was just a little excited and it just came out. Since you– since you said all of that stuff and I thought maybe it meant that you thought there was something you missed and that could never be true, how could that ever be true, but I picked the worst fucking way to say that.”

“So you…”

“So I just want you to know that I care. And that there will always be space for you in my life if you want it. Because I want it too.”

“And you still like me? Even though I’m evil and sexy and broke our promise?”

“You didn’t break a thing,” he reassures him softly, caught under the moonlight.

That was another part of their rapport, the fact that they both understand the constant dichotomy between being the coolest person in the room, too cool to care about what anyone thinks about you, and yet still needing someone to appreciate and acknowledge that, needing them to stay. Or like– specific people, maybe, people that matter more, and he’s never been good at articulating that, but he still knows what to do. That’s why they work. They take turns doing the lifting.

If he wanted anything else, they wouldn’t even be here, so close he can hear the rhythm of his breathing rumbling in his chest. It’s his turn to act first.

“You’ll just have to settle then, I guess,” Flayon huffs as he grabs his hand, rubbing some warmth into it with his own. He should have brought his gloves with him.

Hakka’s confused little tilt of the head has absolutely no right to be as cute as it is. That little shit. Flayon knows exactly how un-cute he can be so how dare he continue to look like this. Hakka with his stupid rosy mouth and his honking strawberry-scented laughter and his eyes, wide and round and oh so– Anyway. He’s thought about kissing him a thousand times before, but never as much as this moment, shivering in their shirts under the light that bounces off the local 7-Eleven. And he knows he can resist the urge, has been resisting it just fine for the last couple years, but what other moment would fit as well as this? He’s simply too cute for his own good.

“Settle?” he repeats.

“Settle for being the second sexiest person alive,” Flayon confidently declares. He laughs and leans in to kiss him, just because he can. “I have to be the first, since I need to be so sexy that no one can resist me.”

It takes a beat, but he easily gets it. Hakka closes the gap between them first, leaning down with a bubbling giggle and pressing a kiss onto his pink cheek before meeting his lips. 

“Not even me?” 

It’s as much of a challenge as it is an answer.

“Especially not you, it’s pointless otherwise.”

Kissing Hakka feels like holding a teacup in your aching hands and letting the warmth slowly glue up all of your hairline fractures. As he pulls away a breeze kisses the nape of his neck, so he leans in again, never one to be beaten. Does it once more for good measure, again and again until they’re a puddle of laughter.

Their laughter bounces off the streetlights, bathing his heart in the warmest glow. Flayon looks at him like he’s finally uncovered the secrets of the universe. This must be what powers the galaxies that stretch beyond them, soft hands on his waist that could easily have strung up the vast canvas of stars. His face is so warm and tender, like something was right with the world now that he was here, and there’s an endless tousled summer blooming in his chest.

It’s Hakka’s fault, maybe, for being so easy to love, but Flayon’s never been anything but happy to reciprocate back twofold.