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Being a ninja is more than just a title. It's a collection of traits and characteristics, of skills and habits, nurtured carefully and strictly for years, built through effort, pain, blood and sweat.
Since training have taken up most of his childhood, Sonic allows himself to creep silently on King without the man noticing. A small, harmless indulgence to amuse himself.
“Yo,” Sonic announces, just to see King jump and startle, his erratic heartbeat immediately filling the room. “Missed me?”
King swallows loudly as Sonic takes to the sofa behind him and starts removing his gear. He loathes to admit it, but he actually looked forwards to it; his back is aching and the guy that hired him for those last two weeks was a pain.
“You’re back,” King finally says. “I thought you were supposed to come back yesterday.”
“Got held up,” Sonic shrugs off the chest plate, and rolls his shoulder, his bones crackling and popping.
“I see,” Kind clears his throat, placing the controller on the floor. “Hungry?"
"Like fuck."
"Hot-pot?"
Sonic hums in approval, watching King get up and dust off his pants. He’d be fine with anything, really. Contrary to the stereotypical otaku profile, King’s actually a great cook, and the food comes free.
“I’ll go wash up."
"Don't forget your clothes." King says sternly, in a tone Sonic knows is just a bluff. Still, it's nice that King loosened up some, and no longer fears Sonic would cut out his throat for the wrong peep.
Snorting, Sonic walks to King’s bedroom, snooping in the closet until he finds a set of his own to change into. King’s picky about Sonic “having to always wear clothes around the house”, after that one incident. Sonic doesn’t mind much, but King’s pants are too long for him, and he'd rather go buck-naked then clad his person with one of those horrendous Moe shirts – thereby, he stacked the closet in King’s bedroom with proper wear for himself.
As he wears his shirt, he notices a different scent hanging to it.
He can’t tell what it is.
*
Dinner is a quite affair, as Sonic likes it. The food is good, and an empty plate is the best feedback he can give to King. King doesn’t press him for any information he’s not comfortable sharing, bound by honor and professional integrity both. He doesn't ask where Sonic's been, or about the bandage he wrapped around one of his fingers due to a ripped-out nail.
Sonic approves.
“I…” King starts, as Sonic is about to finish his second serving.
“I got you something.”
“Hmm?” Sonic inquires, mouth still full, and gestures to King to bring whatever-it-is with a motion of his chopsticks. Nodding, King hurries to obey.
That’s another thing Sonic likes about him, he ponders with a warm, full stomach. King knows how to shut up. Sonic found most people way too vocal for his taste; with King, he can get his meaning across without talking. Or asking moot questions. Or arguing. Though no one really argued with Sonic those last couple of years (and lived to tell the tale.)
“Here,” Sonic blinks at the package placed hurriedly on the table, wrapped in a bright pink warping paper. He places the bowl and chopsticks down, then picks the package; it’s small and light. He prods it with his fingers subtly, attempting to guess what it is before opening it. He draws a kunai out (in his peripheral vision, King flinches) and cuts the package open.
A piece of cloth slips out like liquid onto his palm. It’s incredibly pleasant to the touch.
He looks upwards at King, brows furrowing in question.
“I saw this the other day,” King stutters out. “I thought it would… suit you.”
Sonic looks at the ribbon. It’s blue, spotted with white dots.
“I already have a tie for my hair.” He says in an unspoken question, keeping his eyes on King.
This doesn't make any sense.
“I… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t – I’ll take it back–“
King reaches an empty chair; Sonic is standing several feet away, not sure what made him move.
“No point.” Sonic states, rubbing the towel around his shoulders onto his slightly damp hair. He tilts his head down, going through the usual motions, until he feel the roots of his hairs tugging at his scalp. “It’s useful.” He nods in approval. “I'll keep it.”
“It- it looks…" King rubs his nose, looking away, "… good on you."
Sonic watches him clearing the table, raising his hand to the back of his head, fingers grazing against the ribbon gently. He furrows his brow some more, remembering belatedly the correct procedure to a ritual he hadn’t been privy to in a long while. “Thanks.”
King’s face is horridly flushed, his posture bashed and conflicted.
Sonic likes that looks on him.
*
What Sonic doesn't like is when King stares.
King thinks he's being subtle, and Sonic tolerates his gaze at best, but any long inspection makes him itch all over, wanting either to stab King in the eyes or disappear from his sight.
"What?" he snaps, turning from the movie to glare at King, who flinches back, arms held up as if he’s surrendering.
"Huh?" King peeps. Sonic doesn't like it when he backs down like a groveling worm.
It pisses him off more.
"You were staring."
King gulps, and does not deny the accusation. He licks his lips, and Sonic's eyes flick, just for a moment, to his thin, wide mouth.
"I just thought… your hair…"
"What about it?"
"You… Did you cut it?"
Sonic blinks. King takes his silence the wrong way.
"It- it looks really good!" He hurries to reassure him, his tone pitched.
Sonic looks downwards, inspecting the ends of his loose hair. He did give himself a haircut, the usual deal – snipping at the ends, no more than an inch overall. It could barely consider as a trim.
King couldn't have possibly–
"A haircut wouldn't hurt you, either." Is what comes out of his mouth. "I can do you."
King abruptly morphs into a human-sized tomato.
"I've meant your hair." Sonic adds dryly.
"I forgot the popcorn!" King blurts, jumping of the couch and avoiding eye contact. "I'm – popcorn!" he rushes off to the kitchen.
Sonic lets him go without mentioning they're an hour into the movie. He twirls a lock of his hair around his finger and lets his anger slowly dissipate.
By the time King’s back to sit next to him, setting the popcorn bowl between them, it’s long-gone.
The next time he visits, he cuts King's hair.
(Strangely, he reflects later during an ambush, that was one of the most intimate moments he had with any other person.)
(When he doesn't dose it with ridiculous amounts of gel, King actually has very soft hair.)
*
A month after the haircut, King gives him a scarf. It has a kind of purple flower that Sonic doesn’t recognise printed on it, and good aerodynamic qualities when Sonic trains. It follows the flow of his movements and doesn't tug at his neck or entangles in any of his limbs. The thing he likes most is the scarf faintly smells of King’s cologne; nothing to do with King himself. The smell is just very pleasant. He still doesn’t get why King keeps giving him stuff he already has; they’re nice, yet pointless.
“I’m not one of your Sim-Girls, you know,” Sonic tells him over a steaming dish of delicious oden, not caring for King's sputtering. “You don’t have to buy me things.”
“That’s– that’s not– “ King stutters in distress, seemingly tongue-tied, waving his hands all over the place in an exaggerated, meaningless gesticulation.
Sonic is not impressed.
“King,” he intones seriously. “I have money. You don’t have to buy me things.” He repeats.
“I thought you liked the scarf,” King mumbles, looking inexplicably dejected.
“It’s nice,” Sonic concedes.
“You don’t like it.” King states, illogically.
“I just said I did.”
“It doesn’t sound like you’ve meant it.”
Sonic clicks his tongue in annoyance. King sounds like he's fucking five, and it’s wearing his patience thin. “I wouldn’t have said it otherwise.”
King doesn’t say more, but the silence is not comfortable as it usually is. It aggravates Sonic further. And it shows.
“I just…” King says with some difficulty, fidgeting under Sonic’s glare. “I like… giving you stuff."
“Why?” Sonic is genuinely puzzled.
King shrugs his huge shoulders, his shirt riding up. “You don’t have many nice things for yourself.”
“I have my weapons –“
“Real nice things. For yourself. You deserve those, you know.”
"I don't need your gifts," Sonic says, not unkindly.
The words are like a spell. A miasma of oppressive tension erupts into the atmosphere, tainting it with bitterness and pressing down on the room. Just like that, a crucial piece moved on the board, but Sonic can’t see it, no matter how hard he tries.
"I understand." King says in an unfamiliar tone, getting up to clear the table. “I overstepped my bounds. I apologise. I won’t get you any more presents.”
Sonic doesn’t get to eat a second serving.
*
Things are uneasy after it. There’s an unidentified thread hovering in the air between them, and nothing is casual or relaxed anymore. The food is still good - but the dinners are not. Rather than not snooping, King seems to have lost a quality Sonic can not put into words.
It's beyond aggravating. Beyond annoying. The frustration in Sonic builds into dangerous levels, with no catharsis in sight.
Sonic takes a three-weeks long mission with little remorse, not bothering to notify King ahead. As he packs his new cellphone into his bag, he remembers why he has no acquaintances or any personal connections. Other humans are always too much trouble, when you can't tag them with a proper title. Brother. Rival. Enemy. Employer. King was neither of those things, thus he has no place in Sonic’s life.
The man who hired him is the usual asshole, a sleazy middle-aged man working in the Idol business. Sonic is assigned to watch over ‘Sugar Kookie’, a raising idol who’s touring between cities and received several threats, both personal and professional.
At first, Sonic doesn’t think she’s quite the airhead she makes herself to be; after thirteen grueling hours in the tour-bus together, he is proven wrong.
Not only Sugar is an obnoxious naïve brat, she’s also – surely due to some error he committed in a past life – the number one fan of King, and the head of the Original True King Fan-club™. She spends no less than three hours recounting the now fourteen-months-long rivalry between her club (“– the only club that really matters– “) and the “phony hypocrites” club, who calls themselves The Queens (“– nothing but drama-queens, if you ask me!”; Sonic didn’t ask.)
(She has flowcharts.)
Sonic spends those three hours trying not to inflict any bodily harm upon her. He does pictures it quite vividly in his head, though. It helps.
Sugar doesn’t seem to need his participation for the rant to take place; during the next three weeks he learns more about King then he ever thought possible. King’s age, blood-type, shoe-size, favorite colour, candy and exercise, his least favorite vegetable, colour and music style (those are: twenty-nine, four years Sonic’s senior; this actually comes as a slight surprise, AB, 46, blue, mint, running, radish, off-white and punk rock.) He learns that King donates a significant portion of his Hero Association paycheck to libraries, which was kept under the wraps until one of the librarians told it to the press (– “Just shows how noble he is!” Sugar sighs dreamily –), and that there was never any significant other, a fact Sugar hopes will keep until her contract expires (which she mentions about twice a day.)
Physical distance doesn’t keep King away; instead, it just makes Sonic constantly irked.
The innards of the bus are basically paneled with King’s pictures, along with anything Sugar possesses – from her laptop, to her bags to a creepy set of bed-sheets. Sugar favorite past-time is re-watching his interviews over and over, or checking her mail for new videos featuring news items about him (around four per week.) King’s low baritone follows Sonic wherever he goes, which can’t be too far from his client.
Sonic thinks about the woman and her tales.
She doesn’t know the expression King makes when he finds out a secret dungeon. How his living room smells. The fact King’s toothbrush is purple, speckled with little yellow stars, and that he changes it every month.
Sonic looks at the shuriken he’s polishing and wonders what colour the new toothbrush is, and how Sugar Kookie would react if she ever learns the truth about King.
(He likes to imagine it’ll be with a stroke.)
*
“Sonic-chan!” Sugar greets him cheerily at the second week of her tour, even when he asked her not to call him that. “Good morning!”
“Morning, Kookie-san.” He nods politely as she takes a sit around the dining table, because calling her Sugar tastes bitter in his mouth.
Sugar chatters constantly, unaware of the concept of sitting still or letting people eat their breakfast in peace. She eats, talks, checks for updates on her glitter-ridden cellphone and occasionally shoves the screen at Sonic’s face.
Sonic wonders if she’ll have any fans, after any of them would be forced to sit through just one meal with her. Sonic has been forced to sit through every meal, every day.
“Ahhh, what’s this?” She exclaims loudly, her cheerful expression turning brighter. “A new ribbon?”
Sonic hand rises to touch the back of his head self-consciously, even when he knows he just tied it an hour ago. The previous black hair-tie was lost between locations. He shrugs, and chews on his toast.
“It’s cute!” Sugar persists, leaning close, unaware of bizarre concepts like personal space. She smells like vanilla and citrus flowers, and Sonic holds himself back from sneezing at her heavily make-up’ed face. “Where did you get it?”
“Someone gave it to me.” Imagining her reaction to finding out the identity of said ‘someone’ makes his lips curl upwards. He hides his smirk behind his toast, but apparently does a poor job at it.
“Awwwww,” she croons, eyes sparkling, “your girlfriend?”
“No.” He frowns.
“Yet you were smiling so merrily a moment ago!” She clucks her tongue and nudges his shoulder amicably, radiating joy. “Who else would get you a hair-accessory?”
“Just about anyone.” Sonic examines her, from her pink hair – riddled with countless hairpins – to her powdered-blushed cheeks, but it doesn’t seem like she’s teasing. For the first time, Sonic is minimally interested in her viewpoint on the matter, just for curiosity’s sake.
“What difference does it make, if it’s an accessory?”
Sugar sighs dramatically, shaking her head from side to side, sending glitter into the air.
“Boys!” She exclaims out of nowhere, and Sonic quickly turns to see if anyone managed to sneak behind him, adrenaline spiking when he drops his toast to draw his katana – but there’s no one in the room but them.
“Stop acting silly, Sonic-chan.” She motions for him to sit, as if he was the one spewing random words out of his mouth. “You don’t give a guy an accessory if they’re just a friend. In a colour that compliments their eyes.”
“Compliments their eyes?”
“Your eyes.”
“Compliments… my eyes?”
“They’re quite extraordinary.” She winks at him. While Sonic’s eyesight is vastly better than the majority of the population, he doesn’t see how a hair piece can affect them in any way. He briefly wonders if Sugar is so clueless she thinks accessories in real life function like items in video games.
“And you got all that… from a piece of cloth?”
Sugar giggles and puts down her orange juice, dabbing a napkin at her lips like an aristocrat.
“It’s just so obvious. I hope you’re not leading her on, Sonic-chan.”
“I’m not leading anyone on.” Sonic frown deepens, bits of crumbs getting in between his teeth with every bite of his toast.
“You accepted it, didn’t you? But you say she isn’t your girlfriend.” Sugar taps her chin to signature she’s thinking, forgetting she’s not in a photo shoot, but in a hotel’s suite, in the real world, where the gesture is moot. “Did she give you any more presents?”
“Yes. But I said I didn’t need those.” He pokes his tongue around his mouth, trying to clean his teeth from the offending crumbs. He should’ve brought a senbon with.
“Awww, Sonic-chan. Wouldn’t you at least give her a chance?”
Sonic leans back on the chair and crosses his arms over his chest, leveling her a look.
“There’s no chance.”
“Sonic-chan!” Sugar surges up from her chair, slamming her hands so strongly on the table it shakes up the cutlery. Her expression is stricken in the extreme way only melodramatic people can fully master (and the mascara helps.) “There’s always a chance for love!”
“That’s not what– “ Sonic tries to amend his phrasing and correct her misinterpretation, but she’s quick to seize both of his palms in her hands.
They are very small, delicate hands. Fragile.
“You should never play with people’s hearts, Sonic-chan.” She looks at his seriously, and Sonic does his best no to laugh at the sheer irony of her words. “If you don’t like her that way, you should tell her.”
He contemplates how to make her drop the subject, before he’ll make her drop from the hotel’s forty-third floor.
“It’s not that.” He settles on saying, keeping his phrasing deliberately vague.
She grasps his hands even tighter. Her hands are so smooth, it feels unnatural, like she had never picked a pebble to throw at a lake in her entire life.
“Don’t deny your true feelings, Sonic-chan!”
“I’m not,” he replies, honest. “I won’t.”
“Then you do like her!” Sugar claims loudly, as if reciting a dialogue from a cliché-storybook, filling both parts. “I’m so happy for you, Sonic-chan! There’s nothing more beautiful in the world than love!”
She charges forwards at him, wrapping her arms tightly around him. Sonic pats her back lightly and keeps from throwing her across the room onto a crystal vase that would surely explode into a million glass splinters. The hug lasts twenty-seven excruciating seconds. Sonic thinks of his pay.
“You could always come to me if you need more advice!” Sugar says cheerily as she finally lets him go. “Or if you want to bring her a gift of your own! We could go shopping together!”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” he says dryly, but she fails to catch his tone.
Then again, Sonic thinks as he finishes his soggy toast, with the music she makes, she’s probably tone-deaf.
*
The tour ends with no major incidents (but few minor ones who sent Sonic’s pent-up rage at the direction of few unfortunate fans). Sonic stands at his client’s office, wanting to clear up the final details in the subject of his payment. He leans against the wall as the man yells into the phone’s receiver, eyes scanning the office automatically for flaws in security. The vents that can have toxic gas pouring out of them, or offer a potential escape route; the glass windows behind the man’s large mahogany desk, a disaster in the making; a blind spot to the door’s right, not covered by the cameras…
As his eyes catalogue each detail, they pause to inspect a somehow familiar sight. A small plastic figure encased within a showcase; he moves, and a blink later he can confirm that the showcase is made out of reinforced glass. The figure itself is a ridiculous thing, a cheery young girl, oddly proportioned, who’s standing in an impossible posture (unless her spine is broken in two different vertebras). There’s owls fluttering around the girl like fat round pillows. The colours are bright and clashing, enough to hurt one's eyes.
“Hey, Sakamoto-san,” he calls to the man, “how much for the doll?”
The man looks up from his papers and covers the receiver with his hand, looking at the figure Sonic’s pointing at.
“Don’t be silly, Sonic-chan,” the man chortles condescendingly, picking the privilege of the suffix like it’s his right. “I can hardly part with– “
It’s a good thing the bomb chooses to explode in that moment. If it hadn’t, Sonic would’ve surely had, seeing as he was about to ask Akira if he would rather part with his liver.
*
The apartment is dark when Sonic arrives, easily unlocking a window.
It’s past dinner time, but King’s not home. Sonic walks past half-eaten take-away boxes and shoujo mangas strewn all over the floor in disarray.
It's strange when King is not around. The place seems duller. Sonic hovers uncertainly, after checking in all of the rooms. Waiting for King to arrive seems ridiculous, but hunting him down seems redundant. The fridge is empty and Sonic's stomach is rumbling. He settles for instant ramen, frowning over the chemicals he feels spreading on his tongue and scraping at his stomach.
He has grown so fucking spoilt, and he hasn’t even realized it.
It’s very, very late when King returns. It smells like he has brought back the entire bar with him.
“Darlin’,” he slurs, eyes unfocused. “I’ve missed you.”
He stumbles over trash, and Sonic quickly catches him, supporting his weight and wrapping one of King's arms around his shoulders. The man is heavy, but his mass pressing down on Sonic is a strangely pleasant sensation.
“It’s so good that you’re back." King murmurs down at him, breath reeking of alcohol. "No presents. I promise, Darling.”
"What's with the Darling," Sonic snips at him, annoyed at the diminutive. After three weeks of being forced to bear it, he just about had it.
"Option B," King smiles brightly down at him, and passes out.
*
Sonic makes breakfast.
It’s not amazing, but scrambled eggs and coffee would have to do.
“Sonic,” King’s eyes grow wide. Self-consciously, he tugs the blanket upwards. “You’re here.”
“Obviously.” Sonic rolls his eyes, dumping the tray onto King’s lap. “Eat up.”
“I thought you were gone.” King says, not looking at the offered food.
“I was just on some job.”
“You didn’t say anything.”
(Things seem almost back to normal between them, when Sonic manages to ruin it.)
“It didn’t seem necessary.”
Then the tension’s back, but Sonic would not have it. Desperate times call for desperate measures – he runs to get the package from the living room, then goes back and shoves it at King.
“Here.”
“What is it?” King asks unnecessarily as he takes the box into his hands carefully.
“A laser gun.” Sonic deadpans.
“Really?”
“No.” Sonic grits his teeth. “It's a dead pigeon."
King eyes the package. Then Sonic.
Sonic gives him the benefit of hungover.
"Don't be an idiot."
King opens the package.
Then he stares. A lot.
Sonic is good in non-verbal communication, but he’s not getting it. The silence feels extremely uncomfortable, and he can't even tell what 'it' is that he’s not getting.
“H.. How did you get it?”
“Came across it,” Sonic shrugs, King's reaction making him uneasy, and he shifts his weight from one foot to the other restlessly. “Seems like something you’d like.”
“This… This is… Iwa-chan, from ‘Owls, Dungeons and the Mystery of the Rubble Unicorn’.” King whispers in awe. “It was an A-Prize, six years ago. I bought two-hundred-and-thirteen lottery tickets, and I still didn’t get it. It's supposed to be– it’s signed –" he holds his breath, and flips the figure, staring at the bottom of the girl’s shoe like it just started talking and offered him the answer to life itself.
“– Signed by Kumagai-sama, the greatest storyteller of our time…you can't… it's in mint-condition. You can’t just come across a treasure like that."
"Looks like I just did."
King stares at him, probably wondering if he did something illegal to get it, and how bad would it be if King didn't exactly mind it.
“I could never compare– "
“It’s just a doll.” Sonic’s unsure of the meaning of King’s expression. Why did exchanging physical items between people became a common practice? It didn’t do any good. Whoever started this dubious custom? Surely, they couldn’t have meant well for humankind.
King looks shaken. "Sonic. This is the Holy Grail of ODMRU fans. No one even knew who got this prize. It's a legend. A legend among legends."
"And now you have it." Sonic says, unimpressed. "Eat your breakfast. It's getting cold and I'm not making you a new one."
King stares some more.
"Does this…"
Sonic quirks an eyebrow.
"Sonic, are we… dating?"
"No," Sonic clarifies, hands on his hips. "I make breakfast to all of my friends. My legion of pals. My many guy buddies. After dragging their sorry asses to bed and watching them overnight to make sure they won’t choke on their puke after they tried to guzzle down a fucking brewery.”
King looks honest-to-god crestfallen, like he’s watching Sonic stomping over puppies while simultaneously peeing all over the Hero Association logo.
"You really deserve your name, you know," Sonic growls, fisting the front of King’s shirt in his hand and jerking him forwards. "You're a royal pain in the ass.”
As far as first kisses go, this is probably not the best one.
Good thing neither of them knows better.
(At least, not until their second kiss, seven seconds later.)