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The definition of a secret is something that is not told and is never discovered.
Voltaction is a collection of them. A four-man show of broom-closet skeletons. Assassin, ex-spy, phantom thief, mafia heir— the sort of stuff you’d find in locked-draw ledgers and dark web hit lists. These aren’t so much unknown as they are personal footnotes. Knowledge that, by now, is two or three years old, and far past the point of revelatory. As such, it isn’t a secret , really. If anyone thought to form a theory, it might as well be obvious.
–Or so believes Shikinagi Akira.
Call it professional instinct, but he knows just as well the nature of secret-keeping is actually rather fickle. The biggest, blackest histories are, he’s found, bound to make a person louder about their lesser matters. That Seraph judges people by their haircare or that Kanato likes sexy desert dancers are just a myriad of the not-entirely-public things that tend to pop out of their mouths in public anyway.
Which is why Akira often turns to the unremarkable. The people who are noisy, or laid-back, or overly honest for no reason other than having nothing to hide. Or the ones who simply don’t think enough to form a thought worth keeping under lock and key.
Prime example one—
It is well known that Watarai Hibari does not drink. It is equally well known that he is an extrovert. One plus one is two, and it stands to reason that he frequents bars, restaurants, and places where the foot traffic flows and never stops. Where the night stretches long, and conversations rise and lull, until the train curfew approaches and the intersection of lives is forced to disperse. Entertaining is in his blood. His charisma is so thoroughly sparkly , that his social effortlessness is shamelessly mystifying. And when he’s out of friends to lead by the hand, it follows he might go out alone.
That no one ever considers this is what makes it secret— if not by practice, then purely by definition. An expectation, maybe, as opposed to a confirmed truth.
*****
Twenty-one hundred hours on a Saturday night, Watarai Hibari meanders.
Not as usual an occurrence as it used to be, with how rare downtime has become. He might’ve brought Kanato with him, if the conditions were right. If Kanato wasn’t streaming, or occupied with mafia stuff, or battery-fried from a social event, or contracting a stomach bug, or overworking, or doing anything that Hibari is told is ‘keeping him busy’ .
So Hibari meanders. Hands shoved in his pockets, the taste of shoyu ramen clinging to his molars. The sky stretches long and vast and smoky with light pollution. His shoes aren’t even comfortable— some cheap dress shoes, already scuffed because he keeps kicking pebbles. A few of them tumble into the gutter, and others lodge in the pavement cracks. A cheap suit jacket, unbuttoned. A white shirt. A red tie he borrowed from Kanato—to really sell the look of some miserable salaryman.
The mission hadn’t been difficult at all; standard infiltration and eavesdropping. Nothing that demanded more than budget formal attire and a bit of patience. Normally, Hibari wouldn’t be dejected over wearing some clothes that chafe a little too much. It’s smart to overcompensate for extraneous variables though, so they’d scheduled the rest of the day free.
When the mission had ended around early evening, Hibari had thought for sure, for sure, Kanato had time today. A guaranteed night off, on a weekend, and a mission so easy he definitely had energy to spare for Hibari, right? Turning to Kanato, heart swelling— I’ve finally got you this time!— grinning wide to blurt something about the new ramen place downtown, and—
Sorry, Hibari. I’ve actually gotta go check in at the cafe today. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow?
Huh?
Just because Hibari doesn’t get as many shifts as he used to, doesn’t mean he’s out of the loop. He’d swung by yesterday, and the girls had told him Kanato stopped in the day before. He’d already checked in, hadn’t he? Then it was a lie, wasn’t it? And why would—?
Then the door to the Laundry had closed behind him, the rattle of the frame resonating in Hibari’s soles. He’d blinked, invitation dead in his throat, left with the drawl of a half-hearted farewell leaking from his mouth.
Secret: Watarai Hibari has a crush on his best friend.
Truth: He’d been thoroughly rejected before he could get a word out.
Forecast: Dead on arrival. He will never confess.
*****
Prime example two—
Shikinagi Akira has done a lot of things, because he wanted to. Crossdressing—more than once. Buying a car in a city where the tolls are highway robbery. Working at bars. Mingling with people from all corners of Shinjuku. Just acquiring a general zest for life. His connections are numerous, his mind remarkably open. A known source of excellent advice and unnervingly accurate insights, Akira’s experiences keep expanding— such is the assumption.
The difference between him and Hibari is that his matters are decisively private. Not because they necessitate secrecy, per se, but more so because Akira is the kind of person that is naturally inclined toward keeping personal stuff personal . There are very few friendships that demand the fact Akira takes a temporary job at a bunny bar to be made known. Though if one were to ask, Akira would answer honestly. It isn’t as if he’s ashamed of it or anything.
Is it a secret? In practice, perhaps. Hardly by definition.
The job, he does as a favour for a friend— a lovely, well-mannered woman, the owner of a girl’s bar Akira used to visit on occasion. It’s a small establishment with a close circle of workers, who had all decided to go on vacation to America together. Though there was no shortage of ladies looking for work, the proprietor was hesitant to install new hires on the premise of them having to be fired later. So she’d rung a few contacts, one of which happened to be Akira.
It doesn’t matter if you’re a man, I’d just really appreciate it if you helped me look after the bar for a week. You’re a manager, aren’t you? Do you mind? I’ll take down the advertising so you get less customers.
To be precise, Akira is the only manager of Room 4S, which has Seraph for its singular employee, but.
No, of course not, Akira had said. With pleasure.
The clothes are nice. A waistcoat of dark satin over a faded rust-coloured shirt— slightly loose in the sleeves but tighter in the cuffs— brought together in the form of a red bow tie at the throat. The bunny headband is white and slightly lop-eared, and Akira is still allowed to wear his gloves. The belt is beginning to break in by Saturday night, his third shift. It’s overall very comfortable. Akira is pleasantly satisfied to find the tail is far less stupid than he expected.
Secret: Shikinagi Akira works at a bunny bar.
Truth: It’s only temporary, but he’s quite proud to have been relied on.
Forecast: Outlook is good, except—
*****
At twenty-one-thirty hours, the weight of rejection presses heavy on Hibari’s shoulders. His toes drag, further marring the sheen on his shoes, and the ramen flavour in his mouth is starting to sour. Were he exhausted at all he could go home and sleep off the misery, then wake up to the next morning’s sun and steel himself in front of the mirror. New day, new opportunities. But the crux of the issue is that he isn’t tired, not in the slightest.
His sadness is too pervasive to warrant shaking it off at karaoke, or finding a friendly gentleman to talk to in a restaurant. Going home seems like a good way to mope around and do absolutely nothing but stew in being hopelessly lovelorn. He’s confident he’d end up sniffling to the beat of an especially heartsick love song of some kind.
Kanato is avoiding him, and the fact sits stupid in his brain, dreary and unmoving and utterly determined to make him cry. Hibari doesn't feel un sociable, but he wouldn’t mind somewhere quiet. Somewhere he can get a drink or two that’ll put him under. Somewhere with people nice enough that they’ll load him in a taxi or call his emergency contact and send him home when he falls asleep and drools on the counter.
There aren’t a lot of placid, gentle places like that on a Saturday night in Tokyo. Sometimes there’s a flier on a streetlight or a sidewalk sign with caricature arrows drawn in chalk. Tonight, Hibari steps on a faint neon reflection in vaguely damp concrete, wet from a hedge of seasonal flowers recently watered. He spares no moment to consider, just blindly follows it down to the end of the alley, where he’s greeted by a plain door with an otherwise ornate facade and a pair of lamplights.
*****
Prime example three—
Watarai Hibari steps into the bar, unthinking. Equally as unthinking, Shikinagi Akira turns at the muted creak of the hinges, polishing a rocks glass, and says, “Welcome.”
One foot in the doorway, Watarai Hibari, frozen, stares.
Behind the countertop, Shikinagi Akira’s mouth goes slack, the start of what can I get for you trailing into oblivion.
Dumbly, foolishly, Hibari blurts, “ Akira?! ”
Akira’s face catches still before he can finish a grimace. Instead, he closes his eyes a moment and inhales, and reminds himself, he is working right now.
“Tarai,” he replies, slow, measured, “What are you doing here?”
Hibari jolts fully inside, and the door eases closed with a modest little click . He hovers on the welcome mat, skittish, nervous smile wavering between happily startled and genuinely perturbed at being caught walking into a night bar by a close friend.
“Um, wait, shouldn’t I be asking you?” Hibari’s wide-eyed gawk travels over Akira’s vest to the half-flopped bunny ears perched atop his head, where it hovers blankly.
Akira jars Hibari free of his distraction with a sharp thunk of glass— earning an anxious flinch for his trouble.
He sighs, “It’s a favour to someone,” and then gestures to the stool opposite him. “Sit down. You came here to drink, didn’t you?”
Hibari hesitates, the smile slipping from his face the second he parses the invitation. Something unguarded replaces it; something a little pale and downtrodden. It’s an expression worn frequently by the patrons of such establishments. On Hibari, it’s not familiar. Though Akira has seen Hibari tired before, it’s never looked like this.
Akira pins it immediately: Heartbreak?
For now, he stows the notion away for safekeeping.
The bar is blessedly empty, as Hibari slides into the seat. The karaoke stage, spot-lit and red-curtained, is silent. There’s a hint of piano jazz, turned low in the background, soft and lilting and unintrusive. Hibari folds and unfolds his hands on the counter, lifts them, sets them back down— fixes his golden eyes on everything except Akira, standing there in a bow tie and bunny ears.
“So?” prompts Akira, “What’s on your mind?”
Finally, Hibari meets his eyes with another nervous twitch of his fingers. “Huh?”
Akira suppresses a second sigh, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “This is a talk bar. Or weren’t you aware of that when you walked in?”
Hibari pauses, thinks, then says vaguely, “I probably wasn’t…?”
“Watarai,” Akira grits, exasperated.
Hibari’s shoulders slump. “I was looking for somewhere quiet. I thought a drink would make me tired.”
Sympathy tugs at Akira’s heartstrings. He isn’t accustomed to a Hibari so disheartened; it makes his responses feel off-beat every time they leave his lips. Atypical behaviour, but within character. That Hibari is a romantic is core to Akira’s knowledge as his friend, so whatever brought him to the bunny bar tonight must be about someone important. If Hibari had a girlfriend or someone similar, Akira is certain he’d know — not because Hibari would tell him, but because it’s literally his business as the manager of an odd jobs agency that mostly deals in information behind the scenes. But he doesn’t, so there mustn’t be.
Therefore…
“Did something happen between you and Kanato?”
Hibari makes a noise in his throat, between a whine and a groan. He sags onto the countertop in a heap, and mutters into the grain, “Can’t get anything past you, Akira.”
Akira frowns, brows knitting. Hibari isn’t perfect, but he’s never so defeated. In Hibari’s rarest moments, he might get snippy in frustration or teary when he’s moved, but now his entire body folds with what Akira can only describe as dejection. The gloomy aura ill-suits, so Akira turns and reaches for the jigger.
“Well, if you want to talk about it,” he starts, pulling juices from the fridges hidden under-counter. “You’re literally paying me to listen.”
Hibari huffs a subdued chuckle into his arms, “‘Course. Can’t have you cut Seraph’s pay to two acorns instead of three, huh?”
Uncapping the ingredients and measuring them out, Akira stays quiet. He waits, patiently layering them together into the shaker— reciting the mnemonics to himself as he goes— expecting the moment Hibari gathers the disarrayed pieces of his mind to build a sentence. He’s dropping a handful of ice into the tumbler when Hibari breaks the silence,
“He lied about having things to do today,” he murmurs, dull, “Just as I was about to invite him to the new ramen place nearby,” then, more delicately, “I don’t know. I think he’s avoiding me.”
Akira spares a glance over his shoulder, where Hibari sits scratching idly at the countertop with a fingernail. Half-lidded, eyes downturned, still swept up in the fog of rejection. Akira feels a sting of annoyance. He exhales loudly through his nose and slots the tumblers together, and shakes-shakes-shakes, irritation growing tight on his face with each count.
This sense of denial Akira is getting is personally familiar.
Kanato, that bastard. What is he doing?
When the cold of the drink starts to bite the pads of his thumbs through his gloves, Akira separates the cups with a pop and strains them over a square cube of ice in a rock glass. A soft sniffle sounds behind him. He checks again. Hibari’s eyes are glassy.
Akira gnaws at his aggravation, holding it between his teeth as he reaches for the punet of tomatoes in the fridge. “You didn’t make him angry, did you?”
A small, uncertain whimper, “I don’t think so…”
The irritation flares. With more force than necessary, Akira plunk s the cherry tomato on the foam, where it teeters precariously before settling. Its redness glares at him. He glares back. The colour is particularly annoying right now. Why?
And he realises, with unwelcome clarity, Kanato’s cute little lie offers the same impression of careless denial that’s recently been pouring off Seraph in waves.
Secret: Fura Kanato and Seraph Dazzlegarden have caught feelings.
Truth: Shikinagi Akira knows.
Forecast: Watarai Hibari does not .
*****
Prime example four—
When observing a friendship as sturdy and fluent as Hibari and Kanato’s, it’s easy to fall into either camp:
Wasn’t that a little odd? , or, No, I must be overthinking.
But there comes a time where the observer has to make a decision on which side they will take. And Shikinagi Akira, holder of the title for Man who Best Understands a Woman’s Heart , suspected that his judgements were not entirely misplaced.
In his unique experience, Akira has made his fair share of mistakes. It comes with the territory when you’re bisexual, a romantic, admittedly love-lonely, and your friends are male— you tend to third-guess your suspicions, and justify them in every possible way, eliminating the chance to succumb to the belief that someone isn’t just being nice and might be interested, actually.
Fortunately, love is blind and Akira is not. The veteran fudanshi has a trained eye, and Akira has seen enough to know.
In high school, it’d been a mild scepticism. He’d listen to Kanato complain about council work and whinge about wanting to play video games, moaning about how Hibari’s waiting to play this game with me or there’s a movie I was going to watch with Hibari. Stuff that can be pawned off as a product of a good, healthy best-buddy friendship.
Not even a full week ago, Akira was sitting at the dining table in Hibari’s apartment, listening to him chirp a tune over pots and pans. Akira was sipping coffee and watching blatantly as Kanato stared at Hibari’s back.
And stared. And stared. And stared some more.
There was no smile on his face. No mushy, melty expression of unadulterated affection. Rather, his muscles were pinched in contemplation, chin propped on one hand, something pooling under the surface as the gears in his head cranked a mile a minute.
Kanato was weighing something.
Then his lip twitched, before pulling into a thin line. His hand fell to the table in displeasure, and he shifted to look out the window instead, the slope of his elbows too sharp.
“What are you thinking?” Akira had asked, tone just careful enough to sound smooth.
Kanato skimmed him lazily, trying to read something in Akira’s features, and said,
“Well, it’s not important.”
Akira had catalogued it in nanoseconds. Deliberate poise, a harder tone. The cold in his eyes. The lingering, deafened voice that said, no, I shouldn’t .
Akira knew.
Secret: Fura Kanato likes Watarai Hibari.
Truth: Shikinagi Akira knew, in an instant—
Forecast: Not bright.
The worst of them, prime example number five—
Seraph Dazzlegarden is something of a special case. His emotional maturity has come along in leaps and bounds, but, like Kanato, there has been some manner of delay. While Kanato had found his independence much earlier, extricating himself from the grasp of a mafia-driven homeschooling, Seraph had not settled until Akira talked him out of slitting his throat— Akira’s throat— killing him dead in the school hallway after-hours.
Not for a second had Akira genuinely thought he was going to die— but he remembers the relief that had flooded his veins when Seraph’s face had shattered at the edges, plagued by conflict. That he’d mellowed out so thoroughly into a gentle giant far too good for the history that shaped him, is one of Akira’s greatest prides.
To be entirely honest with himself, Akira isn’t even sure of his conclusion now . It’d been a few days before that night in Hibari’s apartment, when Kanato had said,
“Hey, Sera. Give me some of that chocolate too?”
The very same Akira was holding in the palm of his hand, the size of a thumbtack out of an expensive, branded box Seraph had picked up from a confectionery store, that so happened to be Akira’s preferred flavour.
“No way,” Seraph had retorted with breezy amusement, “Get your own.”
“Whaaaaaat… but you gave a bunch to Akira, though?”
Seraph popped one in his own mouth, pointedly gloating. Kanato had pouted. Akira had been mid-bite when Hibari started laughing about it, but the laughter did not reach his ears. Instead, he’d stopped, and put the rest of the chocolates down, and chewed slowly to stall out his loading process.
Was he being favoured? Was he Seraph’s favourite? What was that? Is he overthinking? No, normally, doesn’t Seraph share? Normally. He does, doesn’t he? This guy who also likes cooking, he’s definitely the sort to share, right? So then, why me—?
He’d fumbled for something to say. Instead, a wonky grin-scowl appended itself on his face, and he’d bumbled out, “What? Ha, these are for me?”
Seraph had looked at him, the picture of calm, and shrugged, “I guess so. I got them for free for PR, though. The others won’t like them.”
A voice in Akira’s head had screamed, tsundere?!
“Ahaha. That does make sense.”
It might’ve been funny, if Kanato and Hibari had not gone totally silent. If anything, they should be making a racket. A fuss, a scene . Anything, anything at all, that would’ve made the howling in Akira’s chest less painfully awkward than it was.
To steady the room, Akira added, “If I eat too many, I’ll get a stomach ache. They’re delicious, thank you.”
A line that would bait teasing, poking fun. Invite the opposite of absolute absurdity. No such alleviation was given. Rather, Seraph blinked— proxy for a hurt flinch— and said,
“Oh, sorry. Yeah, no problem.”
Clumsy. Akira had wanted to sink into the floor and compress so paper-thin he ceased existing altogether. Clumsy. So damn clumsy. He wouldn’t have felt that bad if he didn’t know that the idea of Seraph liking — liking him , that much, made his heart race like a rabbit on the prairie.
Since then, Seraph has not come within an arm’s length. Always standing at the other side of Akira’s desk rather than over Akira’s shoulder.
Was this guy really so sensitive about hurting people that he’d get strange over the prospect of a stomach ache? Or was it plain nerves? And yet, Akira hadn’t the heart to push. Seraph’s emotional emergence needed to come at his own pace; although, Akira could still be wrong .
Though, going by Hibari and Kanato’s reaction at the time… he wasn’t.
Damn.
Secret: Seraph Dazzlegarden likes Shikinagi Akira, probably.
Truth: He isn’t ready for it yet.
Forecast: Slow.
*****
Hibari’s cheek and forehead are marked with the imprints of his shirt cuffs. The threads of his hair catch on the edges— the jacket is too small, the tie shaken too loose. The tomato rolls, sinks with the weight, then bobs back to the surface. As Hibari peeks over the lip of his arms, Akira sees the glassiness pooling in dewy beads on his lashes.
His frustration spikes. He’s standing here in a waistcoat and bow tie, with a ball of cotton stuck to his tailbone and bunny ears perched on his head, and somehow he’s the least ridiculous person in the entirety of this embarrassing, gangly tangle. Somehow. Seriously, how?
Akira sets the drink down, then nudges it forward an inch, deliberate.
“They’re frustrating, to say the least,” he begins, and the crease in his brows tightens, “Rest assured, Tarai. Kanato will get over himself eventually.”
Hibari makes a noncommittal sound, unmoved by Akira’s comforts. The bar remains empty, a small pocket of solitude in the corner of a city that is busy and big and loud outside. Hibari should not fit so well into this space, but does anyway— dwarfed by the magnitude of emotions he always, always feels too strongly.
Well, Akira understands.
It’s a small mercy that Akira doesn’t feel so much discouraged as he does impatient . Seeing all the cards in play, and yet not allowed to make a move. Seraph’s hesitation, Kanato’s intentional ignorance. They grate on him, profoundly so, and he’s worked so hard to hold steady and let them all work it out amongst themselves, as capable adults should . That Hibari had gone so long without falling apart like this is testament to his fortitude. That he’d walked into Akira’s bar— someone who knows the story, sees the episodes unfold every damn day of his life; sees, remembers — is testament to his luck.
“I’unno,” mumbles Hibari into the fabric of his clothes, “What if Kanato doesn’t? He’s a softie, but he’s our leader because he’s good at sticking to hard decisions…” he eyes the waiting cocktail, but doesn’t reach for it.
Akira wants to kick someone.
Kanato, you bastard ! And in a moment of petty vindication, and Serao, too. You’re both terrible.
“Mmgh,” grunts Akira, trying very hard to be normal. His grasp on composure is slipping rapidly.
He warily gauges the door. For a beat, listens for footsteps— nothing, no one. Then he quickly walks the length of the bar. Finally raising his head, Hibari watches him curiously as Akira pulls out the stool beside him and sits purposefully, crossing his legs.
The moment hangs. Akira’s face twists as he debates his words, and Hibari follows his expressions with vague confusion. Clinging to the very last scrap of reason, Akira lets it drag. Trying, for all the world not to say anything mean or damning , or anything that could tilt the axis of the precarious balance holding their group together by a thread bent on fraying.
Then Hibari prods at the base of the cocktail, flicks the tomato by its calyx and lets it roll again. A thin sigh slips free, and the dew in his eyes turns blobby. In a tiny, tinny voice, he whispers,
“What if he hates me now or something? I don’t know what to do…”
The corner of Akira’s eye twitches. His patience snaps.
Prime example six—
“I’m about to say a lot of things,” Akira pronounces, cautious and weighed, so that it seeps into Hibari’s frontal lobe and ensures that he hears. “And I expect it doesn’t leave this room. Understood?”
Hibari cocks his head.
“Uh, sure. You can count on me.”
Akira opens his mouth, and the words pour .
“They’re idiots,” he hisses, the sound thick between his canines. “When it comes to in-depth emotions, they’re morons. They’re justifying inaction with a deliberate ignorance that’s facilitated by the excuse that they’re too dangerous or burdensome ,” his tone tilts up at the end, “like we haven’t spent years being their friends in the first place!”
Hibari blinks, brows raised. He’s listening, intently— he can’t really not , with how visceral the syllables are—
“They’re predictable,” Akira goes on, gloved hands shaking in petulant fists, “So predictable, I’m ninety-nine percent sure I can guess what’s going on inside their heads, and it’s infuriating,” then his hands splay like a frilled-neck lizard, forcing Hibari to lean back a few inches, “because what was it for then?! I’m sure by now we’ve said it a million times— that it doesn’t matter what they did, that we’re not forcing ourselves to be friends with them, that they’re not big bad wolves and we’re not red riding hoods—”
— But Hibari isn’t really processing any of it. There’s no gaps in Akira’s sentences; only massive, heaving breaths, and the rough growls that tend to rumble through when he rotates through so many octaves at once.
“That they think it’s better — I mean, Kanato, for instance, he reeks of it, that gargantuan jerk, he likes you that much and he’s making you cry—? Utterly foolish. They’re clever , they’ve known us for years , how can they believe this manner of thinking doesn’t drive us mad? And yet, and yet ,” his sentence drops, suddenly brooding, “We can’t do a damn thing. These absolute jackasses parading their stupidity around all the time and we have to sit here and wait because if we press them they’ll implode or clam up like seafood.”
A pause, finally. But Hibari is far past being able to respond. He sits there, the thoughts shaken out of him like loose change from a couch cushion, winded. And Akira, straining for anything to validate his outburst, surges forward and yanks on Hibari’s tie:
“Don’t you think so?!”
Hibari squeaks out a fuzzy affirmation, “Uh huh?”
Secret: Shikinagi Akira knows everything.
Truth: He’s had enough.
Forecast: There is nothing to be done.
By the time the froth on the cocktail is dissipating, Akira releases his hold on Hibari’s tie. His expression stays seized, all the lines in his skin jammed up in undeniable indignation, but beginning to cool.
“Sorry,” he rasps, but it’s knotty, like he’s still swallowing down snarls trapped in his throat. “I didn’t mean to shout,” as an afterthought, he grouses, “They’re so annoying, though.”
And Hibari— Hibari laughs.
It’s a light chuckle, a series of hazy breaths halfway to a stuttery sob. He wipes the water that had gathered, wobbling, at the corner of his eye and flicks it away.
“I kinda get it,” he smiles, lighter. His complexion isn’t so ghostly. “Two of a kind, right?”
Akira side-eyes him— wondering, relieved— and scoffs.
“Unfortunately.”
Akira’s glasses are skewed on his face. Hibari’s necktie is terribly creased. He plays with it idly, before reaching for the glass that awaited so patiently.
“I guess you can’t drink on the job,” he remarks. A beat. Two beats. He puts the glass back down abruptly with a heavy thunk .
Then a hand comes up to cover his mouth, descends back to the countertop again.
Suspicious, Akira says, “What?”
Hibari squints at him, suddenly lucid like Akira hasn’t seen since he walked in. His ears are turning steadily dark— hard to see in the bar’s low-light, but…
“Did you say Kanato liked me, like, how much?”
Akira groans.
“Drink your drink.”