Archive of Our Own ^beta

- 01: Toy -

At age seven, Fura Kanato had a bedroom full of yes.

Yes, to the newest handheld consoles. Yes, to the train sets that wound across bedroom carpet like electric snakes. Yes to fancy collector pens he didn’t use, because his handwriting was still too imprecise. Yes to action figures, yes to plushies, yes to the family dog— yes, yes, yes, yes.

Why not, I’ll get it for you.
Alright, I’ll put it on the list.
Of course, you’ve been so well-behaved.

The first time Kanato heard no, it’s from his own mouth.

“I’m not giving it!”

It surprised him: loud and sharp, the brat in the skin of a perfect little mafia prince.

“Whaaat? Why not? Trust me, we did this at school last year!”

■■■■■■ had a box, and a hole. A wooden one, too clean to be old. The hole, he’d dug himself with snapped twigs and raw, dirty hands. Staring up at Kanato with gold eyes big and milky, but never shy of that boyish twinkle. Always two jokes ahead of the world.

“C’mon… It's a time capsule. It's not like it's gone forever.”

Kanato didn’t care about the box. He didn’t even really care about the dirt. He’d brought the action figure because his friend had told him to. Didn’t know why or what for until now.

“But that’s like killing it,” he said, hugging the toy to his chest. “I’m gonna bury it and it’s gonna eat me in the night like a zombie.”

■■■■■■ laughed. Features fuzzy in memory, but voice clear like birdsong even still.

“You watch too many movies.”

“You watch too many movies,” mimicked Kanato under his breath.

“It’s not like that. It’s nice. Like, twenty years from now, we’ll come back, and it’ll still be here good as new.”

“Nuh uh.”

His friend groaned, and shook Kanato playfully by the shoulders, “Why noooot?”

“But—! Because! What if we’re not friends in twenty years? That’s forever. What if you get old and wrinkly and can’t even walk anymore?”

■■■■■■ grinned, stroking an imaginary beard, “Is forty really that old?”

“It’s thirty. That’s basic addition.”

“I’unno, who cares? But like this, we live forever. That’s what the teacher said.”

Kanato didn’t have an answer. Something inside him flinched at the idea of putting anything he likes into the ground. Burying things is what his father talked about. Six feet under, he’d say, sleeping with fishes. Things go away— people said, we’ll come back, but they never did. Not really.

Kanato muttered, “You have a weird teacher.”

Maybe in photographs and wooden boxes.

But then ■■■■■■ smiled, broad and dopey and dazzling. Like it mattered to him. Like it made him happy.

Kanato glanced down at the toy. Limited edition, fresh coat of paint. A sentai ranger signalling salute, visor polished black and poised for battle. Other children would fight him for it. Even adults might’ve killed for it. Ten years later, it’d be worth a small fortune on sales sites.

Then, though, Kanato’s tiny fingers tightened, knuckles blanching white. He looked at that silly face and felt his chest fill with sunshine.

And Kanato wanted to keep that more than the toy.

So he crouched down, and his friend dropped beside him with a whoop of delight, as Kanato gently set the sentai ranger in the box. Next to an old harmonica and a beaten ukulele and the trading cards they’d swapped yesterday. Didn’t look as the lid slid closed, just let his fingers rest on the wood, as if to feel it die. Nothing died. It didn’t hurt, and it wasn’t painful.

The dirt went back in. Squatting, ■■■■■■ clapped the mound proudly with both hands, as if he’d finished a game. And Kanato let him. Even helped pack down the soil, palms dirty, thumbs smudged with earth and leaves.

“We’ll be back,” ■■■■■■ promised.

“What if we forget?” Kanato replied, dull.

■■■■■■ picked a twig out of Kanato’s hair. “If you forget, I’ll come and find you.”

Kanato scoffed, “like a dog?”

What he’d meant were the hunting hounds his father spoke of. The ones back in Italy, that would help catch pheasants in the rural areas.

“Sure. Do you have a dog?” But the way he was answered sat funny.

The dog ■■■■■■ had been thinking of might’ve been closer to the family pet, Poochyena. Who often laid her head on his knee so he could scratch idly at her nape.

“Back in the city.” With the butler, Kanato forgot to add.

“Huh,” said ■■■■■■, nary a thought in his head.

Kanato wondered if he had rocks inside instead, sometimes. Idly, he fiddled with the cuffs of his sleeves, stained dark from playtime. Trouble for the maids later. He thought about these things to distract himself from the fact his sentai ranger was six feet under.

Inches, really. But it felt the same.

■■■■■■ reached over and yanked on another twig in Kanato’s hair.

“Ow—!”

“Sorry!”

Kanato swatted him, hand flying to where the twig was twisted in his bangs.

“What was that for?!”

But ■■■■■■ only laughed again, and chuckled, “You looked like you were spacing out.”

“I was not,” huffed Kanato, petulant. He wrenched the twig free with a hiss, and pitched it into the bushes. “I was thinking that I’m not gonna forget, but you will.”

■■■■■■ swatted back lightly. “Will not.”

“Will to.”

“Nuh uh.”

“You will.”

They pinched and prodded at each other until Kanato shoved too hard, and they tumbled over into the grass, only stopping when Kanato sat up with his buttons askew and mumbled about his parents being mad. While ■■■■■■ busied himself rubbing the marks off his knees, Kanato glared down at his empty, filthy hands.

“You’ll find me if I forget.” He picked at his nails, mouth twisting at the blackness that flaked out like a worm. “But what will I do if you forget?” as an afterthought, he added for correction, “I’m not a dog.”

“Doesn’t matter if we’re friends.”

Kanato thought about it. The summer house he lived in was one of many. Six safehouses, one off the mainland. If Kanato was taken back home to the city, how would ■■■■■■ follow?

So he settled for a neutral, “Is that how it works?” because thinking too hard about it was beyond his addled child mind. “What if I forget what you look like?”

■■■■■■ looked at him. Surely, Kanato would never forget. Not those big gold eyes, bright and elegant like the jewels he saw in encyclopaedias. Not the way that smile breaks like cloud cover parting for sunlight.

“Then if you forget, I’ll see you there.”

“In the city?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s over the sea.”

“So?”

He’d already forgotten the sentai ranger— didn’t even think to try picturing it. But this, he’d surely never forget.

- 02: Earrings -

Later in high school, Kanato had forgotten.

The box, the house, what kind of trees were past the garden. How the hallways looked, or which room was his bedroom. The boy, the friend , his first friend— he remembered in hazy recollections. Flashes of purple in the corner of dreamtime vision. Voice like birdsong, eyes like molten gold. That’s all.

And he remembered the sentai ranger. Not the colour, or anything precise. Just that he’d forgotten it. That maybe it was buried somewhere— where exactly…? Couldn’t tell. Never knew why. But he’d forgotten it. Sometimes, when it crept into the edges of his mind, he’d remember he forgot it— left it buried somewhere, six inches under, never to be known. And it’d bother him.

That’s probably why, a week shy of graduation but after exams— Kanato found himself in a jewellery store. With a torn sleeve, ripped from the chain-link fence he scaled behind the sports bleachers to sneak out. God forbid the honor student be found ditching campus, when Erfolg had rules about that sort of thing.

It was a hole-in-the-wall sort of place, that Hibari had babbled about once or twice. After his late-night excursions, looking to blow money earned from jobs he took up transgressively on ramen joints.

Student affordable, Hibari said once, but the part that really mattered— I like what they have.

And Kanato was thinking about the stupid sentai ranger.

He’d considered food. A music store. But they’d be graduating soon, and Hibari was prone to losing little things. Kanato knew he’d cram what he could in a guitar case and a plastic bag, and call it good enough: the boy so free he looked almost homeless, sometimes. Pleaded for what he needed and pilfered what he couldn’t get. Weirdo.

So— something he won’t lose. Something nice. Something that won’t end up buried six inches under the dust of time passing.

Something that suits Hibari. Purple and pink and shining and gold.

“Something catch your eye?”

“Not yet,” said Kanato. “I’m looking for a friend.”

The clerk hummed, “Take your time.” A dyed blonde with streaks in her hair. Ears adorned in hoops-on-hoops, like slinkies on her helixes. Attention on her phone, the hoops-on-hoops tinkled softly as she turned away.

That’s right— Hibari wore earrings, didn’t he? Earrings… 

The black one, and the feather. They kissed skin, hung from lobes. Clinked when he tilted his head to listen. They might tarnish, or snap, or be stolen— they might fall in the street, and make someone gasp as they scramble to pluck them from the pavement.

Earrings…

If— if Hibari liked them, if, if-if-if… he wore them, he’d never lose them. Eyes— cheeky eyes— might follow the slant of his shoulders and up the slope of his neck, to find these tiny, glittering things. Delicate and pretty and living on his ears. It’s a good idea.

Kanato could live with that.

🞛🞛🞛🞛🞛

The woman’s mouth parted at the price of his choice, and then gaped when he fished it out of his wallet. By then, he’d learned his standards for cost were a bit more than strange, but he didn’t care. What was important was that the earrings were nice.

Two of them. A pair in the sense they matched— not that they were two studs. Just one. One and a cuff. In a velvet box that Kanato didn’t like very much, but tried to keep safe anyway.

If he twisted wrong to protect his pocket, snagging his shirt— whatever, didn’t even wince— it wasn’t anyone’s business.

🞛🞛🞛🞛🞛

The box stayed in Kanato’s pocket all week. Hot against his thigh. Turning cold, colder, coldest— like it was a dead thing waiting. Not dead, not yet.

And then he was shoving his clothes into a hardshell suitcase. And organising a pick-up date and time with the chauffeur from his Family. And Kanato gave a final speech as President of the Student Council.

And then they graduated. And it didn’t hit him until the exact moment the cheers went out— 

They’d graduated.

The fresh graduates filled the school’s front with chatter. One-by-one siphoned off by cars or congratulating relatives, who offered presents per tradition. So it went, until the crowd thinned and the sun dipped lower still.

It wasn’t raining. The weather only cared for emotional poignancy when it suited. Just four boys with nowhere real to call home, lagging under the overhang of the main building. With their luggage— and an armful of dreams unfulfilled; sinking slowly under the weight of reality.

Seraph and Akira stood two paces ahead, school uniforms and all. They wouldn’t wear them after this. They might sell them off second-hand later down the line. Or they’d be plastic-wrapped and stored away on the top shelf of a closet.

Akira hesitated. Goodbyes are hard. They’d vowed not long ago— the four of them, together— that they’d do something. Make a change. Find their feet. Somehow, some way.

“We’ll see you around?”

But it couldn’t be now. They weren’t ready.

“Stay in touch,” Seraph said. “You have our number.”

Hibari wiped the last tears from his eyes with the ball of his wrist, nodding vigorously. Kanato jerked his head, short. Bottom lip wobbling, but throwing a thumbs-up with both hands anyway.

“We’ll send you the address when we secure the place,” Akira offered; a soft consolation. “Swing by whenever. Or if you need something, just call.”

“Just call,” echoed Seraph, “You know we’ll pick up.”

They were going on foot. Turning on heel— off they went, looking back over their shoulders every now and then and waving. Stopped on the curb, looked both ways. Akira tugged on Seraph’s sleeve as they crossed the road. Seraph leaned into his side and nodded. Probably semantics. Statistics. Finances. Stuff they’d need to start their agency.

Akira had a clue. Kanato didn’t. And it was just him and Hibari.

The box — he remembered, and his heart wrenched. Don’t forget the box.

Just him and Hibari, and a stretching silence.

“So,” Hibari tried, and swallowed a hiccup. “Your parents here yet?”

“Not coming,” Kanato replied. Not what he cared about. “Someone’s coming to get me.”

“Oh, right. I’ll wait with you.”

More silence. Hibari reached and scratched the back of his neck, gaze fixed on the road, unseeing. Still glossy with parting. When he got home— wherever home was for this tornado boy— he would sing, Kanato knew it. His fingers curled in his pocket. The box, starting to grow warm with his body heat. Any more, and his hand might start sweating. He wet his lips, and took a breath.

Now or never.

“Hiba,” he started, and his voice didn’t shake. Win.

Startling beside him, Hibari’s fidgeting quelled. “Hm?”

“Hand.”

Hibari cracked a smile. “What am I, a dog?”

Kanato’s brow pinched. “It’s fine, just put out your hand.”

Frowning at the uncharacteristic seriousness, Hibari obeyed. Muttering something under his breath, but nonetheless obediently patient.

Pause. Loooong pause. Kanato’s mouth parted. Words. Something to say. Like, literally anything, please? But he’d carried it all week, not thinking. Focused on Hibari beside him, real and there. A body, a friend. Now halfway to disappeared as soon as the school gates close for the day.

“What?” Hibari huffed, his fingers wiggled. “What? What?”

“Nothing,” he admitted quietly, and with a motion far too violent— the harsh pull of fabric, his other elbow nearly jarring Hibari in the ribs— he ripped the box from his pocket. Hibari yowled with the force and Kanato slapped it down in the centre of his palm.

A velvet box, hot-hotter-hottest from how tightly Kanato had held it.

“Wow!” and Hibari straightened, face caught between shock and his stupid perpetual grin. “What’s the deal?”

“Present,” Kanato pronounced stiffly. Then, with more warmth, “Congrats on graduating.”

“Hey, you too…” but Hibari still stood there, holding the box stupidly. It crossed his face in a flurry— a scrunch of the nose, a roll of the brow— “Wait, I didn’t get you anything though.”

Kanato clicked his tongue. Hibari’s frown deepened, but before he could muster a word, Kanato kicked him in the ankle— “Ow!”

“I wasn’t expecting you to, idiot.” The stress lines in his expression mellowed gently. “Just open it. I worked really hard, y’know?”

Bemused, Hibari snorted. The pad of his thumb glossed the threaded label. Recognising the mark at last— the very same as the shop he always passed after spending his savings on ramen. “What, you snuck out?” Slowly, his amusement gave way to wonder. “That why your shirt was torn the other day? You snuck out?”

He expected Kanato to level him with a look — but what he got was a quirk of the lips, a flash off the lenses of his glasses as his head canted, like Hibari’s excitement was a song he’d been waiting to hear on the radio.

“Don’t act like it’s unheard of,” in tenor, sweeter than Hibari knew it to be. Too unusual to answer quick-like, because it folded under Kanato’s fanciful, dramatic tilt of the wrist. “That and more. Go ahead. I want to know if you like it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“But I didn’t…”

“I don’t care?”

Hibari whined, “Kanato…”

“It’s fine, it’s fine.” He was waved off. “Hurry up and open it.”

Eyes flicking back to the box— yep, real velvet. Plush. But there’s no use in dithering— he wedged a nail in the line of its jaws and cracked it open.

Earrings— two of them. A pair, in the sense they matched— not two studs, though. Just one. One stud and a cuff, since Hibari liked cuffs, too. They were supposed to be student affordable— but Kanato mustn’t’ve picked from the right showcase, ‘cause these— these were— 

Hibari’s eyes stung. Squeezing them shut, he swallowed thickly and cleared his throat. And then cleared his throat again.

“This is too much,” he croaked. For a graduation present.

Gold. Real gold, at least in plating. Ornate; patterned like filigree. Expensive, too expensive to be wasted on a country boy who ran from home. And inlaid with jewels— Hibari couldn’t tell exactly what, too much water in his eyes— to match the shock pink of his hair.

Too much. Too much thought. Given to him. Not even stolen.

“You deserve it,” is what Kanato fired back, and Hibari choked on a sob.

“Thanks,” he whimpered, then more loudly: “Thank you.”

“Stop crying,” Kanato snipped with no heat, “I’m gonna cry too.”

Hibari laughed soundlessly— more from chest than mouth— and brought his other hand up to cup the box like a treasure, lest he drop it.

“You’re such a rich kid.” Hibari swiped at his nose with his sleeve, then laughed again. “It’s just like the shows. Graduation really is emotional.”

“Well,” Kanato murmured, “It’s not permanent. When I’ve figured out how to support Voltaction, I’ll come get you.”

Near the front gate, a black car rolled into the curbside parking lot. Tinted windows. Not a luxurious car, just rather plain.

Drawing a rattling breath, Hibari finally looked away from the earrings. Eyes red and swollen, gone goopy from all the dew he shed. “That’s your cue.”

Kanato thought— he might not be able to manage this part. The car cranked faintly as the engine shut off. The pebbles under its wheels split when the brake pulled into a park.

But it’s easier, as he hoisted the sports bag shoveled full with clothes and whatnots, and grabbed the rattling handle of his luggage.

“I’ll come get you,” he announced, with more clarity than he had even before the graduation ceremony began. “Don’t forget to wear those earrings.”

Hibari’s smile breached the surface again— full and forlorn and melancholy with longing, maybe. Too deep a smile to dwell on, snaggletooth and all. The box snapped shut— entrapping the earrings inside. A time capsule that doesn’t last, as soon as he found a mirror.

“Of course I won’t,” he promised. “I’ll put them on later.”

- 03: Choker -

Kanato found Hibari in Tohoku, out in the countryside. Out of the main towns, where Hibari lived before running off for school Tokyo.

Kanato had never been that far north alone before, but Hibari was there— somewhere between the shuttered conbini and the smoke-stained karaoke box. Strumming background noise for some rundown pub, someplace. A village too little for a boy too much . But Kanato had to go, face-to-face— Hibari’s number had been dialled off records. Ran out of data, or broke it, or something.

Either way, chances were he couldn’t afford a new one.

It took the shinkansen, then one overnight stay in a love hotel because the business ones were fully booked. Walls so paper-thin that Kanato spent most of the night staring at the ceiling— listening to the buzzing of the vending machine outside and wondering if Hibari was wearing those earrings from two years ago. Then two more trains and a bus into the boonies. And still, Kanato wondered if Hibari was wearing them.

Of course he was. In a club near a bike rack, acoustic guitar propped on his knee. Gold cuff and one stud on the right ear, glinting under dim stage light. He didn’t lose them, somehow. Idiot lost his phone, though.

…Gold looked good on him.

Stepping out to update Akira— yep, found him— Kanato had just hung up, when he was tackled bodily— Hibari’s hands tightening on his shoulders, his elbows, his wrists, like he wasn’t real. Like he couldn’t believe it. Laughing breathlessly in worn jeans he wore back in the dorms.

The pads of Hibari’s fingers left meadows of tingles that dived into veins and rode the current straight to Kanato’s heart— the onset of flu, maybe. Strange stuff. He shook Hibari off nonetheless.

Voltaction’s ready for business. Come work at Café Zeffiro. You can be there for opening day.

What, they hiring?

The owner’s hiring, Kanato had said pompously, That’s me, by the way.

So Hibari came home, to Tokyo.

Found a place at the edge of the city, on the cheap side but enough to get started. Don’t wanna impose, he’d said, like Kanato hadn’t travelled to the ends of Japan to fetch him. But it was insisted, that’s that.

Sleep-deprived Kanato— eyebags the size of suitcases and neck ache like a vice grip— surely must’ve argued, but all Kanato knew is that he woke up drooling on Hibari’s shoulder at the end of the shinkansen line. And he’d rather not think about it; too embarrassing.

Every bird needs a place to roost. Now Hibari works in Kanato’s café. Funny how things work out.

And time’s been kind to him. Unfairly so.

Hibari had been tall enough already, but now he’s taller. No centimeters to spare for Kanato at all; zero justice. He and Sera hogged it all. His features have sharpened, his shoulders broader and waist narrower. Too skinny, this guy. Still gangly— all limb and length and no meat. Probably lived off noodles from the hometown grandmas to match his noodly arms.

But he’s lithe, and long, and languid. And he walks and runs with his whole body— with momentum that tilts, one smooth line heel to neck. Where— if the cheeky eye traces the slope and squint— he can spot the earrings he received as a gift from his best friend the day of their graduation, peeking behind purple bangs.

Lovely, aren’t they? Gold looks good on him.

It’s a warm season and Hibari likes low-collar shirts. Follow the cut of his collarbones and suddenly Kanato realises— that’s too much neck. Too much very slender neck. Seems dangerous.

Sure enough, one of the girls by the coffee machine must be trying to do the same thing— look away— but Kanato catches her just as she fails, fumbling the takeaway cup. Gasping hard; squeaking as the spillover scalds her and pours through the catch basin. The whole café flinches.

Hibari pops up by her side with gauze and a grin— let’s run it under cold water— oblivious moron.

It’s decided. Hibari’s neck is a work hazard.

🞛🞛🞛🞛🞛

It’s Kanato’s job as owner of the café to offer some modesty. To spare the myriad heathens that like to gawk from the window seats. There’s an easy resolution to stoppering this.

Tell him to wear a uniform, says a voice that sounds suspiciously like Akira. A button-up shirt.

To which Kanato argues, nobody else wears a uniform.

The accompanying Seraph calmly disputes, then enforce one. You’re the boss.

Kanato scoffs.
That’s no fun.

Kanato hasn’t seen him wear any, yet. Necklaces, that is. Chokers and whatnot. Probably spending his newfound income on rent for an apartment undeserving of him. And sound equipment.

Checking his phone— the store is still there, two years later. When he visited last night, Hibari spent an hour wilting over the tone of his guitar. So Kanato picks up a new pack of strings on the way.

No torn shirts this time— but a black card all his own, to go with the cash in his wallet. Clever investments right out the high school gates, and a little dirty money from a few black-suit jobs. The latter, he doesn’t like to use— only for emergencies.

No emergencies here. Just a second floor and a new escalator to revitalise the old block. A woman with a neckerchief greets him, he asks her— do you have any chokers?

Of course, right upstairs.

‘Upstairs’ didn’t exist two years ago. The second floor is installed with racks of belts and mannequins posing high-brand clothes. Students in-uniform chatter in hushed voices by a shelf of mid-range rings and bangles. Kanato is directed to a showcase closer to the register, where busts and wooden display stands wear necklaces and— ah. Chokers!

It has to be gold. To match the earrings, of course. To complement Hibari’s eyes.

This is way overboard, drawls Akira’s silhouette.

Whatever.

“Do you have a price range in mind?” says the neckerchief clerk.

Absent-mindedly, Kanato hums, “Not worried about the cost, but nothing too flashy…”

She hardly bats an eye and leaves him to it.

🞛🞛🞛🞛🞛

Something nice. A nice choker. Sharp and studious. Something that accentuates. A choker, right? Snug around the neck, just under the jugular. The right size is important— didn’t even consider that part, who’s going to know someone’s neck size? Not Kanato, surely. So a chain-link clasp that can be adjusted. Yes, that’s necessary.

Nothing thick. Hibari isn’t a dog.

Gold but not gaudy— critical! It must be stylish, but subtle. Not overdone, but luxurious. Thief in the night. Handsome rogue. Any less, and it wouldn’t be right. Any less, and it wouldn’t be good enough at all. Hibari would settle for less, wouldn’t he? That won’t do. Kanato clicks his tongue.

One to the next— too shiny, too garish, wrong colour, not him. It’s not until his fingers hover over a fine leather band with the perfect accent that something like sense whispers,

A choker’s crazy.

Mmmmmmm… but…

That’s going overboard, man.

It’s a workplace thing, he tells his mental companions. There’s a reason.

Kanato, still drifting between displays, while Seraph and Akira shake his frontal lobe in exasperation— but the more he looks at this leather band, the more he likes it. Modern and elegant and all-too perfect for Hibari’s neck— the boy in the black jacket, with the yellow-day eyes.

But a choker… 

Exactly! cries his conscience, that’s way too… y’know!

It’ll look good on him, though. Like, really good.

Kanato slips his phone out of his pocket. Should he ask? Hey guys, what do you think of a choker as a present? Terrible idea, really. Nobody will enable that.

His wallet waits quietly in his other pocket. Too much money he doesn’t know what to do with. Hibari doesn’t have to receive it. If he keeps the receipt, Kanato can return it. Or it can stay in its velvet box, buried six inches under the files in his desk drawer. Chicken Little’s dumb and a coward — and Kanato’s not a coward, at least.

Sometimes, he lets himself be a touch dumb.

🞛🞛🞛🞛🞛

Oh, but this is dumb. Really dumb. Fucking catastrophic. Chicken Little might as well be a grade-A student.

What kind of idiot buys another man a choker ? Of all things— a choker. For no good reason. Workplace priority? Be real, Fura Kanato, you absolute fool.

So he lets this one die: shoves the pristine velvet box in his desk drawer, tacks the receipt on with tape and piles everything else on top in a haphazard lump of papers. And then he goes to work every day. Drops by his other places then hits Zeffiro in the afternoon, lounging in the window seats ‘til close time on usual days and, on Hibari’s shifts, some hours past it, too.

The girl spills more coffee. Some university students try to chat Hibari up at the register. It happens now and then. Whatever.

And when the morning light catches nice on his jawline, or the afternoon sun dapples his face through his bangs— Kanato sniffs petulantly to himself, because he knows.

That choker would look so good, though.

🞛🞛🞛🞛🞛

Two months later Hibari starts wearing collared shirts, because it’s a cold season and his style is everything, apparently. As long as he wears the jeans, anything works.

Sleeves rolled up to the elbow, Hibari is picking away at his guitar, as always. It goes everywhere with him— maybe Kanato should just get a spare so he doesn’t have to lug it around. Not that he’d bring it if he didn’t want to.

Kanato wiggles his toes in the kotatsu, shovels another chip in his mouth, upside down and sprawled on the floor. The packets leftover scatter on the table. Seraph and Akira forgot to take them home. Kanato stares at the ceiling. Hibari mistimes a pluck and groans softly.

“Somethin’ on your mind?” Kanato asks, around a mouthful of more chips.

“Mm,” comes the non-committal answer.

Frowning, Kanato props himself on his elbows. “What happened?”

Hibari’s guitar sags. “Mmmmmmmmmmmm…” He strums a weak chord, then sighs and pushes it off his lap. “Yesterday at the club,”

Hibari’s been taking gigs where he can. Out on the street, sometimes solo acoustic in small corner places. Kanato and Seraph and Akira show up to every single one.

“What about it?”

“You left early,” Hibari says.

“Uh huh.” For mafia stuff, they both know.

“And Seraph and Akira went back to the office.”

“Yeah.” Because they run themselves overtime, they all know.

Hibari turns to face him, shoulderblade pressed against the kotatsu’s edge. Hesitating once, his mouth wobbles funny— not quite a suppressed smile, not quite a tremble. He blurts “Igotscoutedforatalentcompany,” in one long rush.

Kanato pauses. Lifts one elbow and tries to yank the blanket to pull himself upright too hard and nearly blunts his ribs on the side of the table.

“Say that again?”

Quieter— “I got scouted for a talent company.”

That’s fucking amazing, Kanato says, with not his mouth.

As you should, agrees another part of him, with not his mouth.

You deserve it, chimes a third, not with his mouth.

“Oh,” says Kanato, with his mouth. “That’s… good.”

The three thoughts whisper amongst themselves, It’s good, right?

“It’s great. Wow.”

Hibari doesn’t respond. He’s still when he’s thinking himself into holes. Doesn’t look natural.

“Well, hey.” Kanato straightens, folds his knees under his thighs. A chip packet crinkles loudly. “Congratulations, that’s awesome.” Then he runs the list. “That’s— real amazing, Hibari. You took the offer, right? You deserve it.”

Nothing eases the awkward pull of Hibari’s expression. To the grain of the wood, he mumbles,

“I told them I’d think about it.”

Kanato’s lips part, his chin tilts. He stares. His mouth gapes. Closes again. Is he kidding? He must be kidding. The stage— Hibari dreams of the stage. Has always dreamt of the stage. Voice of a genius, eyes like the moon. A summer storm confined to flesh, water after drought. The kind of person that saves people.

He’s perfect— he’s built for it. Doesn’t even need lights and applause, when he’s already made of it.

He wants to sing. Who the hell is he kidding?

“Why didn’t you take it?”

“I was hoping—” Hibari starts, purses his lips and squints to parse thoughts-for-speech, “Hm, I dunno… I just figured,” he looks down, looks up, looks down again, back to stillness. “Who’s gonna make your coffee, y’know?” He’s supposed to laugh after a line like that, but he only tugs at his collar. Too warm. Flash of collarbone. “Sera and Akira don’t always remember lunch, so…” trails off, brows furrowing. Can’t fish the words from the soup of his brain. “How do I say it…”

Then he doesn’t say anything more. Huffs through his nose, pulls at his knuckles in sets of two, until the space between bones pops like a soda can. Disgruntled; disturbed by a surplus of thought. Overthinking.

Kanato is the better overthinker.

From the shine of Hibari’s nails to the length of his eyelashes, Kanato studies. How strands of purple brush cheeks when the microexpressions pinch them. How the bridge of his nose flushes rose from fears he won’t name.

Watarai Hibari could be an idol. Finally, finally fly higher than rooftops.

The inverse of a heart-clench— letting his soul bleed through his ribs and free-fall in zero gravity. Or, no. That’s Kanato’s soul.

He tests a tease— “we’re big boys,” but it comes out fainter on the edges than he’d like. “We can handle ourselves.”

Hibari squirms. A wriggle that travels from spine to toe and settles rigid in his shoulders.

Out of sight, Kanato’s fists squeeze his thumbs, then release.

Don’t stay. It’d waste you.

The thought doesn't taste nice.

Uncertainty doesn’t suit Hibari, either.

“Tell you what—” Kanato peels away from the kotatsu, back cracking in two places when he stretches his arms overhead, fingertips toward ceiling.

Hibari tries to speak, “Wait—” but fixates on the hem of Kanato’s shirt for a split second, tripping his fluency.

“— your birthday’s coming up, right?” Excuse, as he pivots on his heel. “I didn’t know what to get you,” a half-truth accompanies him across the room. “But, you look scary when you’re worrying about stuff,” plain truth. “So you can have it early, if it’ll cheer you up.”

The door to the study slides open, and Kanato steps out of Hibari’s sightline for just a moment. A moment long enough for him to stall at the threshold. Overthinking makes Hibari’s face tight, but Kanato wears it stupidly.

The drawer creaks open. Files are tossed aside. Protected by layers of notes, the velvet box remains as pure as the week he buried it.

It’s not like it’s gone forever.
Someone might’ve said, once.

Wool-gathered in the brain, Kanato lightly touches his right ear. Not true.  

Regardless of the velvet box’s claim, nothing lasts as long as ‘forever’ . Come morning, Hibari’s anxiety will have died. Gone with a giggle— laughter his birthright— or stood up as a challenge. Before tomorrow, it might sink into his strings and hum sadly through the floor.

This choker is a dumb idea— but… if he can restore the sunshine to that silly face a little earlier, being dumb could be worth it. If— if, he likes it— if-if-if— don’t stammer. If it isn’t, y’know. Over the top. Too much. Too… all that. Words you’d find in Akira’s sappy books.

Sliding the box free of the drawer, Kanato sucks a breath between his teeth. It’s fine. It’s fine.

It’s fine. It suits him.

Exactly where he left him, Hibari sits legs pretzeled, guitar lying on its side. Considers saying something that never makes it off the tip of his tongue, as a box is placed neatly in the kotatsu’s centre. A low-profile bomb wearing velvet.

Kanato hovers. His brows raise. One hand on his hip, he gestures at it, silent. Well?

Hibari looks at the box. Looks at Kanato. Looks at the box, bristles with frustration but doesn’t know how to turn anything down. “It’s not September yet,” is where he lands, weak.

Kanato shrugs.

Hibari’s brows pull. He doesn’t reach for it right away. “You already got me something last time.”

Kanato snorts. Squashes the edges of a smile he mistakes for smug, but Hibari knows is fond.

“That was last time. People have birthdays every year.”

“It’s not my birthday yet, idiot.”

“I’ll get you something else.”

“You’re not supposed to stack these things!”

Kanato shoves air with both hands, dismissive. Then flops, shimmies his knees back under the kotatsu. “It’s economics, you wouldn’t get it.”

Hibari squints. “No it’s not.”

“Sure it is.”

“You’re messin’ with me.”

“Who’s gonna know? Me or you?”

Hibari bucks him under the blanket. “You’re messin’ with me!”

The kotatsu clunks where Hibari’s ankle knocks the heater and tangles Kanato's leg. Oof— he goes over, crushing chips under his flank. Woe.

“My chips, dude.”

“That’s your own fault.”

“My chips!” Kanato’s legs kick, faux dramatics as he retrieves them from under his elbow. Half to himself– “They’re crushed. You monster.” Hibari rolls his eyes, as Kanato reseals the packet and tosses them onto the table, where the velvet box sits, enduring. “I already bought it. You’re not allowed to complain.”

Hibari announces haughtily: “Power harassment.”

“Best friend privileges,” Kanato snipes back. “Defense can never win.”

“I’m not defense.”

“You so are.”

Hibari’s fingertips hang over the box’s corners. A beat of silence. Neither of them are particularly adept at these sort of silences— 

“If you don’t like it—” 

“I’ll trade you—”

A blink. One after the other, from each end of the table.

“You’ll trade me,” Kanato echoes, blunt.

A sharp, definitive nod. “Law of equivalent exchange—” Kanato coughs dork into his fist— “I accept it as an early present, and you listen to my favour in return.”

Calculating, Kanato’s eyes narrow.

“What kind of favour?”

“Not telling.”

“You’re saying that so I can’t deny it later.”

Hibari grins stupidly, “Y’think?”

Bastard.

But— it might be worth it. The thing in the box will look so, so nice on him. It should. It will, right? It will… of course it will.

One last glance from underneath long lashes— bastard. Then Hibari scoots forward, grip clamping down like it’s going to bite if he doesn’t. “Same brand as the earrings.”

Kanato refrains from clearing his throat. From swallowing too hard. From doing anything that’ll demand scrutiny. Just two guys under a kotatsu, one lone box and a table between them.

“It’s your style,” he says, dry.

The lid creaks as it opens. So it is a little older now, after all.

Dead stillness prevails.

Oh… the ceiling plaster’s cracking. Put talk to the landlord on his to-do list.

“Kanato… I’m dead fucking broke. This isn’t fair.”

“Who cares,” mutters Kanato vaguely, from the floor. Between forefinger and thumb, he catches a pocket of air and squeezes the crack through the gap. A little to the left, a dark smudge on the ceiling. Has it always been there? “I’m rich anyway.”

A shallow laugh, “You’ve got too much money. You always spoil me.”

Whump. Arm falling over his eyes. Face is hot. Kotatsu’s overheating him.

“Thought it’d suit you. Gold’s your colour.”

“No it’s not. Gold’s your colour.”

Face is hot. Nasal passages are cold— air’s cold. Too cold in here. It curls where the oxygen doesn’t breathe right in his mouth.

“...If you don’t want it, I still have the receipt.”

Loud— his pulse, that is. Thundering. Like horse hooves in fantasy films. They can watch a movie after this and pretend Kanato didn’t just try to give his best friend a choker.

“No! No, that’s not what I meant.”

Clinking indistinctly, deft fingers lift Kanato’s heart from the box.

Muffled into his sleeve, he musters, “So you like it after all?”

 It dangles— supple leather, gold clasp glinting. Kanato’s colour, so said Hibari. The piece is elegant; expensive humility. Crystal wine glasses, black suits made with vicuña. Simplicity that says a lot. Accessories to centrepieces; really gorgeous things. Ice swans or real-leather card holders or beautiful boys who swallowed the sun. Stuff that needs to be seen.

“You said this wasn’t stacking,” chides the boy who swallowed the sun. “Liar.”

“Can’t get anything past you.”

“It’s in my job description.”

Phantom thief of hearts. Sure. Makes perfect sense.

“Help me put this on.”

What? Kanato’s fingers twitch. If only to buy time, he shifts, at last separating from where he’d merged, body and soul, with the laminate. Blonde hair mussed, he rubs his eyes with both hands and drags them down his face. Each end pinched between two fingers, Hibari waits for him to finish.

Deliberately slow, he says, “My hands are too cold to work right.”

Kanato’s hands float in orbit after they part from his cheeks.

“Hah?” pause. Adds dumbly, “You’re cold?”

Stiff nod.

“Kotatsu?”

Stiff shake.

“Not enough,” Kanato parrots. Stiff nod, again. Kanato just stares.

At Hibari’s ridiculous, silly, handsome face. At his stupid long neck and those earrings, polished under lilac hair. His fingers twitch.

“...Sure. That’s fine.”

— and, against the concrete making his bones, moves.

Obediently, Hibari offers his hand, where the choker snakes from his to Kanato’s. The room goes quiet save for the ticking clock and the soft rasp of leather on skin. Nape, splashed a tad pink. The fuzz of Hibari’s dove down, more pink. Rose-tinted glasses— even the gold on the chain clasp Kanato nearly drops twice looks rosy.

He doesn’t mean to hesitate— 

“Tell me if it’s too tight.”

The third stiff nod of the day.

Kanato’s fingers brush warm flesh— a full-course shudder stumbles over skin. Him or Hibari, can’t tell. The shell of Hibari’s ears pinken more.

Kanato bites down on his gums. Pulls too hard trying to find his grip— Hibari jolts.

Hastily, he rushes a sorry , pretending it doesn’t matter. Reflex. Reaction. No matter how delicate Hibari’s nape, no matter how warm , no matter how clearly his pulse jackrabbits under the surface. 

The clasp clicks into place.

It fits— it fits perfectly.

Wow. Wow. Okay! Nice. Okay.

Kanato lingers. Stalwartly, he refrains from breathing. To be sure of himself.

And then Hibari turns his head slightly, voice light but a little breathless,
“...How’s it look?”

Even under the shitty bulbs of his lazy apartment, the accents wink— collar framing the pale column of his throat. Gold. Someone’s colour. Matches the earrings. And. Stuff.

“Yep,” croaks Kanato. “Looks great.” Wets his lips— wait, don’t do that. Hibari isn’t looking at him— good thing. Fight to live another day. “What’s your bargain?”

The grin breaks onto his face, turning fully. Knee sliding as his waist rotates.

“I said I told them I’d think about it,” he starts, still restless. Still red on the ears. “‘Cause I’m not sure about the café and stuff, but I thought if I went for auditions instead…” Self-conscious, he reaches and brushes the gold accent at the choker’s front.

Feeling stabs Kanato in the sternum.

“...Then you guys could come with me.”

Kanato’s mouth opens.

“They want streamers,” he goes on— spouting now, to stifle rejection. “Like, units, and I thought, oh hey we’re totally perfect, the four of us, I bet we could do it ‘n like…” Preliminary giddiness creeps in, leaning further, further still, until Kanato has to crane back to hold the enthusiasm at bay.

“I haven’t even said I’ll do it,” he objects meekly.

Hibari presses forward in blind excitement. One hand on Kanato’s knee, glowing. Light ripples the choker's accent in white stripes every time he moves.

“Equivalent exchange,” he purrs. Pleased bastard.

Kanato pulls away. Hibari has a lot of body warmth going on, and he’s already overheating from the kotatsu. Distance is good. “The others haven’t even said they’ll do it.”

“They’ll do it,” asserts Hibari.

Kanato’s jaw clenches.

“C’mon,” Hibari sing-songs, “You promised. What happened to mafia promises?”

“A choker—” he nearly cracks on the last syllable, “isn’t the same as an idol audition.”

Hibari hums. Big blink.
Withers, the arch of his spine drooping like a flower:

 “Maybe not.”

Gah. Gaaaah. Uuurgh. Fine. Fine! With a groan, Kanato scrubs a frenzied fist through his hair. Through clenched teeth— 

“Fine, but if the others say no, I’m not doing it. You’d better make up for the difference,” he jabs an accusatory finger at the choker. Hibari goes cross-eyed. “This is a charm point now. Don’t forget to wear it.”

Mischievous glint sparking his eye, Hibari tilts his head just so. Colour on his face now, life in the snaggletooth that barely grazes his bottom lip.

“Woof.”

🞛🞛🞛🞛🞛

Hibari has a shift at the café the day following. From the window seat, Kanato is rearranging the schedule and moving his timeblocks to fit Voltaction’s audition. From the corner of his vision, a girl trots up to collect her takeaway cup. Follows Hibari’s fingers around her coffee up to his arm, realisation dawning: he is rather handsome, isn’t he?

Kanato watches. Her eyes flick to his face, down again, not sure where to look— and then they settle on the choker. A decent icebreaker.

“That’s a nice choker,” she says, conversational.

“Thanks,” chirps Hibari. “My friend gave it to me.”

“Oh!” she trills, “They have good taste.”

Yes, he knows.

And isn’t it so satisfying?

- 04: Scarf -

Is he thinking, when he buys Hibari a scarf that— at minimum— is more than a month’s work of central Tokyo rent?

Of course he’s thinking. Overthinking. Agonising, even. Mouse hovering the cart button because he couldn’t find the right design in any of Tokyo’s high-end boutiques. Whatever.

Hibari cries, and Kanato cries, and then they don’t talk about it.

They super, really don’t talk about it.

- 05: Little Things -

Hibari wears the choker almost every day. The earrings, even more so.

The scarf— he doesn’t.

The scarf, he leaves draped carefully on the coat rack— back hook, shy of the front door. Unused. Too precious. Sure, Hibari wears the earrings and choker every day. Not the scarf.

It was overkill. And that knowledge sits tight under Kanato’s skin, prickles every time he steps off Hibari’s doormat and sees it in the exact same spot as last time.

Around a mouthful of Hibari’s home-cooked dinner one night— “Too expensive to use, huh?”

Hibari chews. Chews more. Swallows.

“I don’t wanna wreck it, y’know?” He takes a stab at his curry with his fork. “Jewellery’s one thing…”

It was overkill.

So he screwed up with the scarf. Alright.

Reverse gear. Little things.

Guitar strings. Vending machine drinks. Black coffee.

Pre-cut fruit, in the café fridge with a sticky note that reads ‘make sure to eat’ . A backup cable for Hibari’s guitar, that Kanato fetches from the equipment cupboard like it doesn’t still have the price tag on. A convenience store figure, from the set Kanato caught Hibari glancing at once in an arcade claw machine.

Y’know. Tokens. Tidbits. Trinkets, trappings. Stuff .

Little things, really.

🞛🞛🞛🞛🞛

The little things add up.

Hibari accepts with awkward hands. Hesitant thank you s with micro-stammers, half-second glances that stall a half-second more. Stops joking about Kanato’s young-master habits after the audio cable. Stops saying ‘wow, I feel like a princess,’ after the claw machine prize. He just presses his lips together like he’s swallowing something and nods. Never forgets to say thank you, but sometimes forgets to look away.

He notices, now, how many things he uses come from Kanato. How he gets halfway through a song and realises the strings feel too new to be his own. How the thermos he’s drinking from, the socks he packed into his overnight bag, the snacks in his cupboard— somehow, without him noticing— have all been filtered through Kanato’s quiet, compulsive generosity.

And Kanato, for his part, doesn’t stop. He never stops.

But the smile he gives after each offering shrinks, as if he’s started to worry. As if he’s expecting rejection.

No, never. Never. But what is all this?

Mints. Biscuits. Conbini rice balls. Hey have you eaten yets and wanna go see a movie, I’ll get the tickets. How is Hibari meant to take this? Buddies? Best friends? Brothers?

He wears gold on his right ear and his neck every day. Isn’t asking him to be normal about it for this long too high a demand? Then Kanato hands him a mint— presses it into his palm without thinking, gets up to follow Akira’s gestures to the other side of the studio.

Hibari wishes he understood.

🞛🞛🞛🞛🞛

Free weekday night, who knew.

Late— cold. Hibari dropped by the recording studio to run a few tie-ups, then got side-tracked on his way home following some restaurant signs he hadn't seen before. Ate dinner. Lands him here— in Kanato’s area. Hibari checks his feed. No goodnight tweet yet. Schedule was clear, if he’s remembering right.

So— hell, why not? He rings the intercom.

There’s a brutal groan from the other side of the door. Rough day? Followed by grumbles, dragging ever closer— each equipped with a dramatic thud of Kanato’s hips colliding with walls and corners. Must be tired. In other words, keep it short. For his sake.

Pause for silence. The string of curses peters out. The door cracks open. Hair mussed, squinty scrunch of the face and working a sore kink from his neck. Napping, then. Kinda late for that. Rough day, for sure.

“Hiba?” Kanato part-slurs, then— more lucidly, realisation setting in. “I just woke up.”

Hibari toes off his shoes.

“All good. You got room?”

🞛🞛🞛🞛🞛

Kanato’s apartment has always been nice— since he moved, anyway. From the old place— just a safehouse a tad more convenient than the rest. Air freshened with clean linen and vanilla. Could use a little cleaning, but Hibari’s place could use more, so it’s not bothersome.

“You want water?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

In sweatpants and a hoodie— sleeve length mismatched by a fitful sleep— slouches over with a glass. “You just swing by, or’s something you need?”

Still a slur on his tongue. His clothes carry faintly the soapy scent of the laundry detergent Hibari loaned him last week. Hibari brings one knee to chest, tries to drink like it’s normal. Like this is fine. Like his throat doesn’t ache every time he looks around and realises so much of this place is for him.

There’s a spare guitar pick on the coffee table. More scattered by the television. An extra controller in black, rather than white. The yellow Joycons come in couplets— but there’s one with a royal purple partner regardless. He traces the rim of the glass with his thumb. The glass with the slight tint— one Hibari gave him, when he found out Kanato only had three in his cabinet.

“Came by to ask you something,” he admits. Shuts off his own escape route.

Kanato blinks blearily.

“Couldn’t do it over phone?”

“I figured it was more dramatic than a call.”

Kanato stops in the doorway, where he’d been fidgeting with the light-switch, thinking of flicking it on-off-on-off just to be annoying. Now, he leans against the frame and folds his arms.

“Oooookay…” The word trawls. “Shoot.”

“It’s about the stuff,” Hibari says.

“What stuff?”

“Y’know. Stuff…” gestures vaguely. “The things.”

Kanato’s lips press. An eyebrow cocks. “I give you a lot of things .”

“Too much!” Hibari blurts. Oh, fuck. His mouth is working on its own, voice thinning. Taut like the strings he replaces every other week. “I don’t need all that… stuff.”

Kanato doesn’t move from the doorframe. Doesn’t smirk, doesn’t sigh. Which is weird. Usually there’s more. More presence, more movement. Less small, please? But there’s none of that leader's bravado now. Just a rich kid rebooting mid-sentence.

“Okay,” says the rich kid, flat. “Noted.”

Hibari sucks in a breath, sets down the glass. “No— hey, c’mon. Not like that.”

“Less stuff,” enunciates Kanato, lifting off the doorway with a sharp nod. “Got it.” 

“Kanato, c’mon, ” pleads Hibari, “It’s not bad stuff, but there’s too much of it. And you don’t say anything— I’m not a mailbox, man. You can’t keep dropping something off every day and walking off.”

Kanato snaps his fingers, “I’m not your man right now.” For a moment, Hibari thinks it’s a matchstick for understanding. But then, “I’ve got it. Less snacks,” his tenor’s riding up in the wrong places. “Why, you putting on weight? You need weight, though.”

A heavy whine, “Don’t start.”

“Start what.”

“Stop deflecting.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Kanato’s mouth snaps shut, teeth clacking. Digging bruises into forearm, holding onto himself hard enough that the tension might turn him so rigid the conversation bounces off and rolls under the couch. Just— leave. Go away.

“Why’re you doing it.”

“Giving you stuff?” Kanato responds, tight. “I don’t know.”

Hibari doesn’t offer the solace of a huff, or a sigh, or any other out for his petulance. “If it’s really just snacks and spare picks, I can get my own.”

“So get your own,” mutters Kanato, angling away. Aiming for flippant, but skating on ice so thin his voice drags sourly.

“Kanato.”

“What.”

“Look at me?”

Stubbornly, he doesn’t. Prized warhound head-to-toe, and still acting like a child.

Hibari strangles a hum, butchering a sound between outright frustration and plain exhaustion. Get a grip. It’s wrong to blame Kanato for not having a clue— all his role models growing up were probably shonen protagonists instead of real peers.

One elbow on his thigh, knuckles to his mouth, Hibari’s knee starts to bounce. “You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing.”

“Where you act like I’m trying to pick a fight, when I’m not. You’re making it harder.”

“I’m not trying to make it anything,” Kanato grouses. “I’m just standing here.”

“You’re being stubborn,” Hibari says evenly.

“I don’t know what you mean, though.”

“That’s what I’m saying! ” Finally— snaps. Oops. “You do all this nice shit, then pretend like none of it matters!”

“I never said it didn’t matter,” Kanato fires back. “I just didn’t say it out loud. Sorry I’m not poetic about vending machine drinks.”

“You gave me a crazy scarf for my birthday!”

Kanato snorts, “That you don’t even use. I fucked up with the scarf.”

“That’s not the point—”

“What’s the point, then?”

“The scarf—”

“I thought you just said that wasn't the point.”

A vein ticks— blood pressure rising. Kanato sticks his nose in the air like the emotionally constipated idiot he is and sniffs derisively. Hibari drives his knuckles into his own temples and hisses,

“You gave me a choker, who gives their best friend a choker?”

Sound waves in motion— hitting ears but not quite reaching the brain. Sticking to the skull. This one is different, Hibari can tell. It cloys, in the way Kanato’s head lowers and his bangs sweep.

“I’m sure there are others.” A long-suffering attempt to make normalcy of the abnormal.

Hibari says slowly, “Akira wouldn’t say so.”

“Akira says a lot of things,” Kanato retorts.

“Seraph wouldn’t say so, either.”

“Sera doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” he gripes.

“So not a single one of us knows what we’re talking about?”

Kanato shrugs. It’s pathetic, really. One-shouldered, half-hearted. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Say what it is.”

“It’s a choker!”

“Yeah!” Hibari barks, “From you! ”

“Ghh,” is how Kanato responds. He writhes in his spot— wiping his palms flat on his thighs as if to rub out the nervousness. He shifts his feet and all it earns him is a static shock.

“It’s in your colours—” Hibari barges right past the mangled not on purpose that ekes into the air. “—and you gave it to me. Have you given anyone else a choker?”

Kanato squirms.

Right. “Didn’t think so.”

“So you want chokers every day of your life now?” Kanato’s head whips to face him and the orange strand blinds him momentarily. “That’s kinky, even for you.”

A hand drags forehead to chin down Hibari’s face, “You’re the worst—”

“I can get freakier.”

Hibari does not take the bait. Just decides this is ridiculous, actually. Acting like ten-year olds fighting over an action figure or— something dumb. Everything about Kanato is dumb. This whole idea is fucking dumb.

Something clinks. Kanato’s tossing and turning deadens. “What are you doing?”

Hibari bites out, “Giving this back.”

His hands are already at the clasp. Fingertips find his nape, brushing his hair aside with vicious efficiency. Click. The leather loosens, surrendering to gravity.

Kanato goes stock-still. “I don’t want it.”

“Don’t care.”

Hibari doesn’t look at him. The choker dangles sadly from his fingers, his eyes fixed somewhere in the direction of the kitchen. The gold accent swings like a pendulum.

Hibari tells himself he’s not going to cry.

“You can’t give it back,” Kanato argues, seething low, “That’s years overdue. It’s awkward—”

“Don’t care.” He won’t cry. But he does sniffle. “Don’t want it. Put it back in the box.”

The protest folds, hands falling limp at his sides. The fight has wrenched his posture tait, tension papering his complexion white. In a fatally raw near-whisper:

“I don’t have the box.”

 Hibari’s wrist jerks. The clasp rattles.

“Then get a new box.”

Get rid of it.

Kanato breathes. Once, twice. Carves his nails through his hair as if to rip up dandruff. Silver tongue cut from his mouth, he twirls a strand, and doesn't meet Hibari’s eyes. The will’s squashed out of him— wheezed through his pores and leaving a blister somewhere neither of them can see. In the interior lining of his stomach, maybe, where something’s jarred out of shape.

“I don’t want it,” he echoes, hoarse.

The choker sways, a metronome. Count the beats: two bars pass before Hibari’s arm begins to ache. It lowers a mere inch. 

“Then can you come here?”

+ 01: Me +

Kanato creeps into the sofa’s corner, sliding over the arm because risking a knee-bump is too dangerous. Hibari lets the choker pool on the cushion between them. Kanato watches it, and hates that it isn’t on his neck. Yet still, he stays silent.

“What’s the real reason you gave me a choker?”

Kanato’s face darkens. An interrogation, then. “Thought it’d look good.”

“Why?”

“Matches your eyes.”

“You think so?”

“Yup,” monotone, but he pops the ‘p’.

“That’s not all, though, is it?”

The perfect cocktail of cute-smug-gentle. Hibari’s personal hybrid tone. He knows it well.

Kanato rips a loose thread from the cushion. “You can’t make me admit anything.”

Not a thing— not one. Not to how the satisfaction has footprints fossilised in his amygdala, when he sees that choker winking in stage lights. Not to the affection that slices a piece off his heart every time Hibari says gold is Kanato’s colour. Not to how much Kanato hates velvet boxes and wooden boxes and boxes in general, because if he can’t see things they’re too easy to forget.

But Hibari only sighs, and plays with the choker’s ends.

“I just want to know. That’s all.”

Kanato rolls the loose thread in his hands. It shifts two centimeters with the huff from his nose.

“I wanted you to wear it,” and then adds hastily, “Most people want their gifts to be used.”

Hibari side-eyes him, “but yours is different.”

“No it isn’t.”

“It’s a choker.”

This time, Kanato returns to sulking— 

Hibari goes on, voice sloping in thought, “The other thing was a scarf.”

And plucks lint off his sock— 

“And earrings, too.” It lilts at the end, followed by a hitch of breath.

Kanato tosses his lint into nowhere. It disappears as soon as it’s off the pad of his finger. Another dust mote now, that he distracts himself by searching for. “What’s your point?”

A hum. A nice hum. Hibari’s hums are always nice. It melts the heat in Kanato’s head, if only a little. Then there’s a cold touch on the space just under his ear. A thumb on his jaw. Kanato doesn’t flinch, but he does forget the lint. And everything else.

The couch dips where Hibari shifts closer.

“Have you been staring at my neck since high school?”

Kanato doesn’t swallow right. It clumps, a malformed stone that drops from throat to ankle. His ears heat first— blooming, mottled down the nape. Then everything else, in the six-inch radius of Hibari’s thumb.

“That’s,” he manages— barely, “A leading question.”

Hibari’s smile is feline. Far, far too much real estate in Kanato’s vision. “That’s not a denial.”

“It’s a protest.”

“Against what?”

“Invasion of privacy.”

“Oh, please.” Hibari leans in. Close, too close— Kanato’s eyes widen fractionally. Hands on his face with the choker slipping into the crack between couch cushions. That was expensive— but Hibari’s tone is lazy; so sure of himself. “You’re the one who gave me a collar.”

Kanato does not reply— how can he? When his olfactories are full of Hibari’s sunshine-scent and his skin is needling like fireflies replaced his nerves. So tense, the lone tremble in his solar plexus quakes through his whole body.

The silence stretches— long, long enough for Hibari to watch the fight go out of his posture one vertebra at a time.

“…Hey.”

Fingertips first, he cups Kanato’s cheek— just one side, to anchor them both. His thumb grazes under his eye, the swell of his cheekbone. Then the other hand comes up, a careful mirror. Thumbs pulling in just enough to squish the downturned corners of Kanato’s mouth. His mouth.

“Don’t get all sulky. I’m not teasing you, I promise.”

Really? That can’t be right. This is teasing, it must be. Because Hibari’s lashes are fluttering prettily ten centimeters away and their noses are near to bumping. Lips— right there. Right there and Kanato can’t look at them because he knows what kind of gloss Hibari has in his bathroom.

The flavoured kind. Wishes he knew the taste, exactly.

In a voice so small, it hardly counts as sound, Hibari says,

“Tell me what you really want.” 

That’s a dangerous question. That’s a dangerous question.

Hibari’s fingers— god, his fingers— stroke thoughtlessly, then loosen. Absent-minded, Kanato’s own fly and curl around his wrists, pulling them away.

“Don’t wanna lose you,” Kanato croaks. 

Admission feels a lot like losing, but Hibari just huffs in amusement.

“You can’t lose me,” he says, light. “I have a collar.”

Kanato’s teeth clench. His grip tightens. All that’s left are five helpless words:

“I want to kiss you.”

Kanato doesn't know what he expected— laughter, maybe. A scoff, a no you don't, don't be stupid, you're delirious. Something to bite down on, to anchor this ugly tenderness to reality.

But Hibari just says, “Okay.”

An overdue debt Kanato didn’t know he had. Money can’t pay this, and neither can time.

Not for now, thick as syrup, stretched long like the silence between thunder and the first sheet of rain. Not for the way Hibari closes the distance with no fanfare— just a blush and tricky hold on Kanato’s elbows. Not for the shiver as loud as the jackhammer in his chest cavity.

The kiss lands quiet.

Soft, and still, and dizzying. Lips ghosting over lips— dry, then warmer— pressing just enough to feel the shape of each other. Hibari lies with his hands: a touch that pretends he hasn’t held anything expensive until now. It shakes a little, runs a bit too hot— heartrate in his fingertips.

Kanato leans in before he realises, palms sliding from wrists to sleeves, crumpling crumpled fabric because he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Doesn’t know if he is himself, anymore. A big box for the singular, quintessential thing that might’ve bled into gold earrings and gold accents and gold eyes.

Hibari sighs into his mouth— an exhale, weightless. Lets go— Kanato chases, their noses bump, and he drowns the giggle that tries to flee— only to loop his arms loosely around Kanato’s back.

And when they part, breath shared and mouths tingling, Hibari doesn’t say anything at first.

He only rests their foreheads together. Their chests are touching. The choker is lost six inches deep somewhere in the couch cushions.

“…Don’t freak out,” Hibari murmurs eventually, breath fanning across his cheek, “but I’ve been wanting to do that since before you got taller.”

Kanato heaves a trembling bird breath, steadier than he’s ever been. “I’m not even taller.”

“You grew. A tad,” Hibari smiles into Kanato’s neck. “I want the choker back.”

Kanato puffs a disbelieving chuckle. “It’s in the couch.”

“Then we’ll get it out. You’ll help me put it on, right?”

And Kanato— dares,

“Don’t you have a sensitive nape?”

Hibari stammers a blink. It doesn’t at all hide the way his grin wibble-wobbles wider. Equally as daring.

“I know.”