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It’s Saihara who answers the door, a few minutes after Rantaro has rung the buzzer—which, no, is not a good sign. He lets out a sheepish laugh—instinctive—and rubs the back of his neck, his other hand still occupied by the shabby gift bag he threw together in the taxi back to the school. Not that he’s expecting much to come of it, really. But under circumstances like this, it would be worse to show up empty handed.
“Ah,” Saihara murmurs. “Akamatsu-san was right, you are back today. I thought you’d take at least a few more days.”
“You were placing bets?” Rantaro winces, then lets out a sigh. “Actually, never mind. I guess I deserve that. Is Kaito in?”
Saihara looks dubiously over his shoulder. He has this way of coming off incredibly nervous and incredibly standoffish simultaneously; Rantaro knows they’re friends, because Saihara has said as much, and he’s been around whenever Rantaro’s needed anything, but damn if he isn’t hard to read. Even without the baseball cap, which he finally removed at the end of their first school year.
Finally, Saihara says, “Yes. But I—um, I don’t—”
“He doesn’t want to see you.” Harukawa bullies her way past Saihara, and through the door. She’s scowling, arms folded across her chest. “So get lost.”
“Harukawa-san, I wouldn’t—” Saihara starts, pacifying.
“You aren’t. I am.” Harukawa glares up into Rantaro’s face. She’s small, but Rantaro can see how angry she is, her shoulders squared. Really not the sort of person Rantaro should ever be getting on the bad side of—but this was unavoidable. She has to understand that. Or if not her, then Kaito should. Rantaro opens his mouth, then closes it. Sue him, he’s intimidated. And the guilt is already hard enough to speak around.
“...That’s fine,” Rantaro finally says, and holds out the bag. “Could you at least give this to him? And—tell him I’ll be around until he’s ready?”
Harukawa glowers, but takes the bag. Saihara pipes up, “Will you be around?” and Rantaro winces again, feeling like his chest is about to cave in from the shame. It would be easier if he could see Kaito. Or maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe seeing his boyfriend right now—getting to take a look at his disappointed face, the way he’d probably avoid eye contact, Kaito can never look directly at the people who have hurt him—would only make Rantaro feel worse.
He’d deserve that though. Just like he deserves this rejection. Rantaro breathes out.
“Yes,” he says, firmly. “I’m not getting on another flight until I’ve seen Kaito again.”
Apparently with nothing else to say to him, Harukawa turns on her heel and disappears into the room. Saihara’s gaze follows her, then he catches the door on his elbow, a chagrined smile on his face.
“Sorry,” Saihara says, more quietly. “Just, um… give Momota-kun some space. He usually just needs it to clear his head. He’ll talk to you when he’s ready.”
“Okay,” Rantaro replies, forcing himself to breathe out. It’s nice of Saihara to reassure him. He doesn’t look angry either, just slightly disgruntled, and that could ostensibly be in reaction to Harukawa as much as it is in reaction to Rantaro. Still, he’d better not overstay his welcome. “Thank you, Saihara-kun. Tell Harukawa-san too.”
“Sure.” Saihara offers a fleeting smile. Rantaro turns to go, and makes it halfway back to his dorm before he’s called out to again—by Harukawa, this time.
“Amami, he said thanks for the present.”
When Rantaro turns to look at her, Harukawa’s making a face like she just smelled something rotten. She’s shut the door before Rantaro can say anything else, so, that’s that. That’s the reunion Rantaro’s getting with his boyfriend, this time around.
Both hands going through his hair, Rantaro lets out as weary a sigh as he’s allowed, then changes direction. Being in his room will suffocate him right now. He’d be an ass if he left campus, but he can’t exactly stay in one place, either. He’ll go for a walk around the reserve campus and see how he feels after that.
“Wow,” Iruma says, blinking. “You really stepped in it this time, Amami.”
The fact that she skips over his usual crude nickname is only further proof of Rantaro’s failure. He nods, head held in his hands, and doesn’t look up at her. Nor does he look up at Kiibo, who has Iruma’s legs splayed across their lap, or Ouma, who’s been sitting with a blank expression this entire time, or Shinguuji, who put down his book halfway through Rantaro’s explanation. Stepped in it is the right way of putting it.
“Is the practical examination really such a spectacle?” Shinguuji wonders. “I did invite a few colleagues to observe mine, but even a romantic partner, I would have assumed would have little interest in the matter…”
“I find anthropology very interesting, Shinguuji-kun,” Kiibo protests. “I would have rather enjoyed your presentation.”
Iruma clears her throat. “Yeah, but Momota’s not a fuckin’ anthropologist, and his voice doesn’t stay the same pitch when he gives a demonstration. ‘Sides, he wasn’t doing a powerpoint. It was a whole obstacle course and simulated emergency procedure. It was kinda a big deal.”
“Did you catch it?” Rantaro asks hoarsely, lifting his head. Iruma shakes hers.
“Naw. He wanted to keep it to the people closest to him. His sidekicks, his folks.” Iruma gives Rantaro a pointed look, and he groans, his head falling back into his hands.
“I’m a horrible person.”
“You certainly could have done better,” Kiibo murmurs. “What was it that kept you away for so long, Amami-kun? Where was your last trip to?”
“I—Bermuda,” Rantaro croaks. “It wasn’t supposed to be that long. I was supposed to be back a full week before Kaito’s exam, but then I got this lead in Peru—and I thought I had time to do my searching and be back at least day of, but with the time difference and the fact I hadn’t slept, I just… lost track of things.”
Shinguuji’s fingers drum against the table. “And did you make any progress with your search?”
“No,” Rantaro says bitterly. “At least if I did, I could tell Kaito I missed his presentation for a good reason. But it was the same dead end it always is.” He removes his arms so he can drop his head fully on the table. “Why haven’t I just given up at this point? It’s not like I know the first thing about finding people. Not like someone like Saihara-kun…”
“See, if he heard you talking like that, Momota-chan’d be even more mad at you,” Ouma points out. His toe nudges against Rantaro’s ankle under the table. “He’ll come around, you know. He knew what he was getting into in the first place. Probably just stung more than he expected, so he’s taking space until it doesn’t hurt anymore. He always does that.”
Rantaro frowns, though none of them can see it with his face pressed into the table as it is. “...I don’t want him to have to do that though. He should be able to be mad at me.”
“You ain’t exactly a very easy guy to be mad at,” Iruma points out. “You get all soggy and apologetic and ya bring gifts and shit and by the time the day’s over it’s like, fuck, what’s the point, you know? I’ll bet Momota’s thinking that too.”
“Nonetheless, when he is ready, you can apologise to him,” Kiibo says. “Nothing will be gained from forcing the issue at this juncture.”
“You’re right…” Rantaro shuts his eyes. His chest hurts, though, to think about Kaito sitting in that auditorium with Saihara, Harukawa, his grandparents, and the Hope’s Peak Steering Committee, waiting for as long as he possibly could for Rantaro to make some last-minute miraculous arrival. Only for nothing to come, and then for two full days to pass before Rantaro was even on a flight back. Maybe he is hard to be mad at, and maybe all he needs to do is wait it out and apologise—but Ouma’s probably got the measure of it more than anyone else. He’s thinking I knew what I got into. He’s going to write it off as his own problem, and no one else’s. That’s just the kind of person that Kaito is.
“Amami-chan,” Ouma says. He sounds serious, so Rantaro lifts his head and opens his eyes, looks out at Ouma’s unsmiling face. “If you say sorry to Momota-chan, are you gonna do different?”
“If he apologises,” echoes Kiibo with a frown. “He should apologise.”
“Ah, I do see what Ouma-kun is getting at, however,” Shinguuji chimes in. “An apology means nothing without an intention to change… and without true remorse. Would you have come running back regardless of the hint you received? Or would you, in the future? Perhaps there is no point in apologising to Momota-kun, if that is not the case.”
Ouma tugs at his scarf. “Well, I wouldn’t say that. Why compromise at all if that’s your stance on it? Besides, Momota-chan might just like to hear it, so you should say it anyways.” He shakes his head. “But I dunno. Your sisters are out there waiting for you to find them, but Momota-chan’s here right now. Isn’t he? Is he always gonna be second?”
Rantaro opens his mouth, then closes it. It makes him so angry when people say things like that, and Ouma knows it—which is why he tempers himself, because Ouma wouldn’t say it for no reason. There’s a reason Ouma is his best friend, rather than Shinguuji or Kiibo, who are arguably a lot kinder to him. Ouma’s never once implied that Rantaro should try to quit or rearrange his priorities…
But he’s right. Doesn’t Kaito deserve a little better than some half-assed apology? If Rantaro would do it again, what makes those any different from… meaningless words?
“I don’t know what to do, then,” Rantaro says weakly. “Because I—can’t. I can’t change.” He’d only been moaning when he complained about not knowing how to find people; there’s no universe where he gives up on his sisters. “I can’t be who Kaito deserves me to be. Maybe I should—”
It’s almost funny what happens next, or would be, if it didn’t happen to Rantaro. Abruptly, all at once, his four friends spring into action, with Shinguuji’s hand flying to the nape of Rantaro’s neck, Iruma shooting a rubber band across the table, and Ouma delivering a hard kick to his shin. Kiibo, much less violent than the other three, merely claps a hand over Rantaro’s mouth.
After Rantaro takes a moment to recover from the assault, he dislodges his chin from Kiibo’s metal palm and admits, “That’s fair. Please don’t tear out my nerves, I need those.”
“Momota-kun’s situation won’t be helped by you breaking up with him,” Shinguuji reminds him as he removes his hand, eyes narrowed.
“Never knew Amami-chan to be such a coward,” Ouma singsongs. Which in itself is a false statement—Rantaro’s always been a coward—but he supposes he appreciates Ouma’s faith in him. Iruma just shakes her head, putting her chin in her hand.
“Figure it out, dipshit,” Iruma says. “None of us are dating Momota. You are. There’s gotta be a reason for that, so there’s gotta be a way you can unfuck yourself.”
Kiibo sets a hand on Rantaro’s arm, the same one they used to cover his mouth. “We’re here to support you, though,” they add. “And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry that you didn’t make any progress on your sister, Amami-kun. I’m sure next time will go better.”
Aside from Kaito, Kiibo is one of the only people left who still tells him that after every trip. Rantaro lets out a heaving sigh, and his head returns to his hands. He’s not exactly enjoying being given a hard time, but being treated kindly makes him feel even scummier. He really doesn’t deserve their support. At the very least, he knows that Kaito has a support system of his own, all people who would beat Rantaro into a bloody pulp if he ever fucked up past the point of no return.
It’s his one consolation right now, without knowing what the hell else he’s supposed to do about any of this.
For all that he acts confrontational, Kaito’s actually pretty avoidant when he gets his feelings hurt. It’s like Ouma said; he internalises his pain and isolates himself until he manages to work through it. Makes it really hard to have a productive conversation, or apologise at all, but Rantaro knows nothing good will come of approaching Kaito while he’s still feeling sore, so he keeps to himself. It means his stay in Japan spans over a week, with his only consistent from day to day being a general feeling of anxiety, a hope that Kaito will finally break his silence, only for nothing to come.
At the very least, it gives Rantaro time to remember that he does actually like his classmates. Akamatsu sits with him at lunch, apparently having taken pity on his situation, and with her usual lunch group being absent; Kaito hasn’t come to class all week, and Saihara and Harukawa are taking their meals with him, in his room, the loyal friends that they are.
“Wouldn’t you rather hang out with them?” Rantaro asks, on Tuesday, unable to help himself. Akamatsu pulls a face, having bitten into an apricot moments earlier, and chews quickly so she can swallow before speaking.
“Don’t put me in that sort of position, okay? I don’t like picking between friends. I like both of you.” Akamatsu’s brow knits as she sets down the fruit, flicking her fingers to get a bit of the juice off her nails. “Besides, I really don’t like that Momota-kun gives you the silent treatment like this.”
“...I wouldn’t call it that,” Rantaro says, and looks down. “I’m pretty sure he’d answer if I tried to talk to him. I just—know he needs his space.”
“That’s not enough,” Kaede insists, but shakes her head. “Whatever. It’s fine. I’m not picking between friends! But I want to eat with you, so I’m eating with you.” She grins and leans forward, adding, “You can give me your desserts though, if you’re really feeling that bad about it.”
Rantaro laughs. “Has Toujou-san ever stopped you from taking a second portion?” He’ll gladly give her his desserts though, sure, no problem. Talking to Akamatsu always makes him feel a little warm, a little nostalgic, fond in the best possible way—if a little sad—so he’s happy to indulge her. Whatever she wants, really.
His other classmates fill in the time. Toujou allows Rantaro to join her for various chores, though she always shoos him away before long, citing more complicated tasks (with the subtext being that she thinks he’d mess her up, which is fair). Hoshi laments with Rantaro a while about past mistakes, then chastises him for wasting valuable time with Kaito, which is also fair, if not—like, Rantaro really doesn’t know what to do with that, even knowing that Kaito could vanish from his life at any moment. He certainly isn’t going to say that to Hoshi, though. Even Shirogane shows up to hassle him on Thursday evening, a measuring tape in her hand and a determined glint in her eye. Because she’s never been his biggest fan, Shirogane does not say a word to him as she takes his measurements, nor as she fits him in a costume… but it’s fine. It passes the time, anyway.
Friday afternoon, Rantaro leaves Angie’s lab with a smear of paint on his cheek and glitter all over his shirt. He’ll be finding it in his hair for the next month, he’s sure, but it’s worth it; the poster for Yumeno’s upcoming magic act is looking a lot better, now, after multiple hands have gone over the lettering and filled in all the white spots. It’s nice to spend time with those girls too, for the same reason that Rantaro likes seeing Akamatsu.. They’re full of energy—even Yumeno—and Rantaro likes to hear them banter, likes to let them pull him around. It’s a shame he can’t spend time with them more often.
He’s thinking of heading towards the library, or else back to his dorm, when he notices someone else in the hallway—someone very purple. Chest tightening, Rantaro opens his mouth, then closes it, not sure if it’s incidental or not, not sure if he should say anything or if Kaito would rather be ignored—but Kaito beats him to it.
His smile is endearingly awkward, small but genuine. “Hey. I liked the gift.”
Rantaro sighs, all the tension leaving him at once. “Kaito.” It takes two steps to close the remaining distance between them; Kaito’s arms are already open, waiting for Rantaro to pitch forward into his chest, which he does happily. He’s warm as he always is, sturdy and solid, smelling faintly of rosemary and his laundry detergent, which is a little lemony. Rantaro’s eyes sting, because they always do the first time he hugs Kaito after a trip, and it’s worse after the silence—but he swallows hard and forces them back. He doesn’t deserve the space to cry right now.
Hands on Rantaro’s lower back, Kaito mumbles, “Sorry. Should’ve greeted you at the door.”
“No.” Rantaro squeezes him tighter, slides his arms around Kaito’s back. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I told you I’d be there and I wasn’t.”
“It went fine,” Kaito offers, though his voice wobbles a little, like he’s not being entirely honest with either of them. “I mean, I passed. So. Still get another year to plan my next one, I guess. You can see that.”
Rantaro opens his mouth, then closes it again. That’s not enough. It’s not, and Kaito must know it, from the way his hands shift against Rantaro’s back. There’s no solution Rantaro can think of—no world where he can promise that another lead won’t surface—but he doesn’t like this either, watching someone like Kaito bend and bend and bend just because he cares so much about another person… Kaito’s not the sort of person who should ever have to bend to accommodate somebody. Much less someone like Rantaro, who supposedly loves him back.
Hands sliding from the nape of Kaito’s neck to his shoulderblades, Rantaro pulls back for a short peck on the lips. Then says, “Can I buy you dinner?”
“Sure,” Kaito murmurs, and smiles, another awkward, eye-crinkling thing. He’s gelled his hair, at least. Put on his usual jacket over a black turtleneck. So he’s not as bad off as Rantaro’s seen him before, but he still does look tired, rings under his eyes. Rantaro hates to know that he caused those, but it would be worse to ignore it, wouldn’t it? He plants another kiss on the curve of Kaito’s aquiline nose and presses their foreheads together, then drops his hand to intertwine their fingers.
“Ramen,” Rantaro says. “I’ve been missing Japanese food like crazy.”
“As always,” Kaito chuckles, but he lets Rantaro pull him down the hall, then out the door, his fingers threaded tightly through Rantaro’s own.
They eat, first, in silence. Kaito doesn’t go at his shio ramen with his usual fervor, and he offers Rantaro his egg, but he still drains the bowl, which Rantaro considers a good sign. He’ll skip on a meal halfway through if he’s feeling really shitty. For Rantaro’s part, he powers through his spicy miso so fast that he chokes on the broth and ends up coughing, tears streaming from his eyes even though it is objectively not that spicy. He’s pretty sure there’s a piece of corn lodged right between his nose and soft palate, too, and Rantaro reminds himself he deserves this as he hacks into a napkin.
Kaito watches him with concern, a glass of water offered almost uncertainly, like he’s not sure it would help. “Do you need me to—”
“No,” Rantaro rasps, “I’m coughing, I’m, means I’m not—”
“Okay, but it sounds pretty bad,” Kaito says, almost like he’s trying not to laugh. It is objectively a little funny, so Rantaro forces a watery smile through his misery until, with one sharp cough, the disgusting little corn piece goes spewing into the napkin. He balls it up, then shoves away the napkin to hide his shame, collecting the proffered water glass and gulping down half of it like it’ll save him.
It’s cold, so what ends up happening is Rantaro just switches from one kind of pain to another, but he gets over it reasonably fast enough. Sighing, he lets himself relax into his seat, then kicks his feet forward to sandwich them between Kaito’s, ankle to ankle to ankle to ankle. A tactile comfort that leaves both their hands free, since they like to fidget while they have serious conversations.
Admittedly, it’s not something they have to do often. At least not in the context of one of them having made a mistake of some kind. They rarely fight. When they do, it is usually Rantaro’s fault—he actually can’t remember Kaito ever making him upset or hurting his feelings—but Kaito is always so reasonable, their arguments go by quick, if they happen at all.
Rantaro doesn’t want to just gloss over this though. He chews the inside of his cheek. “I broke a promise to you,” he says, and lifts his gaze to Kaito’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Kaito’s already begun to shake his head, but when he starts to protest, he stops himself, almost abruptly. With a grumble he admits, “Harumaki’s been getting on me about admitting it hurt,” but he still seems more sheepish than upset as he sweeps his hand through his hair. “I don’t—I’m not angry at you though. I never was.”
“You don’t have to be mad,” Rantaro says gently. “I know you’re too sweet to get mad at me when you understand the why. But the what is still shitty. I’m a big boy, we can both admit that.”
His use of language earns him a slight smile from Kaito at least. “I wanted you there ‘cause I wanted to show off what I’ve learned this year. But you might not’ve missed much. You’re the only one who listens to me talk about space anyhow… I mean, outside of my sidekicks, but y’know it’s different with them.” Harukawa has a passive interest in space, and has considered the idea of studying it in college, Kaito’s mentioned before. Saihara’s interest is more intellectual, but beyond that, he’s generally listens purely because he likes Kaito. Rantaro could listen for hours to anything Kaito had to say, because the passion he puts into it—the depth he goes into when he researchers—how well he explains things—well. Rantaro likes to listen, and he likes to remember, too.
Kaito always says those things, about Rantaro being the only one who listens. It doesn’t seem a fair title to give to him after he missed the examination.
“Don’t say that,” Rantaro murmurs. “I did miss a lot. I missed an important day. And I don’t—I don’t know how to make it up to you. I’ve been running it over again and again in my head, but when it comes down to it, I can’t—I don’t…” He squeezes his hands together on the table, frowning down at his rings. “If a lead like that comes up again—I’m on the next flight out. It doesn’t matter what else or who else is involved. I—I know there’s no point in apologising to you if I can’t promise anything will be different. But I can’t. So I don’t know what to do.”
He bites down on his lower lip. It hadn’t really been Rantaro’s intention, to say that to Kaito. For one thing, Kaito likes to help—so spilling any kind of vulnerability in front of him is as good as asking him for assistance. For another… what kind of shitassed apology does that make this? I’m sorry. But I can’t do better. I’ll do it again if I have to. I do suck though, we can both admit that.
The words bubble in Rantaro’s throat. Maybe you’d be better off with someone else. Anyone else. They’d probably be better at showing up than I am. But he swallows them back, in part because he’s remembering Shinguuji’s implicit threat to his nerves, but also because he… doesn’t want that. of course he doesn’t. It’d tear him up to see Kaito with someone else, even knowing it would be better for him in the long rung, even knowing they might treat him better. Rantaro doesn’t want someone else to do all the taking care of Kaito. Rantaro wants to be the one by his side. Even if he does a shit fucking job at it.
Kaito smiles and says, “I don’t want you to change, Rantaro.”
“Yeah, but something has to give,” Rantaro insists. “Because I can’t keep doing this. Making promises and leaving and—showing up with a necklace afterwards like that’s going to make it okay. It’s never going to be okay. Anyone’s bound to get sick of it eventually. Even the Luminary of the Stars,” he adds with a bit of a scoff, because of course, this isn’t really the place to be bringing out Kaito’s title—but he says it for a reason. Because Kaito is human, no matter how often he separates himself out from the rest of the crowd. No matter how much he opposes the idea that he might be just as vulnerable or sensitive as anyone else. He is. He’s always been. Rantaro just keeps stepping on his feelings, again and again and again, despite knowing that.
“What’ll give is, you’ll find your sisters,” Kaito points out. Rantaro makes a face, but Kaito keeps talking before he can say anything. “Look, Rantaro—if you asked me to be there for you to search for one of your little sisters, I’d be there. No question. But if I got called onto a ship leavin’ tomorrow—or hell, if one of my grandparents keeled over and went to the hospital—well, my priorities would shift. I’d leave, too. We all got those things that matter to us more than anything else. I can’t be your number one all the time.”
“I’m your number one an awful lot more than you are mine though,” grumbles Rantaro.
“Yeah, but you got a few more ducks to line up than me,” Kaito says, and grins at him. “You listen to me. I said I wasn’t mad ‘cause I wasn’t mad. Hurt, yeah. But not really by you. I know who you are and what you do. That’s why I love you. I never knew anyone as dedicated as you are, and it’d piss me off if you suddenly decided I mattered more than your travels. I would’ve wanted you to be there, but I would’ve wanted you to find your sisters more, and even if you didn’t this time, I know you’d be thinking about it now, wondering if you missed the first chance you actually got. So you don’t have anything to be sorry for or change.”
Rantaro winces. “But—”
“But nothing!” Kaito reaches across the table and grabs his hands. “I need my space. And it’s kinda scummy too to ice you out, right? But you never give me shit for it. Maybe we each get a shitty partner thing. Sometimes you flake out, and sometimes I shut down. We both come back eventually. Nobody’s perfect. Not even a hero.” His brows shoot up. “What matters is how you make up for it, right? And the fact we keep trying. Maybe you weren’t here for the exam, but you still came back to me eventually. That’s enough.”
It’s not fair. It isn’t. Maybe Kaito thinks it is, because he’s got low standards for himself, or because he loves Rantaro that much, or because he’s just that heroic—whatever the reason, it still isn’t. Rantaro lost his sisters—not just Kikuko, not just Aki, but all twelve of them in the worst four years of his life. And everyone can tell him he was a kid and that it wasn’t his fault, they can tell him he’s taking on a burden that no teenager should have to carry, and they’re never going to be right because they’ll never understand that it was Rantaro’s fault and Rantaro’s wrong and for as long as he hasn’t fixed it, he has to spend the rest of his life in service of that goal. Maybe he’ll never get there. Maybe the cosmic balance will never be restored.
But until then Rantaro is not a person. He’s not; he lost the right to be when he was eleven. When Kikuko lost the right to have a family. And here is Kaito, looking at him—smiling at him—like he in some way deserves it. Like he’s good enough, like listening sometimes makes up for all the times he’s failed—will fail—like the non-apology he gave, the one that Ouma and Shinguuji rightfully highlighted as useless, is at all sufficient—and it’s not fair. Because Rantaro knows what the right thing to do would be, and he can’t do it. He’s not strong enough. Not strong enough to have or find his sisters, and not strong enough to let Kaito find someone better.
“I—” Rantaro chokes again, “I need to pay the—”
“Oh,” Kaito’s eyes have gone saucer-round, “gimme your card, I’ll take care of it.”
At least he can trust that Kaito will pay with his card, since they agreed Rantaro would cover this one. If Kaito picked up the tab too, Rantaro would really consider leaping into the Atlantic. In a blur of activity, Kaito gets their food paid for and their table bussed, and then his arms are under Rantaro’s shoulders and hauling him upright, to the door, out on the sidewalk.
It’s late September, past rainy season, the streets still smelling faintly of petrichor. This means that Rantaro will be seventeen soon, which means another year without his sisters—and the end of his first with Kaito. Rantaro’s knees start shaking like they’re going to give out, and Kaito catches him before he can even fully collapse. That’s not fair either. Of all things, he should be able to carry his own goddamn body weight, but Kaito’s there for that too.
“I’m never,” Rantaro gasps, “going to be able to—not what you deserve.” He doesn’t know how else to put it. He’s too greedy to pull back, too broken to survive on his own. He clings to Kaito because that’s what he does, because every night this week he’s dreamt of that same old forest trail, the same snow, the same sloping path, except it hasn’t been Kikuko tumbling off around the middle, but the boy who stands against him now.
Kaito’s nose pushes against the dip of his neck. “Don’t say bullshit like that,” he mumbles, then quieter, “I got you. I’ll get us home.”
Rantaro has a special talent, developed over the years of travel, for letting large periods of time pass him by. He blinks and he’s at the school gate, then the entrance to the dorms building, then finally standing outside of Kaito’s room, leaned against his side as Kaito digs around in his pocket for his keycard. His tongue’s poking out of his mouth. It’s cute. When the door is opened, Rantaro is hauled inside. His legs still feel like jelly, but he plants his heels so he can support his own weight, then pitches right back forward into Kaito’s chest.
God, he smells good. He smells like home—not the home Rantaro lost, but a new one, a different one, the one he’s grown too accustomed to having. He thinks he’d really just lie down and die if he lost this one. Except he can’t do that, because who would find his sisters then?
“I’m all over the place,” Rantaro croaks.
“Yeah you are,” Kaito chuckles. “Ultimate Adventurer. C’mon. It’s been a hard month for you, huh?”
They end up on Kaito’s bed, the lamp dimmed so they can stare up at the glow-in-the-dark stars he used to decorate his ceiling. Kaito holds him tightly, chest-to-back, and Rantaro nestles his head under Kaito’s chin so he can listen to his heartbeat. He really muddled the hell out of this apology, with all the crying and the bullshit, and that’s not even getting into his lack of a workable solution. A true fumble, well below even his usual standard of befuckery. Rantaro can’t even muster the energy to be upset about it; he’s too exhausted and relieved to have Kaito close to him again.
He plants his hands on Kaito’s wrists and shuts his eyes. Says, “Would you do an encore?”
“Mm?”
“A curtain call. Show me the whole prez again. Maybe do it for the class… I’ll bet Akamatsu-san’d be all in favour.”
“Oh… I mean, I dunno if they do that here,” Kaito sounds a bit bashful, “but if you wanted to see it—you sure you want to see it?”
Rantaro frowns, then shuffles until he can roll over, peering up into Kaito’s eyes. It’s cute when he gets bashful, but not like this. Not about this. “I missed it because I thought I had a lead,” Rantaro reminds him, “not because I didn’t want to see it.”
“I knew that,” Kaito says defensively, then breaks into a smile. “But, well… if you mean it, then sure. We’ll make a whole thing of it. Maybe see if I can finally get Akamatsu to become an astronaut.”
Yeah, Kaito had better not hold his breath on that one. But the promise of a redo helps Rantaro relax the rest of the way. He leans up for a kiss, then curls all the way around Kaito, legs and arms, latched on like a koala. He’s close enough to feel Kaito’s little laugh, his breath whistling through Rantaro’s curls. Then Kaito’s hands are on his back, large and warm, rubbing up and down and easing the last of the tremors out of him. He’s so sweet. It’s hard not to think of him as perfect in moments like this, despite knowing intimately that he isn’t. Rantaro presses his face in further against Kaito’s neck.
“I love you,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry again, Kaito. I really hate to disappoint you.”
“I forgive you, so it’s in the past now, okay?” Kaito’s lips ghost over the crown of his head. “...But thanks, ‘Taro. Means a lot to hear you say that.”
Maybe that’s what Rantaro was waiting to hear. He feels himself smile, then, letting out a long, slow exhalation, begins to drift asleep. After the food and the crying, the emotional stress of the week, and finally getting to have Kaito in his arms—well, Rantaro didn’t stand a chance. He’s out like a light.