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It’s so clear in Karasu’s memory, for some reason: Hiori’s clear blue eyes, like a bright, cloudless sky, framed by long lashes, some of them tangled together in a way that has always itched in Karasu’s palms. The way he tucks his hair behind his ear, the way he leans in to try the ice cream Karasu’s offered, movements and demeanor so deceptively delicate that Karasu is always surprised when he realizes they’re the same height, when he realizes—again and again and again, over and over and over—just how high Hiori’s arms reach.
(It’s always been a waiting game, he thinks. Come catch up ta me, he says, but what he really means, all this time, is one day ya’ll find out, one day ya’ll be so far above me that I won’t be able ta reach anymore, same height or not.)
It’s so clear in Karasu’s memory, for some reason: the way Hiori wrinkles his nose in distaste, sticking out his tongue like a little cat or something, the way Karasu laughs and pokes fun at it in turn. Hiori’s huff, the lift of his nose, the amusement dancing in bright-sky eyes, anyway.
It’s so innocent, he thinks. Maybe it’s okay that he holds on to it.
.
They’re twenty-two and twenty-three in France, and Hiori has somehow managed to worm his way onto Karasu’s balcony, and Karasu still hasn’t quite learned how to close his door to Hiori all the way, completely. It’s a process, he tells himself. He’ll get there one day.
(He’ll have to, or he’ll be too late; or there’ll be no one to close his door to at all.)
“Move over,” he says out loud, “brat.”
Hiori grins. It still makes Karasu feel like he missed a step on the stairs every time it happens, every time Hiori’s eyes narrow with it; confident and full of smug glee instead of the muted apathy he used to exist in before Blue Lock, most of the time. Hiori doesn’t look all that different—he still has that baby fat on his cheeks and the round eyes and the pretty face that could get him mistaken for a girl if he wasn’t so tall and so athletic—but everything’s changed, anyway. There’s no longer a morose, doleful teenager tragically wasting his talent with indifference next to Karasu, following him like a lost puppy, but a young man with stars in his eyes.
(The teenager remains right there, too, however: curled up in the corner of Karasu’s rib cage like a secret.)
Karasu kicks lightly at Hiori’s leg. “I said move over.”
With a huff, Hiori shuffles into the corner of the wooden bench, instead of lounging around in the middle of it, taking up all of Karasu’s space. He always does.
It’s seamless, the way Karasu sits down and holds out his hand, and the way Hiori takes the offered soda can. Makes Karasu smile, too, the thought that years and years and years ago, Hiori’d have insisted the soda has too much sugar. It’s not really funny, actually, but when he glances at Hiori askance—always, always, always—he’s smiling, almost a little sadly, too, like he’s thinking the very same thing.
It’s such a strangely interwoven thing, Karasu’s insides with Hiori next to him. It’s a misty afternoon, blurring the city underneath them, air cool-ish but pleasant enough when one is in a sweater, but Hiori curls up next to him, raises his knees to his chin. He’s always run cold, Karasu thinks.
It’s such a strangely interwoven thing. There’s still the constant pressure at the back of Karasu’s head, this endless fear of being found out, of course there is; and it manages to be both at its most muted and at its very worst with Hiori next to him.
Here’s the thing: They’re twenty-two and twenty-three in France, on Karasu’s balcony, and Karasu has no idea what Hiori is doing here. What Hiori is still doing here, with him. Why Hiori is still chasing him. Hiori lives in Germany at the moment and Karasu has never been, and yet Hiori speaks just enough French to order at the bakery. Here’s the thing: even after so many years, Karasu has no idea what Hiori sees in him. Hiori is smart—so very smart, with such pretty, piercing eyes—there’s no way Karasu has been fooling him for so long.
So why?
It sticks in Karasu’s throat thickly, like the mist is getting to him. He doesn’t think he’ll ever ask. How could he, without immediately laying all of it bare; his mediocrity, plain for everyone to see?
“Thanks,” Hiori hums, opening the can with a crack and a hiss, and Karasu watches him in his periphery.
There’s the soft sweep of Hiori’s hair, getting too long again. Idly, Karasu remembers cutting it a handful of years ago; feeling the bristle of freshly trimmed hair right at the nape of Hiori’s neck under his fingertips. The touch of soft laughter reverberating through soft skin and sharp bones. There’s the slope of Hiori’s nose, the bounce of his smile, his little chin. The city’s grey, misty skies make him look almost wan, thoughtful in a way that aches in Karasu’s bones.
Might just be the wet cold as well, though. Maybe he’s getting old. Karasu cracks another smile, cracks open his can, too. It’s nice, the fizz in his mouth.
Hiori tips over, leaning his cheek to Karasu’s shoulder—see, these are the things that make Karasu take a double take whenever they stand next to each other and are very much still the same height—and Karasu feels serried and not close enough simultaneously. It’s warmer, though, like this, so there’s that, he supposes.
“Be nice ta me, Karasu,” Hiori murmurs, faux-demure in a way that has always slithered right under Karasu’s skin. All of the air in Karasu’s body collects in a tight, congealed lump in his lungs, and he closes his eyes for just a moment, forcing himself to breathe.
God, he thinks, I wish I could.
.
They’re eighteen and nineteen in Japan, and Hiori is laughing so hard Karasu thinks he might choke on it. The sky overhead, painted by the incoming sunset—almost there, almost there, almost there, like a countdown on New Year’s—is nearly opaline with color, and for one moment, Karasu thinks it’s all so beautiful that he could die.
How mediocre.
“C’mon,” he says, poking Hiori’s side. “Get up, ya dunce.”
There’s the sharp weight of Hiori on top of him, tangled together; the sharp point of Hiori’s chin digging into Karasu’s sternum. Sawing through bone to get to Karasu’s heart. There’s the packed dirt of the woods underneath him, a stick poking at his lower back.
Not to mention the ache in his hip and shoulder blades from how Hiori fell on him. Really, Karasu thinks he ought to be mad: it’d be really bad if he got injured now. Still, he cannot bring himself to.
“Hiori.”
Hiori snorts, coughs, sputters in laughter. It feels like fireworks in Karasu’s fragile rib cage, all of it does. Oxygen floods him like a punch to the face when Hiori rolls off him at last, still twitching in laughter, a leaf tangled into his hair, contrasting so sharply against its light hue.
“Yer heavier’n ya look.”
Hiori is smiling when he tilts his head to look at Karasu, grinning, almost, and it’s this that makes Karasu pause, this that makes him linger, right here on the forest ground, together. “Yeah?” he says, voice breathy and raspy in the wake of his laughter. Karasu aches.
“Yeah,” he says. “Look like ya oughta weigh ‘bout two feathers worth, but…”
It smells like the earth and moribund sunlight. Every bit of Karasu jostles when Hiori slaps at his arm, laughing again.
Despite it all—despite the outdoor training, running in uneven terrain to get a better sense of balance; despite the day fizzling out; despite the ache in his bones—it’s nice to see Hiori like this. Unfurled for once, all relaxed and radiant. He used to be like this, too, on occasion, before it all, but these days, it’s so much more frequent. There’s some kind of solidity to him that wasn’t there before, Karasu thinks.
He wants to ask about it. Some part of him has wanted to ask about it ever since the change happened, slow but steady, because of course he noticed, he notices everything.
But, ah, he shouldn’t. But, ah, there’s a pit inside of him sometimes when he thinks about things like this, when it gets all—
“Comfortable?”
It’s Otoya, poking his head through a gap in the trees, before his body follows. Next to Karasu, Hiori… well he doesn’t stiffen, not exactly. Nothing’s wrong, that much is clear, and he doesn’t snap back into himself, or anything, but something shifts, anyway. The radiance is gone. For a moment, Karasu thinks it might be just for him.
How stupid.
“We were looking for you, you can’t just disappear like that.”
“I fell,” Hiori explains, sitting up, perfectly amicable. And still, it’s different than before. And still…
“Yeah, on top a’ me,” says Karasu, getting up, too, patting down his pants. “It hurt, fer tha record.”
Then he forgets all about complaining, because he holds his hand out and Hiori takes it, and Hiori’s hand is so warm it hitches somewhere in Karasu’s chest. So warm it flutters inside of him, in the vague nausea-fear he’s been running from his entire life. Oh god, he thinks, oh god, oh god, oh god.
“You both alright?” Otoya asks, and the moment shatters again. God, Karasu loves this guy. He’s awesome. Not that he’ll ever tell him that, his ego’s way too big already.
“I’m good,” he says, pushing past Otoya back onto the path. He’s not looking at Hiori, but he’d wager he’s smiling placidly right now. Ah, his ass does kind of hurt like this, though.
Of course—punitive, almost—Hiori chases after him, anyway. Karasu weaves back into the group once they catch up, grins at a joke Otoya makes, cracks his own joke about disappearing with Hiori all alone, but Hiori chases after him, anyway, always, always, always. Karasu will never know what makes it worth it, really.
Hiori tugs at his sleeve. It’s such a cute movement that Karasu almost laughs, even here, even like this; this wolf in sheep’s clothing. Cute, cute, cute, all the way down.
“Yeah?” he smiles, leaning in. Swaying away again before Hiori can follow. “Haven’t had enough yet, Hiori?”
Hiori frowns. It’s cute, cute, cute. Almost makes one forget about the sharp teeth on this one. “I didn’t actually hurt ya, did I?” he asks, and there’s a weird sort of tone clinging to it, collecting in starbursts at the point where Hiori is twisting his sleeve between his fingers. Karasu’s ears rush.
There’s everyone around them—he hears Isagi calling over something, likely meant for Hiori (twists weirdly inside of Karasu every time, the fact that those two got so close in the interim that Karasu and Hiori spent on two separate teams, so very far away), Bachira giggles, Barou is complaining about something, and, and, and—and still, the world narrows until it’s just Hiori and him. Hiori with the round, bright-blue eyes. Hiori, Hiori, Hiori.
Hiori, who’s soaring so high in the sky. Karasu pulls his arm away, puts a grin on his face. Reaches out to ruffle Hiori’s hair for good measure. “C’mon,” he teases, “I’m tough, ‘course ya didn’t.”
Then, before Hiori can reply, Karasu slips away, throws one arm around Otoya and the other around Yukimiya.
“Oh!” Yukimiya says, and, “Done with your flirting?” Otoya adds, and all Karasu has to do is laugh, and that’s it, that’s it, that’s it. Hiori weasels about him for the rest of the day, too, but well, if there’s one thing Karasu is good at, it’s this dance, isn’t it?
.
It’s so clear in Karasu’s memory, for some reason: it’d been so dark, and still he remembers—thinks he does, at least; very likely, it’s just his brain filling in the gaps, putting things there that don’t belong—Hiori’s expression, the twitch of his lashes, the slight smile dancing on his sculpted lips. The interlace of his long fingers, the way his cheek smushes a little when he leans into it.
The way he says: “I’ll tell ya a secret, Karasu. Can I?” and the way his voice sounds when he says it, all sweet and soft with something beneath it. Breathy, reedy, almost not there at all. It prickles all over Karasu’s skin, it always does. It’s so smooth he thinks he could bury himself in it; thinks then, at least, he might even be doing something worthwhile.
It’s always like this, with Hiori. With everyone—nobody can find out, after all—but especially with Hiori—sometimes, Karasu thinks Hiori already found out, he’s almost as keen as Karasu himself is, after all; but what sense does that make when Hiori is still here?—the way everything inside of Karasu trembles. The crooked grin comes to him easily. He’s been lying every day of his whole entire life.
“Yeah?” he coos. “Little sheep has secrets, eh?”
There’s the furrow between Hiori’s thick brows, and the itch in Karasu’s palm he gets sometimes, the one that means he’d like to brush Hiori’s bangs out of his face. Play with that one long strand, like a sad, limp little antenna.
“Yer annoying.”
“Hey, I’m still yer senpai. Tell me yer secret, c’mon.”
“Karasu-kun,” Hiori says, beaming saccharine sweet. Karasu wants to pry him open, but that’s a lie, just a little bit. Karasu wants to be pried open, too. “Karasu-senpai.”
“Don’t gimme that, ya brat. C’mon.”
Hiori rolls over on the pitch, kicks his feet up behind him. He’s so radiant: always, but especially here. God, especially here. Karasu thinks he’ll be lucky if he’ll be able to watch forever.
He’s being too eager, of course; but that, too, is part of the scene. He’s still supine, arms folded behind his head, posture easy, and he doesn’t really care about this secret of Hiori’s, because he can’t let himself. His palms are itching again. God, he thinks he’ll be lucky if—
Hiori scoots closer, closer, closer. Something inside of Karasu twitches, jolts, but he doesn’t flinch. “Whaddaya think yer doing, huh?”
Another saccharine smile. Really, sometimes Hiori is a rather scary fellow. Hiori motions for Karasu to lean in, and despite knowing better, Karasu does. Clenches his jaw at the hot bursts of Hiori’s breath on his ear when Hiori leans in, too, closer, closer, closer. Ah, this is bad. Karasu’s heart is racing a little. Ah, this is bad.
“I like ya,” Hiori whispers, lips brushing Karasu’s ear. Karasu squeezes his eyes shut. “Yer the reason I’m still here, yanno?”
Karasu’s heart is racing a little, because he’s scared, because he’s so fucking scared.
God, he’s always been so scared of this.
.
They’re twenty-five and twenty-six in Germany, and Hiori has caught up to Karasu at the airport, despite all of Karasu’s carefully crafted planning. All of that always does seem to fall apart when Hiori is involved, for some goddamn reason. Right now, Karasu can’t even bring himself to be mad. All that much, that is.
“Ya did come,” Hiori says, breathless, accusing. Karasu swallows, doesn’t turn around quite yet, but god, he knows he always will. It’s his own fault in the end, isn’t it? “Why didn’t ya tell me?”
Karasu turns, smooth like water. Cocks his head. “What makes ya think I came fer you? I’m just passin’ through, yanno.”
Hiori doesn’t even blink. He’s gotten too good at this, Karasu thinks.
“Course ya came fer me,” he says, and there’s an impatience in his tone, just a little, that makes Karasu’s insides feel like galloping horses. “Who else wouldja be here for? Stupid Karasu.”
Who else, indeed. Karasu shrugs. “I could have other friends here.”
There it is: the edge of Hiori’s mouth twitches. He unfurls, just a little, and it scares Karasu more than anything else about it does. “Ya don’t, though.”
He doesn’t, not really. Yukimiya would probably be the closest thing, but that guy hasn’t lived in Germany in years. He doesn’t hate the others, but they’re not exactly friends. Really, Karasu is exactly friends with precious few people, which is very much by design. It’s much easier to exist that way.
(He wouldn’t even be friends with Hiori anymore, he thinks—would very much be content to check up on the guy online every once in a while, keeping this endless eager yearning folded up tightly between his ribs, because it’s better that way, anyway—if Hiori didn’t keep calling and texting.)
Karasu shrugs again. Hiori grins. Ah, it’s bad, it really is.
“Ya got cold feet?”
Karasu scoffs. “I never get cold feet.”
Hiori smiles, smiles, smiles. It’s what scares Karasu the most, he thinks, how much it tugs inside of his rib cage, at all of those questions he’ll never ask. Like: why are ya still here? and why didja chase me through the airport, are ya insane? and what do ya want from me, seriously, what is it ya want from me? and don’t look at me like that, I never know what ta do when yer looking at me like that, why are ya looking at me like that?
And: there’s nothin’ inside a’ me worth lookin’ for, so fuckin’ stop lookin’ already. It’s been so long, it’s just gonna disappoint ya. I’m gonna disappoint ya. But that one’s not a question, of course. It’s never been, as much as it has always tasted like one.
Mediocre, all of it. Hiori skips closer, closer, closer.
“If ya hurry, ya’ll still make yer flight,” says Karasu. Hiori leans his forehead against Karasu’s shoulder. They’re the same height—always have been, and perhaps they always will be—so it’s a little awkward.
Hiori shakes his head. The airport is grey and sterile-monochrome, with shiny floors Karasu can almost see his face reflected in, lined with black benches and people walking around all about them, hurrying to this or that terminal. Above them, the sky through the glass roof is grey, grey, grey, too. Hiori’s hair, fluttering through the air with the movement, is so blue that none of that matters.
“I’m stayin’,” he says.
Will ya? Karasu can’t help but think. Will ya really?
.
He’s twenty-six in Spain, and the lights are spinning in little circles.
“I really don’t get it, man,” Otoya says, somewhere from Karasu’s right. Or left? Not that it matters, because simply pondering this has made Karasu forget what exactly it was Otoya said.
The bar is over-bright; too much for Karasu’s sensitive eyes and his poor, aching head. Ah, he needs another drink. Ideally water, but he’s not being very smart in general right now, so.
“Hey. Karasu. Hey.”
Grumbling, Karasu lifts his head, squinting his eyes. Not left. Very much not left. There’s just the length of the bar in that direction, the wood so polished the light dances on its surface; a row of barstools with red plush seats. Some of them are filled, but most aren’t, and there’s just one bartender idling, in front of a row of rather expensive liquor, polishing a glass.
Right, then. There’s Otoya: faces flushed with alcohol, toying with his glass in a way that makes Karasu think he’s going to drop and shatter it any minute now. Otoya’s never been all that good at balance when he’s drunk, which is funny, usually, because of the whole ninja thing, but there’s not much humor Karasu can find in it right now, really. Even then, he’s looking at Karasu nearly expectantly, brows raised with it, and Karasu can’t have any of that, not like this.
So he turns left again. “Hey,” he says, raising his voice. English, he remembers. That’s right. “Can I have another one?”
The bartender shrugs. Furrows her brows. “You sure?”
Does he look that bad? Eugh. That’s the trouble with drinking, always has been; the way it all slips through his fingers. It’s why he prefers drinking at home alone, if at all, but he’s not home right now. He’s very far from home, actually.
“Karasu.”
Karasu blinks. Turns, mouth dry. That’s right. Otoya is still here.
“What? I’m tryin’ ta order.”
“Nooo,” Otoya drawls, sprawling out on his now crossed arms. “You’re being an idiot is what you’re doing.”
Ouch. Otoya of all people calling him an idiot does sting. “The hell’s that for? Yer the idiot, idiot.”
Otoya sticks out his tongue. The bartender comes over to fill Karasu’s drink, after all, and Otoya winks at her, which she pointedly ignores. See. Idiot. He’s been trying the whole evening, too, the idiot. So why is Karasu the idiot, now?
“Hey,” Karasu grouses when the bartender turns around, all in her fancy, tailored suit, and Otoya stares after her with eyes that are almost entirely blank. “Hey.”
It takes Karasu waving his hand in front of Otoya’s head for the guy’s face to clear a little; for him to blink, before looking at Karasu. “Huh?”
Karasu frowns. “Yer the one who wanted somethin’ from me.”
Otoya’s brows knit together further. “Did I?”
Oh, Christ alive. What the hell is wrong with this guy? It wasn’t even Karasu’s idea to go drinking, that was all Otoya. Something something you gotta stop moping, let’s just go drink, there’s this really cute bartender who’s been making eyes at me anyway. Well, clearly there isn’t. And Karasu wasn’t moping, either!
“Ah, wait, I remember,” says Otoya. The lights blur and spin when Karasu turns his head a little too fast to look at him, and he only just so swallows down the wave of nausea. “I don’t get it. The whole thing with you and Hiori. Are you guys together or not?”
Together. Karasu’d just gone and taken a sip of his now replenished drink, and he promptly chokes on it. Another wave rushes over him, all dizzying: vertigo, this time, instead of nausea. Like he’s suddenly trapped in the wide blue open sky, falling forever and ever and ever, with Hiori’s huge eyes looking at him, looking right through him. Together.
“What?” he chokes out. Puts his glass back down with too much force. “‘Course not. Are ya insane? Why would we be?”
Otoya stares at him blankly. “Well, why not? You’re really into him, aren’t you? And he’s always following you around like a little lost puppy-stalker, and…”
He trails off. They stare at each other. The bright light pulses and pulses and pulses right behind Karasu’s eyes.
“You’re not serious,” says Otoya.
Karasu’s scoff comes a moment too late. “Yer insane. I’m not into him, and he’s definitely not into me.”
He means: can’t be. He means: wouldn’t be, if, if, if. It’s always this if with him. God, there’s really no escaping it, is there? There’s no way he could ever become extraordinary, no matter how much he chases after it. There’s no way he could ever become worthy of someone like Hiori, never, ever, ever. That’s just the way it is. He’s long since accepted that.
So why is he still here?
.
It’s so clear in Karasu’s memory, for some reason: the way Hiori’s eyes crinkle with that very first smile. They’re sixteen and seventeen in Japan, and Karasu almost drops all of the cones he’s collected from the edges of the pitch.
“Woah,” slips out of him. “So ya can smile.”
Immediately, Hiori frowns. It’s almost comical, the way the blooming smile drops off his pretty little face—and Karasu’s heart right with it, even when there is a stab of satisfaction at the way a bit of color rises to Hiori’s cheeks. Cute little kouhai.
“Yer mean,” murmurs Hiori, “‘course I can smile.”
Beaming, hands still slippery, Karasu holds the cones out, and as if instinct, Hiori takes them. Follows him when Karasu turns and makes a beeline for the next row of cones; Karasu doesn’t even have to check over his shoulder to see. He’s always there, these days. These days, Hiori always follows Karasu, like some sort of shadow. It’s a little unsettling; very much had been unsettling when Hiori tried to follow him home, but what it does, too, is stroke Karasu’s ego. Extraordinary player like that, attaching himself to Karasu whole… it feels nice.
(It’s scary, too. Trembles in his fingertips as he picks up more cones, one after the other. But he doesn’t have to worry too much, does he? This is just a passing fancy of a boy who saw something in him, for some reason. Something Karasu did project to be seen. So it’s fine.)
“It’s not even yer turn ta help clean up,” Karasu says. Hiori, ever the shadow, hums. Closer to Karasu than he thought he was, in fact. Sheesh. He doesn’t jump, but it’s a close thing.
“Do ya want me ta leave?”
Karasu snorts. One more cone, then another, then another. “Nah; ya’d just follow me anyhow, just hidden again. Stalker.”
The noise that slips out of Hiori is strangled. “That was one time! I ain’t no stalker!”
“Methinks thou doth protest too much,” Karasu says, grinning to himself. Another cone. Ah, that was the last one. Now he has to turn around; now he has to face the brilliant boy that vehement voice belongs to. It’s nice to hear it like this, instead of the dull, muffled thing it usually is.
It’s almost dark on the pitch like this. Karasu thinks if he looked up he could see the stars starting to blink into existence like this. Like this, it’s almost like they’re the only people in the universe. A stupid thought, maybe.
Hiori looks a little lost when Karasu does glance at him; he always does. It almost annoys Karasu a little, the fact Hiori’s so blatantly full of weakness ready to get poked and prodded at, the apathy that still shines through, even now. All that wasted talent. No drive behind pretty eyes.
When he pushes the cones into Hiori’s arms, too, Hiori still grabs them rather smoothly, rather smartly.
“Off ya go,” Karasu murmurs. They’re standing way too close together like this, actually. When Hiori looks at him from under his lashes—they’re the same height, but Karasu slouches and Hiori’s head is ducked—the stars collect right there, in his eyes. “This time, I’ll be the one following you around fer a change.”
Hiori frowns, but doesn’t move away any. His brows are really rather thick under those bangs of his, Karasu notices. It’s cute.
“Karasu-kun is a bully,” says Hiori, pointed, because he usually isn’t so polite. His breath fans over Karasu’s chin. “If ya hate it that much, I’ll stop.”
Ah, too much, too much, too close. Something is wrapping its grip around Karasu’s rib cage, ready to crush, there always is. Karasu taps the tip of Hiori’s nose with his finger—Hiori blinks, eyes over-big and over-bright—and takes a step back, smoothly.
“Ain’t said I hate it,” he says. Hiori looks at him for a few moments more, expression unreadable—maybe it’s the dark—then he turns around for the shed.
This time, as promised, it’s Karasu who follows him. There’s Hiori in front of him: his shoulders, broader than Karasu feels they have any right to be—but more narrow than his own—and his hair and the way he walks, slow and steady, almost ruminative. Karasu wonders if he’s smiling again, all hidden to himself.
.
He’s twenty-six in Spain.
“You are serious,” Otoya says, and his tone hurts in Karasu’s head like it’s serrated. “Oh my god, this is so much worse than I thought. I thought you guys just broke up or something.”
Broke up. Karasu laughs; it spills out of him, like a bark, all dry.
“Well, that seems hard ta do, considerin’ we never dated.”
“Nothing?” Otoya insists, scooting closer, closer, closer. Karasu grips his glass tighter, takes another blinding sip. “Not even fooled around a little? Situationship-style? Nothing? No grinding, just a little? Never even kissed him a little?”
“Christ,” Karasu grumbles, emptying his drink in one go this time to chase away the pictures that summons. Who cares. “What’s it matter t’ya?”
Otoya frowns, going back to toying with his glass. Shooting a few wistful glances to the bartender. Fucker. “I’m just worried about you. Especially…”
He trails off, and it takes Karasu a few moments to notice, for his brain to catch up with Otoya’s words. A few moments until it starts spinning in his head, rolling around and around and around like a little stone, steadily growing in size.
“Especially what?”
Otoya looks half-guilty, half-innocent when Karasu looks at him again. What? What? What is going on? What?
The back of Karasu’s neck is prickling, hairs standing on end. “Otoya,” he says, skull stuffed full of cotton, and Otoya grins, bats his lashes. Fucker. What? What is going on?
“Ye—es?” he says, oleaginous. Karasu feels a little ill with foreboding.
And that’s that, because that’s when the bell over the bar entry jingles. It echoes and echoes and echoes in Karasu’s skull, bouncing around like a screensaver. If he’s lucky, it might just hit the edge perfectly. But, well, he’s never been all that lucky, hasn’t he? Everything has always been watching, reacting. Curating carefully. Paying attention to everything. Keeping everyone at arm’s length, at least.
Karasu glances over his shoulder, mouth dry, vision spinning, and it’s Hiori, of course it is. They’re twenty-five and twenty-six in Spain, and he’s going to fucking kill Otoya Eita.
Like this, in the over-bright bar lights, standing on its classy, polished wooden floor, surrounded by a few dark-wood tables and framed by the bar at the other edge of Karasu’s vision, Hiori is beautiful. Flushed from the cold outside, or from exertion, because he’s panting, too, actually, Karasu realizes. Eyes big and glittering with a million stars, even when there’s no sky in here at all.
Otoya snickers. Karasu doesn’t even hear him. Hiori comes rushing over to them, and his expression is weirdly pinched, like he’s pouting and trying not to smile at the same time. His eyes are still shining up close like this, and he looks at Karasu like, like—
(“I like ya,” Hiori whispers. Karasu has never been scared like this ever before, but he doesn’t actually remember what he says back.)
“Ya ran away again,” Hiori murmurs, close, close, closer. Drunk like this, Karasu finds himself swaying against him and back—too close and arm’s length simultaneously, this push-and-pull that’s been tugging at him for years—until he loses his balance. Hiori’s sweater is really soft when Karasu’s face presses into it.
Hiori wraps his arms around Karasu’s neck loosely, and Otoya laughs again.
“Can we just stop chasin’ an’ runnin’ now, Tabito? It’s been so long.”
Karasu’s eyes sting. He’d think he’s dreaming, but his face is pressed into Hiori’s sweater, and it smells like him everywhere. He laughs, too. Even here Hiori followed him. God, Hiori has chased Karasu through four countries and for almost a decade. It’s all so stupid. It’s all so stupid, isn’t it? Karasu’s eyes sting. Karasu’s eyes burn, burn, burn.
He claws one hand, just the one, into the back of Hiori’s sweater. “Yer ten years too early ta be callin’ me by my first name like that,” he says wetly. Hiori coughs out a laugh, as well.
It’s so innocent, Karasu thinks. Maybe it’s okay that they hold on to it.