Archive of Our Own

I

Niragi rarely smiled earnestly, but when he did, it felt like the whole damn room tilted toward him like flowers chasing sunlight.

Karube hated how corny that sounded — even just in the echo chamber of his own head. He could already imagine Arisu mocking him for it — “You in love or writing a Hallmark card, Karube?” — and… yeah, maybe he had really gone soft and deserved to be laughed at, but hell, if he was wrong about this, then the whole damn world was wrong for shoving Niragi straight back into his orbit like a stubborn satellite refusing to drift.

All of it — all those feelings he’d buried under dumb jokes and bar tabs — flared up like a bonfire the second Niragi laughed. It'd come out of nowhere, cracking in ripples as the man leaned further against his chest, because Karube had made some offhand comments about two drunk regulars at Lucid who’d gotten into a bidding war over a bottle of plum wine they didn’t even like. He’d only brought it up because said man looked like he was about to murder the TV with his eyes alone, so he figured that a little distraction might be the safest bet he could get.

What no one warned him about, least of all the universe, was how that laugh could have the audacity to sucker-punch him straight in the gut. It was a ridiculous, unfiltered snort, yes, but it was also breathtaking and painfully real in ways Niragi never allowed himself to be. There was nothing in that smile but pure joy — stupid, radiant, inexplicable joy — and Karube’s heart decided to stage a fucking coup over it.

“… You’re staring,” the younger man drawled, dragging his words out with a lazy edge that didn’t quite hide the flush creeping up his neck. “What, did I sprout another head or something?”

“Nah.” Karube huffed in amusement, the sound loud enough to cover that stupid warmth that spread in his chest. “Just wondering how you managed to look even uglier when you laugh.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

The blonde-haired bartender had expected Niragi to smack him, or at least jab him with the cane leaning by his side whenever he was annoyed and wanted to make a point — but instead, all that said man did was to just roll his eyes and huff out another laugh. It was softer this time around, tucked under his breath like something he didn’t want to admit to enjoying.

Goddamn it.

“Anyway,” Karube continued, trying to sound casual even though his heart wanted to jump straight up his throat and stop him from avoiding his feelings, “the best part was when one of them tried to seduce the other by reading the label in French. Except he doesn’t speak French, so it just turned into, like, ‘plooom vee-nuhh from zee vintage toilette, oui oui’…”

Niragi burst out laughing again, abrupt and sharp enough to startle Kuro, who flicked her feline tail with regal offense and leapt down from the armrest with a soft thump. The blond, in return, grinned victoriously, leaning back against the couch like he hadn’t just mentally bookmarked that laugh and set it on repeat in the back of his mind.

“Jesus, you’re an idiot,” Niragi muttered, still smiling as he wiped at the corner of his eye. “I should’ve let you die back at the Beach or something.”

“Love you too, babe,” Karube drawled automatically, then froze in his spot.

Shit.

He hadn’t meant for it to get out like that, not when they just managed to find some kind of shaky peace in this routine. They also weren’t anything to each other just yet — not even when half of his groceries belonged to Niragi and his favorite things to get and he had since memorized what to do when his leg started spasming in bad weather — and Karube was so ready to blow a gasket at himself for being this dumb, especially when Niragi just blinked at him for a long while without saying anything, expression unreadable.

He was half-convinced that he had ruined everything at that moment when the black-haired man in his arms started laughing again — snorting, even — grinning from ear to ear.

“Gross,” Niragi wheezed. “You really called me ‘babe.’ What the fuck, man, are you trying to die for real?”

Karube scrubbed a hand down his face. “I'll take it back.”

“Nah, you don’t.” the younger man leaned in, eyes glittering like he’d just been handed blackmail material on a silver tray. “Say it again. Come on, say it slower this time, lover boy.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Nope, that ain’t what you said the first time.”

Karube grabbed a throw pillow and promptly smothered the other man with it. “Shut up.”

Niragi, in response, only wheezed even more into the fabric, arms flailing half-heartedly, and he couldn’t stop the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth — because despite everything, despite the timing and the fear and the thousand other reasons he shouldn’t feel this way — they were both still laughing with joy and happiness and—

God, he was so fucking whipped for this menace…

❝ ❞ ✧ ೃ༄

II

There was something fundamentally wrong with Karube — or at least that’s what he told himself — the moment he realized he found Niragi attractive while said man was deep in work mode.

And this was not in a general sense either, because sure, while he could admit it was kind of hot when someone knew their shit and could explain it without dumbing it down, this was something else entirely. The universe had it out for him, clearly, because Niragi didn’t just explain things — he lit up like a fire, with his hands flying on the keyboard as if he’d just been handed the weapon of God and was having the time of his life wielding it.

It shouldn’t have been sexy. Coding was not sexy. Describing node architecture using goddamn candy metaphors wasn’t sexy, but by some miracles, Niragi made it work. His voice pitched low in that smug, rasp-edged register he slipped into whenever he forgot to be self-conscious, all while Karube sat on the couch in his own damn apartment, nursing a beer and pretending he wasn’t watching like a lovesick idiot.

“No, listen, this is important,” Niragi said, pausing only to jab at his knee with his toes — bare, cold, and relentless like he knew it would annoy him. “You can’t just give a player a gun and say ‘good luck, asshole,’ unless you’re deliberately trying to make them suffer. Which, to be fair, I do love watching people suffer — but that’s only in Act III, after the betrayal.”

The bartender blinked at his “roommate” in mild horror. “That sentence got real concerning at the end.”

“I know what I want, jackass.” Niragi smirked, dauntless and pretty. “Anyway, the thing that pisses me off in most post-apoc survival games is that they act like everyone’s either a hero or a cannibal, no in-between, but people are always messier than that, right? So I coded this NPC that hoards clean water but gives it away to kids if they’re barefoot. Barefoot, specifically. Not hungry, not sick — just barefoot. Because that’s what made her crack in my headcanon.”

Karube had no clue what ninety percent of that meant, but he nodded like he did. Mostly because the man in front of him was so enthusiastic when he got deep into design stuff, and he would’ve agreed with anything in that moment — including, probably, letting the whole bar burn down if it meant Niragi would keep talking like that, voice warm and easy like it didn’t know how to hurt.

And to make things even more fucked — or better, depending on how far gone he was willing to admit he’d fallen — Karube caught the way the man’s usual frown softened when Kuro curled against his hip, stretching out like a queen and purring like an engine, because Niragi always ran warm and she was a greedy little shit.

Just like her owner.

“Okay, so,” the blond was snapped back to reality as his “roommate” went on, squinting at the screen again, “there’s this conversation tree that breaks if you give the player empathy stats above 70 but also let them loot the corpse in Chapter Two, and I refuse to patch it because that’s the consequence of being both nosy and a thief. Realistic gameplay, full immersion shit.”

“That’s called being a dick,” Karube said, voice rough with fondness as he dragged a hand through his hair — mostly to stop himself from doing something stupid, like ruffling Niragi’s hair or, worse, kissing him (though the urge was there — it always was.) “You’re just building a digital morality trap.”

“I am one myself, thank you for your belated recognition.”

He couldn’t help but snort at the statement, fondness curling warm in his chest. “You’re a brilliant trap, alright.”

That earned him a suspicious look — half curious, half smug — and he immediately regretted saying it out loud, especially when Niragi tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, looking far too pleased with himself. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing.

“So anyway,” the black-haired man drawled, dragging the moment out like he knew exactly what he was doing, “this sequence here—shit, wait, where’s my USB? Did Kuro steal it again?”

“You left it on the counter, genius. She doesn’t steal your shits nearly as often as you like to blame her for it.” Karube groaned, crossing to the kitchen to grab the “requested” item. “You owe me for every time I’ve saved your work from accidental feline sabotage.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Niragi grunted, one leg tucked up under him as he typed something one-handed. “You want a kiss or something for compensation?”

Karube froze for exactly 0.8 seconds — one heartbeat, give or take.

“I want you to stop losing your shits like an overworked tech goblin,” he said eventually, tossing the USB at him.

“Rude,” Niragi huffed, catching it without looking. “I’m a sexy gremlin at worst.”

The bartender rolled his eyes so hard it might’ve left a bruise, but he didn’t argue. That bastard did have a point, after all.

Niragi plugged in the drive and went right back to typing like the fate of humanity hinged on his code. The lamplight spilled gold across his sharp features, casting him in a warm glow that Karube had no business staring at — but did anyway. Compared to the brutal, bloodied version of him from the Borderland — all violence and venom — he looked different now. Softer around the edges, more human and warmth, which just made it worse for his heart to handle. Or better. Or both.

“You’ve gone all quiet.” Niragi noted with a glance. “What, no more commentary on my ethically complex water-hoarding granny?”

Karube swallowed the sigh back in and shrugged like it was nothing. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” the younger man deadpanned.

“Yeah,” he muttered, before he could stop himself. “Especially around you.”

For a moment, the only sounds that echoed in the living room were the soft hum of traffic outside and a bird cooing by the window. Karube had just enough time to wonder if he’d lose his head over something like that when Niragi finally spoke, quieter this time.

“Don’t get soft on me, bartender.”

“Who said anything about getting soft around you?” The blond-haired man murmured, smiling faintly. “Now move over for me, won’t ya?”

Niragi didn’t say anything to that comment, though he shifted just enough to make space for Karube to sit next to him, letting the glow of the screen wash across both their faces while Kuro snored gently by his side.

❝ ❞ ✧ ೃ༄

III

One fun (fun…?) fact about Niragi was that he’d rather go to hell than let anyone touch his hair.

Karube had learned that the hard way back when they were still dancing around each other in the ruins of their old lives, both of them too proud (and too stupid) to admit that they were afraid of dying alone again. The first time he tried — mostly as a joke, fingers poised above the black strands like he was waiting to summon divine wrath — Niragi had swatted his hand so fast that he almost broke a finger.

“Not a fucking dog,” he’d snapped, eyes glinting sharp and bright like glass under a passing car’s high beams. “Don’t touch me unless you’ve got a death wish.”

Karube had dropped it after that.

Mostly.

Until now.

Now, Niragi was lounging casually on the floor, back against the couch, shoulders slumping slightly in a way they never used to be when someone stood behind him. A book sat open in his lap — something pulpy with a tattered spine, probably stolen from some random public bookcases — and he was mouthing the words as he read, occasionally lifting a hand to scratch absently at his temple.

His hair seemed to be longer these days — curled around his ears when wet, turned into knots when dry, and mostly went untouched unless he guilted him into letting a brush near it. That alone should’ve clued him in to how much trust he’d been given — Niragi didn’t tolerate closeness easily, not since the Borderland, not even after their paths crossed again — but Karube, in his usual brand of backwards sentimentality, only chose now to feel the weight of that fact.

So, naturally, he decided to fuck around with it.

He twirled a lock of black hair around his fingers and gave it a lazy tug.

Niragi didn’t flinch. “What?”

“Just thinking,” Karube hummed, draping one leg over the other as he leaned forward with all the grace of someone who absolutely wasn’t thinking at all. “Ever consider letting someone actually do something with this mop?”

“You got a license for that?”

“No, but I’ve got a comb and too much time on my hands.”

“Sounds fake.”

The blonde-haired bartender grinned at that retort, thumb brushing along the younger man’s neck like he was petting a cat that might claw him for trying. He was good with his hands — always had been, whether it was shaking cocktails or pulling stitches — and Niragi, to his eternal credit, didn’t start growling at him yet.

He did, however, mutter, “If you turn me into some boy band reject, I’m shaving your head in your sleep.”

“Tempting.” He hummed, starting a lazy twist with the next strand. “You’d make a great brooding type. Tragic past, edgy eyeliner, maybe a tearful solo ballad—”

“Tragic backstory?” Niragi snorted, not even looking up from the book in his hands. “I’ve seen your porn stash, Karube. Don’t talk to me about tragedy.”

“That’s low, even for you.”

“Not as low as whatever you’re doing to my scalp right now—ow, what the fuck—”

“Relax.” The blonde-haired bartender eased the pressure a little, gathering the next chunk into a twist, fingers threading through with far more care than necessary. “I’m making you sexy. You should be grateful.”

“Grateful,” Niragi echoed flatly. “Right. That’s what you call grooming your tragic crush these days?”

Karube didn’t say anything for a while, though he did smooth the strands between his fingers and let them brush against his heart.

“The only tragic thing here is your taste in literature,” he muttered eventually, glancing at the book in his lap. “What’s this one about, anyway?”

Niragi turned a page with more aggression than necessary. “Some dumb thriller. Guy gets framed for murder, goes on the run, kills half the police force, saves his ex. Very realistic and very moving.”

The blond snorted. “Sounds like your kind of bedtime story.”

“Fuck off. There’s a dog in it.”

“Let me guess, does it die?”

“No. The dog lives, but everyone else dies. That’s what makes it a happy ending.”

Karube chuckled, hands moving on autopilot now — combing, separating, weaving small, uneven braids that didn’t bother aiming for symmetry. Niragi wouldn’t have liked that anyway. He wasn’t the kind of person you could file down into something polished — sharp in some places, soft in others, and impossible to look at too long without feeling something bloom and sting under your ribs.

Somewhere between the first braid and the next, their cat wandered into the room.

The little black menace — sleek-furred, sharp-eyed, with a permanent scowl like she’d seen too much — slowed to a halt beside them. She gave Karube a judgmental meow, sniffed at Niragi’s book, and promptly climbed into his lap like she owned the place.

(Which, to be fair, she kind of did. Niragi had fed her first — scraps behind the bar, half-threats and half-softness — and Karube had agreed to let the cat stay when she started showing up every night.)

“She likes you more than me,” the bartender murmured softly, brushing his fingers against the last braid as he tied it up. “Any secrets?”

“She’s not stupid,” Niragi hummed, adjusting the book and the cat like both were inconvenient comforts he didn’t want to admit to. “She knows who’ll feed her and who won’t.”

Karube smirked, sitting back slightly to admire his handiwork — not that the man in front of him would ever look in a mirror long enough to care.

“I do feed both of you though,” he teased gently, fingers ghosting down Niragi’s temple. “Does that mean you’ll like me eventually?”

Niragi didn’t look up from his book, his hand just turned another page, the corner crumpling slightly where his thumb dug in.

“… Shut up,” he said eventually.

Karube did.

But he didn’t stop touching his hair.

❝ ❞ ✧ ೃ༄

IV

If Karube could choose a moment he wanted to remember for the rest of his life, perhaps it would be this one — Niragi asleep in his arms, legs tangled with his under the blanket, breaths even and soft like he hadn’t screamed himself awake from a dream in weeks.

Ever since the younger man moved into his apartment under the pretense of “just until I get my own place” — a statement that had, notably, passed its expiration date months ago — Karube hadn’t minded. In fact, he’d actually grown fond of the quiet rhythms they had built, of how time seemed to loosen its grip whenever they were like this, pressed close in the dim hush of early morning, like the world had finally decided to leave them alone.

Of course, peace — as always — had the lifespan of milk left on the counter.

With the gracelessness of a sledgehammer, their cat launched herself onto the bed, landing squarely on Karube’s stomach. He grunted, breath knocked from his lungs, as Kuro trod across him with the entitlement of a creature who had never once been told “no” in her entire feline life.

“Oof—shit, Kuro—!” He hissed under his breath, one arm tightening instinctively around Niragi, whose brow barely twitched as he was still deep asleep — a small mercy. Their cat, in response, completely ignored him and padded across his ribs like they were nothing more than an inconvenient hallway.

“Hey, knock it off,” Karube sighed, gently palming Kuro’s side as she plopped herself down on his chest. “He just manages to sleep through the night this time, so keep quiet, yeah?”

The cat blinked at him slowly, tail flicking in a lazy arc before curling into a small ball of furs, utterly unmoved by his appeal. She gave a quiet mrrp like your concerns are noted and ignored, then began to knead his chest with rhythmic little stabs of her claws.

“Jesus, you’re heavy for someone who eats literal crumbs,” the blond dragged a hand down his face as Kuro began her slow descent into biscuit-making. Her paws pressed into his sternum one after the other — stab, stab, stab — like a disgruntled baker preparing dough out of sheer spite. His voice dropped instinctively, rough with sleep and low enough not to carry past their small sliver of bed-space. “Can’t you do this on your own pillow, little princess?”

Kuro’s response was to stretch, yawn wide enough to reveal a mouthful of teeth, and burrow further into the nest she was creating in the dip of his collarbone.

“Right. Of course.” Karube can’t help the breath that he had let out — part laugh, part surrender, and totally happy with how things unfolded. “You rule the fucking kingdom.”

The cat gave him another tiny, self-satisfied mrrp and promptly tucked her paws under her chest like the smug little tyrant she was. Her eyes drooped halfway, the picture of feline serenity — meanwhile, Karube’s ribs were still recovering from her cross-country trek.

He huffed quietly, then redirected his attention toward Niragi once more.

The younger man hadn’t stirred — still curled into him, dark hair a mess against the pillow, lips parted just enough for his slow breaths to slip through. His face was soft like this, like all the sharp edges that usually bristled up around him had finally settled for the night. Even the faint crease between his brows — the one that never really left, not after everything — was gone for once.

Karube’s hand skimmed instinctively down the line of Niragi’s back, resting at his waist under the blanket, careful not to wake him. “You’re lucky your dad's asleep,” he muttered to Kuro, voice pitched low, more rumble than words. “Took me half the night to finally get him there.”

The cat’s ears flicked at the familiar cadence, but she stayed exactly where she was, loafed up like a dictator on his chest.

“Yeah, I know.” He pressed a kiss into those locks of black hair and breathed them in — faint traces of cigarette smoke clinging stubbornly to his hoodie, weaving underneath the familiar warmth of whatever detergent they bought on sale last week. “Spare me the attitude, young lady. I’m trying to take care of your dad here.”

Kuro stretched again, claws grazing the thin fabric of his shirt as she resettled. Her tail curled neatly along his ribs, and Karube let out a slow breath, gaze flicking between the both of them — Niragi dead asleep beside him, the cat perched like an overfed gargoyle, morning light just barely bleeding in through the curtains — as his heart slowly filled to the brim with warmth.

If he could choose a moment to stretch forever, maybe it’d be this one as well.

“God, you two are so fucking needy,” Karube murmured gently, though his tone held no bite like how it usually would be. His thumb skimmed slow circles across Niragi’s shoulder as he shifted again, just enough to get comfortable without jostling either of his housemates. “Guess I’m no better. Can’t even sleep unless you’re next to me these days…”

Kuro blinked, wholly unimpressed, then tucked her head down and drifted back to sleep.

❝ ❞ ✧ ೃ༄

V

His work tonight was especially shitty.

Which — okay — maybe especially wasn’t the word for it, considering the profession. Karube had signed up for long hours, busted sinks, drunk assholes, and the occasional existential crisis bleeding out under low neon lights when he opened Lucid, but it usually wasn’t this bad.

Tonight, though, had been some perfect storm of fuckery — the draft line went down halfway through the night, meaning he was pouring bottled beer like it was the dark ages, some idiot picked a fight over spilled whiskey, and to top it all off, someone puked right by the entrance five minutes before close. Classy crowd, really.

By the time Karube dragged himself home — shirt faintly reeking of stale beer and someone else’s vomit (God…) — it was well past 3 AM. His spine was fucked six ways to Sunday, his shoulders felt like they were trying to secede from the rest of his body, and his soul had probably checked out a while ago as he fumbled with his keys longer than usual, cursed under his breath, then pushed open the door and stepped into the dark hallway with the sigh of a man entering his sanctuary.

He didn’t think Niragi would still be up by then — not after the early physio appointment that morning — but there he was, curled up on the couch in one of those oversized tanks and loose sleep shorts, Kuro loafed contentedly across his lap, laptop balanced precariously on the armrest. He didn’t even look up from the screen, just nudged a take-out bag on the coffee table with his foot.

“Eat,” he said simply, then nudged it again when Karube didn’t move. “I got dumplings. Should still be warm, I just ordered that twenty minutes ago.”

The gesture short-circuited something in his brain — that fragile place between this is home and I might actually cry right now, and instead of doing sensible things like thanking him or dragging himself to the bathroom to shower off the public filth, he just crossed the room on unsteady feet, dropped to his knees in front of the couch, and slumped into the other man’s lap with a bone-deep sigh, wrapping both arms around his waist in a clumsy, exhausted hug.

Niragi jolted like he’d been doused in cold water.

“Oi, what the fuck!?” He snapped, elbow twitching as if to shove Karube off of him. “You smell like you got buried in a dive bar bathroom— Jesus, why does your shirt smell like puke? Kuro’s right here, are you trying to kill her? Get off, I just showered—”

“Niragi.” His voice cracked slightly at the end, arms tightening slightly like he was holding on to a lifeline and bracing for the eventual argument if it meant he got to stay there another minute longer. “I just— Can you stay still like this for a bit?”

Karube didn’t expect much after that — Niragi was hot-tempered on good days — but after a moment of tense silence, he could feel a cold, smooth hand settled at the back of his head, fingers tangled idly through his sweat-damp hair.

“You’re disgusting,” the black-haired man muttered eventually, voice low and almost gentle. “I’m burning this couch the second you get up.”

Karube huffed a hoarse, broken laugh that barely made it past his lips. “Sure. Set me on fire while you’re at it. Put me out of my misery.”

“Dramatic much?” Niragi sighed, still combing through the knots in his hair like it wasn’t the grossest thing in the world. “If I knew this would happen, I could just burn down the bar instead of dousing myself in your shits.”

“Tempting.” He mumbled, sinking even more into the warm thighs beneath his cheek.“You could at least pretend to be touched.”

“Touched?” The younger man snorted at that. “I’m touched that you didn’t track bar puke into the apartment. Congratulations, you’re a saint.”

“Mm. That’s me,” Karube muttered. “Karube the saint, patron of wasted assholes and broken draft lines.”

“Don’t forget self-pitying bartenders who reek of despair.”

The blond smiled faintly. “You’re not wrong.”

Silence then passed between them once more, and despite everything that had happened so far, Karube felt a strange sense of warmth washing over him. Niragi smelled like fresh linen and clean things that shouldn’t be anywhere near him right now, and even when he knew he needed to take a shower soon, he didn’t find it in him to go.

Not right now, at least.

“You’re all over me right now, asshole,” Niragi muttered, shifting again. Karube half-expected to be shoved off this time, but instead, the man just used his heel to push the takeout bag a little further toward the edge of the table. “Eat something before you die of malnutrition and I have to explain your tragic death to your bartender groupies.”

“They’re not groupies,” Karube mumbled. “Just people who tip well.”

“Yeah, because they want to get in your pants, jackass.” Niragi rolled his eyes. “Not my fault your face screams 'dad who makes bad decisions.'”

“Better than yours screaming ‘feral cat who bites.’”

The black-haired man scoffed — a half-laugh, really — and shifted again to drape his arm a little more solidly over his shoulders, fingers settling lightly against his nape. Something about that sound broke the restraints in Karube’s heart all at once, and the urge to kiss the man above him came back in full force, roaring and flowing in his veins like wildfire, which he was unable to ignore any further.

So he lifted his head, slow but steady, and tilted his chin up until their eyes met halfway.

“What now?” Niragi huffed, still pretending to be annoyed, but his fingers hadn’t left his hair. “You’re looking at me like you’re about to propose or some shit. Go shower first, at least, you heathen.”

Karube smiled at that.

“Shut up,” he murmured, voice rough around the edges, and before Niragi could throw another half-hearted insult his way, he leaned up and kissed him.

The kiss was awkward as hell — his knees ached against the hardwood floor, his back screamed bloody murder, and their nodes bumped against each other a little too hard on the way in. He could taste faint traces of salt and the ghost of soy sauce from whatever Niragi had been eating earlier, and he didn’t pull back immediately — he couldn’t bring himself to do so, not when he finally had the thing he’d been denying himself for months.

But before he could pull away or regret his impulsive action, Niragi kissed him back, flipping his heart sideways and knocking the air out of his lungs like it was nothing. His lips were warm and a bit dry, but Karube couldn’t care less, holding the younger man in his arms like he was something steady in a world that kept spinning too fast.

A tiny whimper escaped him — raw and startled — and in response, the man he loved gave a muffled, breathy chuckle against his mouth.

It was close enough to count as a victory.

Maybe it was one, after all.

❝ ❞ ✧ ೃ༄

(+1)

To Niragi, Karube was like the sun he never thought he had the right to bask in.

Even now, curled on his side and half-draped over the other man like a blanket he’d claimed in his sleep, he still found it hard to believe that he deserved this warmth, that this dumbass of a man — who snored like he fought in his dream — had somehow become his home.

Karube’s chest rose and fell in slow, steady rhythm under Niragi’s cheek, the rhythm of it grounding him more than he’d ever admitted. The older man’s arm was still loosely looped around his waist, like some unconscious part of him refused to let go even when deep asleep, a promise that neither of them needed to voice anymore.

Niragi blinked lazily at the cat perched at the edge of the bed, tail curled around her paws, watching them like she was both guard and judge of this whole affair.

“Kuro,” he whispered, voice raspy from sleep but fond in that rough-edged way only she and Karube ever got to hear, “your dad has a very stupid face when he sleeps.”

Their cat gave him a slow blink in response, inscrutable as always, though he liked to pretend she was silently agreeing with him. She shifted her weight and tucked her paws under her chest like she’d heard this all before, which, fair — she probably had.

“You’re lucky,” the younger man added softly. “You get to live here without anyone expecting you to figure shit out.”

Kuro flicked an ear, unimpressed.

“Yeah, yeah. I know. I’m lucky too.”

His fingers absently brushed over Karube’s side, tracing the shape of muscle and scar under the fabric of his shirt. The blond was always warm to the touch — a living, breathing sun wrapped in an old T-shirt and the smell of whiskey and soap — and he wished to have this moment engraved into his mind for the rest of his life if possible.

Niragi watched his partner snore once, a low, rattling exhale that made Kuro flick her tail in annoyance. He couldn’t help the soft chuckle that rumbled from his chest and shifted closer, pressing a kiss into the slope of Karube’s shoulder before letting his forehead rest there.

“Don’t let it go to your head, old man,” he murmured against the fabric. “You’re still annoying as hell.”

Kuro blinked slowly at him once more, as if to judge him for his inability to look at himself.

“Silly girl,” Niragi sighed softly, running his hand down her back and listening to her purrs. “You like him more than me, don’t you?”

She didn’t answer — of course she didn’t, felines didn’t need to communicate with humans after all — and neither did Karube, though his arm tightened just slightly, a small, unconscious squeeze, like his body could sense the way his thoughts were starting to spiral and wanted to ground him back down.

It worked wonderfully. It always did.

Niragi let himself settle closer, eyes fluttering shut, soaking in the warmth pressed against every inch of him.

“… Yeah,” he breathed, lips brushing the soft cotton of Karube’s shirt. “Me too.”