Work Text:
There are nights like these, in summer.
When the sun’s a little sticky on the skin, clinging to the hollows between bone and shirt. A fine residue of sweat and salt and muggy linoleum from running overtime in the studio. The smoke of baked tar and hot metal, burying his own vanilla… which Kanato thinks is a shame, really. That fragrance was expensive.
One hand tugging lightly at the knots in his hair, Kanato thumbs through his phone. Flick, swipe, pull up the calendar— oooh. Lucky~! Yes, he’d forgotten his schedule was clear. And it’s sometime past six in the evening; about an hour yet ‘til the moon takes over. On a Friday , too. The fortune gods are laughing.
Time to kill, but Hibari is probably still wrapped up in song recordings. Kanato doesn’t keep contact well enough with others to know if they’re free on the spur. So he pulls up Akira’s chat— name un-updated since high school— and fires a text:
> FRIDAY, 6:04PM <
[[ im free today if u wanna do anything
and like bored also ]]
[[ Shiftynagi Akira:
I have things to do with Serao today
Ask Watarai instead ]]
[[ think hes busy. Hes always busy ]]
[[ Shiftynagi Akira:
Then pester someone else ]]
[[ nobody to pesterrrrr cmon do smthn with me ]]
[[ Shiftynagi Akira:
Okay, okay. But no, 4S has things to do ]]
[[ damn ]]
[[ Shiftynagi Akira:
Go out alone. Try something different. ]]
[[ like what ]]
[[ Shiftynagi Akira:
It’s Friday. You’re an adult. Go get a drink ]]
[[ alone? 20yo handsome man at a bar on friday night
either picking up chicks or a sad loser ]]
[[ Shiftynagi Akira:
Hahaha
You said it, not me ]]
[[ hey ]]
Read 6:06PM
Akira doesn’t respond after that. Defeat, double-time. Kanato sighs.
Nights like these, y’know? Time to kill, nobody to kill it with. Cut-and-dry cause-and-effect. Not like it’s new.
Hop his bike, find food, go home. Wash up, then stream. Maybe bash his face against the top of Valorant’s diamond rank. Sleep. Worry about Venti’s next stock-take tomorrow so he can have Sunday to reset. Could hit the gym if he wanted— functioning adult stuff. Routine. Lifestyle nonsense: the drill, etcetera.
Recalling the caption from a magazine interview he did— ‘How put together he is, this dashing young businessman.’ Yeah, maybe. Maybe-ish.
“What, Kanato, you’re still here?”
Full-bodied, Kanato startles; a trigger-twitch on the finger closest to his hip. A reflex that dies fast on the heel-turn, as he looks up from his phone. Hibari, with his perennial grin and violet flyaways and charm that makes even summer’s humidity look magnanimous—
“Ahaha. Did I surprise you? Sorry.”
—And his steps too silent and stride too languid, with the sweat matting his fringe just enough to sharpen the contours of his face—
Kanato blurts, “All good. Hey, you free tonight?”
—With his big, blinking eyes and mouth that looks so small pursed in thought, only to break into a self-affirmed, snaggletooth grin so stupid and innocent—
“Yeah, sure. It’s Friday, right? I don’t have anything on this weekend.”
And Kanato forgets entirely about lifestyle nonsense.
“You don’t?”
Oh—? In his chest, his traitorous heart kicks a skip. It shouldn't— it shouldn’t, because Hibari is his best friend, and Kanato is supposed to be years used to stomach somersaults and humming veins. He never is, though.
Hibari’s head tilts, listening for a cue that never comes. Then he smiles, “Nope. I got time.”
On a summer’s Friday night, he has time. With the sky perfect— begging for a horizon shot of the city’s silhouette sinking into velvet. The ideal Friday.
“So,” Hibari cranes his neck at Kanato’s phone— it’s already gone dark. “What’s the plan?”
Plan? Nothing, really. Just Hibari, standing there bright-eyed and clueless. Probably doesn’t know that Kanato’s plans are vague hopes at best: The taste of toothpaste, not his own. The ghost of lips on his cheek. Or… even a chance of sweat-slick skin—? Nope, not that. But a million other things… give or take.
“Can’t say. Just a hunch.”
At that, Hibari snorts, and translates, “Bored, huh? I guess there’s always karaoke.”
This guy and his karaoke. Sure, they could. But there’s a nag at the back of his mind:
Try something different.
“How about a drink?” is what Kanato settles on. Anything more is too complex— his voice would trip. “Since it’s Friday. My treat.”
Hibari presses his lips together— “Hmmm…”— and Kanato allows himself a split-millisecond glance at the faint marks where his fangs sit. “Sure, I’m free. Where to?”
“I’ve got somewhere,” Kanato replies, steady on. Steadier than he is right now.
“Care to share?”
Ten years practice in play-it-cool, Kanato breezes, “Only if you want to hitch a ride.”
Eyes lighting up, “On your bike?” Hibari chirps. “Awesome. Buckle me up, boss.”
Oh. Kanato could die. But he’s a professional wrangler of terribly lucid thoughts.
Instead, he says haughtily, “There’re no seatbelts on a motorbike. Just hold on to me.”
Hibari laughs. He’s gonna have so many laugh lines when he’s old.
“ Okay , Casanova.”
Mmm. Casanova’s praying he lasts until sunrise.
🝰🝰🝰🝰🝰
The bar is a bit further out of his way than Kanato would go, ordinarily. But his ration of Hibari’s attention is getting smaller and smaller as of late. While he’s got the chance, might as well turn the dream into fantasy.
Fidgeting in the elevator, Hibari gawks at the ornate motif on the vintage floor buttons. In his graphic tee from the Datoka concert a month ago and knee-length shorts and beaten sneakers. And suddenly Kanato feels utterly ridiculous.
Is it tryhard? A little. God, he’s tryharding.
But he schools it. Cool, like. Suave, like. Tells himself: Hibari probably just sees me as obnoxious as always. Convinces himself: no I’m not bringing my friend on a date because it’s summer and Friday and we’re both free and that’s just not how bros work.
It’ll do. Well, it won’t— ‘cause he’s still got the ghost of Hibari’s skinny arms around his waist from the motorbike ride. ‘Cause he’s still got the afterimage of Hibari’s whoop on a sharp-corner turn bouncing around in the shell of his ear.
Because, this rich boy’s bar is his go-to for solo sulking of the highest degree. It won’t do, really. But Kanato is a master of the silent implosion.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Kanato inhales through his nose.
This bar’s way too ritzy, but it’s about theatrics. Kinda vain— so what? He’s allowed his luxuries.
It’s just the luxuries feel so big when Hibari is sharing the elevator.
Dopey grin as he taps away on his phone to— whoever. Probably something like ‘KNT’s just brought me to this rich kid hotel place’ or, ‘i forgot how pampered kanato is by money’. Probably to Akira or Seraph or, like. Fuwa or Ibrahim… whoever. As long as it’s not anyone Hibari would rather be seeing right now.
And if it all goes wrong or far too right— he’ll mark his chest with the holy cross and call it mere fantasy.
On the fortieth floor, the elevator finally chimes its last.
The doors slide open to a wide room— floor-to-ceiling windows, moody-lit column lamps. All dark hazel palettes and living walls of indoor ferns. From the corner of his eye, Hibari’s jaw drops— eyes catching Kanato’s— and clicks immediately shut. Instead, he sidles up to Kanato’s flank when they stop by the [WAIT HERE FOR ATTENDANCE] sign, cups his hand and mutters into Kanato’s ear.
“This place can’t actually take walk-ins, right? It’s Friday.”
True. But the dinner rush is still in swing— it’s not quite happy hour yet.
“They will for me,” Kanato says, matter-of-fact.
Hibari side-eyes him through a very long pause. His gaze hones in on Kanato’s fingers creeping toward his pocket, and flicks back up to the grin stretching cheshire across his face.
“Do you—”
“Yeah, naturally.”
Connections, they mean— as Kanato procures his wallet, and plucks out a card. Sure enough, glossy and black— not his credit card, but that’s black too, obviously— and embossed with gold lettering.
“Sometimes I just forget how rich you are.”
Shifting his feet, Hibari winces when his sneakers squeak. “It hadn’t sunk in yet. I’m in shock,” a little shameful, he adds, “Pretty fancy for drinks…” it trails as if he’s going to say something more. He doesn’t.
And oh, doesn’t Kanato know it. But if anything fouls, he can blame Akira. Play it off, like everything else all the time-ever-forever-absolutely-always.
Kanato shrugs it off. “High standards.”
Under his breath, Hibari grumbles, “Don’t you eat takeout five nights a week?”
Kanato shrugs that off too, “What’s the issue if the taste is good?”
Hibari frowns, nose wrinkling in displeasure. Gaze straying, so Kanato knows he’s thinking something. Doesn’t know what— doesn’t get to ask either, because the waitress finally comes over.
“Just drinks,” Kanato says, nonchalant. “We’ll be out before you know it.”
She doesn’t look much harder at the card in his hands, only dips her head— “Of course, Fura-sama. Please take your time.”— and gestures toward the bar.
He throws Hibari a blinding smile, self-satisfied. Doesn’t wait, even if Hibari’s steps shutter a beat behind him. As he slides into his seat, the tender offers an odd look— the same guy as always, witness to far too many of Kanato’s tearful, lone-drunk spiels.
“Something different today, Fura-sama?” he intones, professionally smooth.
Kanato likes him. “Think so. Maybe we can get the drink menu? Thanks.”
Two sleek, laminated booklets are slid in front of them.
Slotting into the space beside him, Hibari squints. “They know you?”
Helpless against slight smugness, Kanato rests his chin in his palm as he leafs through the booklet.
“Ehh…” Play it cool. No need to overdo it. “Guess so.”
Kanato watches Hibari’s profile— all cheekbones cut by lowlight and black studs glinting— only for the satisfaction of his balk as he at last registers the prices.
“Expensive…!” he spares a scrutinising glance at Kanato, looks back down. Realises he’s being watched and turns to face him, flabbergasted, “You really come here regularly?”
“Sometimes it’s for work.” Kanato is only going through the menu to have a distraction— paging through his own awkwardness, flipping front-to-back, back-to-front. “Luxury is a good investment. It makes you look like you’re putting in effort for relations.”
It’s not a lie. Part of the familiarity is that he’s had his name in the bookings thrice over the last few weeks: once for a Venti ambassadorial task, and twice for things a little less legal. People love it here, and there’s no point fixing what’s not broken.
Hibari hums. His fingers absent-mindedly flick the corner of the page he’s on. “Counting yourself?”
Kanato snorts. “I guess so.” Then his hands still— was there something weird in what he said just now?
It earns a nervous chuckle from Hibari, more breath than laugh. “I’m so underdressed.”
“They don’t care. Suit or shorts, they’re still getting paid,” Kanato states plainly, then tugs at his speckled-grey collar. “Besides, I’m not dressed for it either.” Plain clothes. It’s not as if he’d been planning.
“Makes sense,” is how Hibari settles. He closes the booklet. “I’d better make their time worth it then, huh?”
Sitting straight, Kanato blinks, “You’re drinking alcohol? They sell soda, don’t force yourself.”
Hibari shakes his head, hair falling in his eyes. Plum-coloured in the bar lighting.
“You’re going out of your way to spoil me again,” he says lightly. Kanato opens his mouth to interject, but never gets the chance. “It’d be a waste to come to a fancy cocktail bar and not order a cocktail, right?”
Usually, Kanato comes for the malts or wine— won’t mention he’s gone through a bottle and a half alone before. Won’t admit, either, he’d brought Hibari here forgetting how rarely he ever drinks.
“I guess it doesn’t hurt once in a while,” he decides. “Maybe I’ll try some cocktails too.”
“Cool,” quips Hibari, and scans the menu again. Kanato knows he’s not actually looking. “What do you think I should get?”
“What do I think you…” Kanato trails off. Whaaaaaaaaaaat. “Why are you asking me? Choose for yourself.”
“I don’t drink enough to know,” Hibari shoots back. “I’ll just get what you’re getting if you won’t decide. As long as it’s not sour.”
Not sour. Kanato tucks the phrase in the corner of his mind, glancing over the rim of the menu. The rest hangs there, unstated: he gets to choose. Hibari doesn’t care what it says about him— or maybe doesn’t know it says anything at all.
It’s not a big deal. Not to Hibari, at least. Maybe it’s even kitsch. A tad gaudy, to believe in.
But Kanato once spent six months compiling cocktail trends for an expansion proposal. He’s seen a mojito smooth over a contract and a sidecar end a marriage. His old man used to tell him to watch the details— you never know what messages are hiding in the social coda.
…Is he overthinking it?
He skims the cardinal. Doesn’t dare with the morning glory fizz. Casablanca— no. Campari orange is easy and honest, but… well. They’re all honest. And Hibari deserves more than ‘easy’. Try something different.
Near the middle of the list, the tequila sunset sits blameless. In the tileset of menu showcases, it's orange and red, with a splash of grenadine staining the rim. Kind of dangerous for a first selection— tequila, grapefruit, a sweet kick and a cherry on top. Passionately coloured with a comforting charm. A drink for a miserable soul.
“How about this one?” Kanato says after a moment— tone even; nothing in it. “Tequila sunset. It’s got lime in it, though.”
Hibari perks up. Instead of his own, he lists sideways to peer at the photo Kanato’s finger is set on. “Sounds nice.”
Gauging, Kanato watches him for a beat. “It’s a little sour. Could try the piña colada instead. Kahlua and milk— that one’s really easy to drink, if you’re into it.”
“Mmmmm…”
Following Kanato’s finger from one picture to another, Hibari’s lashes flutter. The corners of his mouth stay ever upturned in that unreadable, lazy smile he wears all the time. Nothing in his expression gives; just Hibari, as always. Too plain for this fancy bar, but too extravagant for anywhere else.
The quiet orange of the bar mutes Hibari’s colours. Tones down the shock of his pink and the wink of his earrings reflecting light. Past him Kanato can see the skyline through the windows— sun descending now, city skyscrapers blinking to life one-by-one.
“Anything’s fine. If I’m curious, you’ll share with me, right?” Hibari lifts his head and catches Kanato’s gaze. Looking directly at him is like seeing through to the sun sinking low. “We can ask for straws.”
Kanato’s foot jumps— a hare-twitch that goes unnoticed.
Are you joking?
Kanato’s thumb presses into the corner of the page. Disconnect— look away, do anything, or he’s going to tilt off-axis. Trip over himself and fall the whole forty floors all over again.
Hibari cants his head. “Kanato?”
Kanato swallows thickly, wrenches his eyes back to the menu. Clears his throat:
“One tequila sunset,” he says. “And a piña colada.”
The bartender cocks a brow. Kanato ignores him.
Both on the table— just in case.
🝠🝠🝠🝠🝠
Hibari gets drunk. Of course he gets drunk.
Halfway through his tequila sunset— Kanato moves on to a bloodhound, poor fool that he is— his cheeks start to rosy. By the time he finishes, he’s drowsy. And by the time he’s drained two-thirds of his kahlua and milk, Kanato slips the bartender his cheque, wraps Hibari’s arm around his neck and bundles them both into the elevator.
“You don’t have to help me,” Hibari breathes, straight into Kanato’s ear. Electricity dances up the knobs of Kanato’s spine. “I’m still lucid.”
“Not for long,” mutters Kanato. He’s not quite drunk himself— but he will be, if Hibari keeps toying with his bangs from the arm around his shoulders.
Sun’s gone now— just the city haze hanging overhead. This time, his nose is full of sunshine scent and clean linens and Hibari’s shampoo, wearing faintly the woody dregs of the cocktail bar. With a forlorn glance at his bike parked on the curb, Kanato fumbles his phone for a cab. He’ll ask someone to pick his bike up later— Seraph, Akira, or one of his guys. Doesn’t matter.
The ride is mercifully silent, after Kanato murmurs Hibari’s address to the driver and shimmies them both into the backseats. With his arm splayed carelessly over Kanato’s lap, Hibari’s face is melted and goopy. Dozing lightly, and drooling on Kanato’s shoulder— for all their appeal, the snaggleteeth must come with some drawbacks. Gross, Kanato would like to say. But finding anything real to dislike about Hibari is his Sisyphean task.
And while the ride goes on, Kanato looks back at his phone and wonders if taking a picture is too much. Yes, probably. No— definitely. But he opens the camera and snaps one anyway. Doesn’t look at it. Does steal a half-second peek at the lights sweeping across Hibari’s cheeks and hair. Does tell himself—
If it’s gone tomorrow, he’ll know nights like this really don’t happen.
🝢🝢🝢🝢🝢
They roll up at the curbside to Hibari’s apartment complex. At last, Kanato is forced to rouse Hibari— who gives a miffed ‘hwah?’— to lean over and tap his card.
“Hibari, we’re here.”
Hibari offers a maffled reply, and liquefies into Kanato’s side. As he hoists Hibari once again, the taxi peels away. Fully abandoned, with nothing but a drunken drowsy band boy hanging off his flank.
“Your place ‘r mine?”
Amused, Kanato huffs through his nose. “Yours, idiot. Your passcode the same?” He bumps Hibari’s hip for leverage through the elevator door.
“Yeah… s’the only one I rem’ber…”
“If you didn’t make it your passcode for everything, you’d forget your own birthday.”
Hibari chuckles, breath fanning out over Kanato’s neck. He’s glad he buttoned his collar.
“You’re so reliable,” Hibari says. After a pause he adds, “You’re so nice to me. Y’know that?”
Kanato’s mouth runs dry— or it would, if it wasn't dry already. Even though he only had two or three, the alcohol must’ve stranged him too. Because when his heart does its customary flip— well-practiced acrobatics— it lands wrong and stings his eyes.
“I’d like to think so.” It doesn’t matter that his voice shakes, because Hibari is too far gone to notice.
They’re not at the point of stumbling, when they make it to Hibari’s door. Kanato punches 0923 into the keypad with deceptive acuity, and jostles them both over the threshold.
“Let’s get you some water,” Kanato mutters, “sit on the couch?”
“Nah,” says Hibari.
“Great, I’ll—” Kanato stops. Frowns. “What? No. Get off me. You need water.”
Where his arm is dangling around Kanato’s neck, his fingers find a fistful of shirt and wrench it tightly. His other hand gropes blindly and latches on near Kanato’s pocket.
“Told you,” he responds, a little husky. “I’m lucid. Just a bit sleepy.”
“Just a bit sleepy,” repeats Hibari, tighter against him now— still hooked like dead weight, not even caring he’s wrinkling both their clothes with proximity. His cheek nestles somewhere near Kanato’s collarbone, damp from sweat and heat and too many things Kanato can’t afford to catalogue.
It’s just summer.
Kanato’s throat constricts. There’s water to get. A glass to fill. A safe distance to reestablish. That’s what he’s supposed to do— deposit Hibari on the couch, get him something to sober up, leave .
He shifts. Hibari doesn’t. He shifts again. Still doesn’t.
“You need water,” Kanato asserts firmly. He tries to wriggle away, only for Hibari to hum low in his throat. The particular rumble reserved for disagreement.
Gently, Hibari says, “Wait.” A half-whisper in the quiet, laced with something that locks Kanato’s nervous system. “Just a sec. Okay?”
Pulling back— mere inches— enough to see Hibari rather than the muss of his hair, Kanato hesitates. His lips part, but no words come out. This is odd, this is weird, this is strange. There’s a hummingbird in his ribcage racing a mile a minute.
Hibari’s fingers loosen their grip; he touches Kanato softly on the shoulder as he separates, languidly slinking to where his speakers stay clean by the television. Forgot about his shoes, Kanato notes, as he glares down stupidly at his own. Should he take them off?
No— says logistics, the part of his brain that’s fuzzy under two or three cocktails. Yes— says Kanato’s very own Sisyphus, flattened once more by Watarai Hibari’s gravity. One part sense and three parts pining, Kanato toes off his low-tops.
A song begins to play— something mellow that Hibari must’ve thumbed over clumsily. Its volume is turned too far down, but Kanato cares little. His head is full of cotton and clouds and the summer city breeze tossing the curtains by the open balcony.
“What song?” asks Kanato, crouching where Hibari is blindly poking through his playlist.
Ears shaded red— or just the lighting?— Hibari shrugs. Turns around with a mischievous glint in his eye. Kanato thinks vaguely about kahlua and milk. Not so timid, now.
“Doesn’t matter,” Hibari replies. “Just that it’s long.” As an afterthought, “Is that okay?”
It’s setting in, now. The hazy, smoky border at the edges. The wisps of something too sweet to be real. Kanato crosses his chest. Forehead, sternum, both shoulders. This must be Heaven.
Hibari cocks a brow. “You Catholic now or something?”
“Nope,” Kanato draws a breath. Inhale, exhale. “Just steeling my expectations.”
Hibari laughs. “That’s my job.”
Then— then— he moves. A ghost of contact, fingers crumpling fabric down to the cuff of Kanato’s sleeve. The drag of his fingernail splitting him open underneath, leaving him bleeding for more. Leaning forward to stand up, Hibari’s grasp closes around his wrist and guides him to his feet. Drawn, Kanato is swept away in the undertow.
Hibari sways. Just once. One barely-there roll of his shoulders that carries the momentum of an entire invitation. A backstep, a tug, that jars Kanato’s soul out of place.
There’s no such thing as nights like these. He must be dreaming.
Hibari’s head lifts sluggishly. His eyes are glossy, but focused enough. There’s a curl to his mouth— barely there, off-balance and lopsided. He doesn’t say Let’s dance. He doesn’t say don’t leave. Just lets the silence hang, thick as molasses. A heartbeat, two, three— and he rocks again.
This time, Kanato lets himself follow.
It’s not a dance. Not really. There’s the soft buzz of the fridge and the hum of the hallway light and the lull of music neither of them can actually hear. Hibari’s coordination is shot. Kanato’s pulse is a metronome three bars out of sync.
But still, they sway.
Slow. Ungraceful. Drunkenly mismatched. Kanato’s hands find Hibari’s waist— hesitant at first, then firmer when Hibari doesn’t protest. Hibari’s arms loop behind Kanato’s back, fingers dragging against the fabric of his shirt, pressing gracefully into the divots and climbing up toward the neck.
An awful pivot causes their foreheads to knock— Kanato mouths
‘ow’
even though he doesn’t feel it. Doesn’t feel anything, really, except for where Hibari’s hands are roaming his back and where his own thumbs can feel the ridges of Hibari’s hips. It should be
stupid
.
But all Kanato can think is:
I’ll never get this again.
Hibari murmurs something— too soft to catch. Then his weight tips more fully into him, and Kanato has to adjust his stance to keep them both upright.
One of Hibari’s hands slips back to Kanato’s wrist. Their fingers almost link. Not quite. Half of Kanato’s brain is begging him to end this. There’s a point where fantasy becomes pain. From the crown of his hair to the tips of his toes, Kanato’s whole body is beginning to ache with it.
“You’re going to fall asleep on your feet,” he whispers. It’s the only warning he can give— his last lifeline.
Hibari giggles. Actually giggles .
“Weirdo,” Hibari says. “I’m fine. This is nice. Isn’t this nice?”
And it is — in a catastrophic, gut-twisting, years-too-late kind of way. A decade-old dream long since tucked on the shelf of Kanato’s memories. This will be another one— he’ll name it something airy and impermanent and wretchedly corny, like piña colada. At the end of the day, he’s just a man who’s made of pining boy.
“I should go,” Kanato says, and it’s a mercy suicide. He pulls back— just slightly— but Hibari lurches with him and doesn’t let go.
Steadying, Kanato lifts a hand and gently cups Hibari’s cheek. So very warm. Without shame, Hibari leans into it, unthinking.
“Hey,” Kanato says. Soft, like the crash of a wave from far off. “You’re gonna be okay by yourself, right?”
Hibari, barely awake now, hums. “Yeah.” Kanato lets go. The air between is cold.
Tugging free of Hibari’s wrist, leaving only the brush of fingerpads. One by one they drop, save for the pinky that barely clings. Kanato turns to go—
“Wait, you’re leaving?”
“Yeah, I—”
THUD— a harsh pull, as Hibari’s grip reignites. Kanato watches the entryway spin down— his heel catches the edge of the coffee table, yanked straight back and barreling Hibari into the couch. Skull clacks against chin and they land in a discombobulated heap, tangled.
Kanato lies there, half-crushed, half-mortified, and blows hair from his eyes.
“Hibari,” he gasps, stunned.
“Mmh?” comes the unintelligent reply. Noodled arms lock around Kanato’s waist.
“I need to go home.”
“But it’s better when you’re here.”
Is it? Is it? For who? Himself? That’s so hopelessly selfish, Kanato wants to squirm. But he can feel Hibari’s pulse thrumming against his back— warm against his shirt, and suddenly Kanato is agonisingly aware of summer. Where the sweat sticks and how his bangs frizz from humidity. How the fabric of his shirt bunches where Hibari’s forearms latch on and the condensation builds on skin.
“I’m tired,” Kanato lies. He’s so awake he could cry. “I’ve still got things to do.”
“Liar,” drawls Hibari. “If you did, you wouldn’t’ve invited me out.”
“I didn’t have this much time,” objects Kanato. It’s a paltry excuse. Still, he doesn’t struggle.
And like it’s any form of rebuttal— “Do you take your friends to fancy bars often?”
Kanato stops, but the tension coils.
Yes, he could lie again. Yes, he does, he takes people to the bar all the time. Maybe it’s even only a half-lie, because if you count business partners and prospects, they’re potential friends, aren’t they? Yes, he could lie, because there are other fancy bars that he’s surely taken others to. Yes, he could lie. He could lie right now.
But he thinks—
“No,” he admits. “Only you.”
Nights like these don’t happen. He shouldn’t waste it.
Hibari hums— hums again, always humming, this hummingbird boy— a smile in sound.
“It’s nice,” sighs Hibari. “You get to say things you normally can’t, when you’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk,” protests Kanato, but it’s weak. Truthfully, he’s drunk on a dream.
“So are,” retorts Hibari. “You’re crying.”
“No,” Kanato bites back, reaching up. Oh— yes, he is. “I’m not.”
Hibari’s laugh vibrates over his vertebrae. Richter scale ten. And he lets it quake through him— silent. Tapering off and evening out. Kanato exhales, long and low, and lets his body fold. Settles in like surrender as Hibari’s hold on him begins to slacken.
“Are you falling asleep?” he mutters.
“Mm, yeah,” Hibari’s chest rises with the breath he holds. “Stay?”
Kanato closes his eyes, brow pinching. It’s just a dream it’s just a dream it’s just a dream.
“...Okay.”
Just for tonight.
🝣🝣🝣🝣🝣
> SATURDAY, 10:04AM <
[[ Shiftynagi Akira:
Serao got your bike. Where are you? ]]
[[ dreaming. Dont talk to me ]]
[[ Shiftynagi Akira:
Am I supposed to understand what that means ]]
READ: 10:32AM